This work is copyright 2000 by Xaltatun of Acheron (A Pseudonym). It may be posted on the Internet to any free forum, provided it is not modified in any way, and provided that this notice is included in its entirety. It may not be sold, or included in any compilation that is sold, or posted on any forum that requires a fee for access, without my written permission. My permission will require payment, terms to be negotiated. For purposes of this notice, sites guarded by Adult Check or similar packages are considered pay sites. Posting on any site must include this copyright notice.
Adult Content Warning - this story contains adult themes, including non-consensual bondage/slavery and forced sexual acts. If you are under the lawful age for such materials (18 in most jurisdictions) or if you would find such material offensive, please go elsewhere.
This is one of twelve stories in the series entitled “Ponygirl Transformation.” I may write others later, but twelve is it for now.
1. Ponygirl Finds Her Place
2. Kinder and Gentler
3. The Sorceress’ Apprentice
4. Raw Material
5. Ponygirl by Choice
6. The Politics of Ponygirls
7. Ponygirls on Vacation
8. Bluebird Grows Up
9. Unregistered Ponygirls
10. Suzie’s Ponygirl
11. Driver
12. PonyGIRL?
Acknowledgements. The setting and several of the characters are taken from two works by Sir Thomas (A pseudonym). “Adventures on the Hoof” and “Ponygirls, Inc” are both copyright by the Academy Club. Used by permission of Sir Thomas. These works are commercially available, and should not be on any web site on the internet, except for a short excerpt on Sir Jeff’s ponygirl web site. They may be ordered in the US from Quality SM, and in the UK from the Academy Club.
The character of the lobo-ra has been changed substantially. This is partially to motivate the biotechnology theme beginning in Sorceress’ Apprentice, and partially for other reasons.
The character of Sharon, in the story “The Politics of Ponygirls” was originally modeled after Rhianna Summers, a character created by Leviticus (a pseudonym). She had to be changed because the final Rhianna Summers story took a turn that made the timeline impossible. (The final story has not been posted on his site at the time of this writing).
In neither case should you infer anything about the prior stories from this one. The authors named above have substantially different objectives for their stories.
There are a number of hidden references throughout to obscure (and some not so obscure) science fiction and fantasy stories. This is a game that some authors play. Should you care to look, have fun finding them.
Safety Warning. This story may contain descriptions of practices that are decidedly unsafe, either in general, or if performed by someone without adequate training. There are a number of good books available on safety in the BDSM scene. Most large cities, and some not so large ones, have organized BDSM groups that will usually welcome a newcomer. I’m not going to point out which practices are safe, and which aren’t. Any practice is unsafe if performed by someone with inadequate training and experience, or if performed when not paying attention. Please think before you act. Don’t make yourself a candidate for a Darwin award.
Science Warning. In common with most science fiction authors, if I need it, I invent it. Just because it’s described, don’t assume it exists. On the other hand, just because you’ve never heard of it, don’t assume it doesn’t. There are only two universal laws. If you believe in a limitation, it’s yours. Yesterday’s impossibility is today’s research news, and tomorrow’s consumer product.
OK - now on to the story -------
“James,” I said. “The exit to the train station is coming up.”
“Yes, Miss,” disapproval in every nuance.
He guided the car from the left lane to the exit without mishap. James does not approve of my roommate. He thinks she is too far below my social stature. Tough. Affecting a 19th century chauffeur/butler does not give him the right to approve my domestic arrangements. No matter how well he plays the role, or how much Mother likes him.
Tammy waved at me from the sidewalk. She was easy to spot. At 5’11” with an athlete’s close cropped blonde hair, and the black leather skirt and boots I had gotten her for last Christmas, she stood out in the crowd. We piled out, and I grabbed her for a quick hug and kiss. James dumped her bags into the car, and we were off to my apartment.
James and Tammy moved our bags while I just watched and shook my head. I hadn’t been able to break her of that. Half of James’ disapproval was that she did stuff. I had learned that James was best handled by letting him do the work, while I looked on with mild approval. It suited his view of things. Also mine.
James left, and Tammy got right to work unpacking and setting up the apartment. She got my workstation set up first. I checked us both in for the fall quarter. My tuition was paid; her athletic scholarship had come through on time. Athletic scholarships for women tended to be on the small side; part of our arrangement was that she didn’t pay rent or contribute to the groceries. It didn’t matter between us; I like to be served, she likes to serve, and the money was irrelevant.
Our relationship was one of those attraction at first sight things. We’d run into each other on campus in our freshman year, and I had moved her into my apartment the next day. I had no idea if we were friends. We liked each other’s company, but we had very little to talk about. Her knowledge of finance ended with the notion that the smaller the number after the words “finance charge,” the better. My knowledge of athletics wasn’t quite as limited, but if it wasn’t a ponygirl, I wasn’t really interested. And she wasn’t to know about that yet. We just didn’t move in the same worlds.
We’d been having problems with petty theft in the building, so I decided to kill the fly with a howitzer. I had Daddy arrange with Ponygirls’ Security for a full scan record of the building, with viewpoints of all apartment doors and corridors. Nobody was going to look at it unless I called to check something out.
A few days later, I found my apartment door forced, and the place was a shambles. The computers were missing. So was Tammy. I called the police.
Then I called Security, and asked for them to check the surveillance record. They found it right away. A woman and two men had forced the door, abducted Tammy, messed up the apartment, grabbed the computers and some random stuff and ran. They had tossed the computers and stuff in a dumpster a couple of blocks away.
Then the police arrived. We found the computers and stuff in the dumpster, which convinced them that theft wasn’t the object. Unfortunately, they couldn’t use the surveillance record in court. So I had Security put it on the Internet.
As the saying goes, the shit hit the fan. The Provost and her two favorite goons were easily recognizable. So was Tammy. I found out that they had expelled Tammy a couple of hours before the abduction. Nobody would tell me why.
The Administration hunkered down and went into siege mode. Deny everything. Someone got the bright idea of calling Daddy to make me lay off. He told them where to go. Having my roommate kidnapped right out of my apartment was not his idea of good campus security. The unfortunate wight told him that since he had ordered it, he should help cover it up.
To coin a phrase, that’s when someone set the bomb off in the manure pile. He hadn’t ordered it. He found out who did. It was James, in his name. The repercussions from that shook the place. None of that got Tammy back, since the Provost wasn’t talking. Neither were her goons. I was awfully tempted to have her kidnapped and see how many hours in the chair it would take before she began babbling her pointed little head off. Unfortunately, we didn’t do that these days.
Finally, I got a brainstorm. I’d been seeing an image of Tammy with a bridle for quite a while. I’d always swatted it down; I wasn’t going to do that without asking first. It had been coming up very insistently. So I called Ponygirls Marketing. Had they gotten a 5’11” blonde with cropped hair recently?
Bingo. I asked them to check the surveillance record. It was Tammy. She hadn’t come in the normal way. Someone had offered her indenture for sale; they had bought it. They hadn’t checked the provenance of the indenture. She had just finished her three days in the chair. Marketing was not happy. Neither was I.
We decided there was nothing we could do immediately. Getting her back here would just cause another blowup. So we left her in her cell, being trained.
Now that all the pieces had been identified, it was time to put them together. The Administration tried to hold a meeting without me. Security had them all under surveillance, so they didn’t get away with it. I showed up with Mr. Chatham, of Dewey, Chatham and Howe. We used them when we had to apply a bit of pressure.
The upshot was that we couldn’t unscramble the eggs. I demanded my 800 pounds of flesh. I settled for poached Provost on toast.
“Provost, dearie. You remember that spy eye that caught the break-in? I’ve got one trained on you. You even fart without saying “excuse me,” it goes into your dossier. And when I find something juicy enough, I’m going to hang you with it.”
She snarled at me.
“Your language, dearie. You need to get religion. May I suggest the Cloistered Sisters of Perpetual Silence of the Stone? The one than cements its initiates into their cells? You might be safe from me there.”
I was going to have to find another college. Pity about that. Lots of parents were pulling their daughters out of this one. You could hear the gigantic sucking sound as it went down the tubes.
“She should be back on her stand now,” said Connie. Connie was my guide through the Ponygirls’ complex. We left the little restaurant where we had lunch.
That begging puppy pose always gets to me. I suspect it’s part of the mindset that allows us to see the ponygirls as ponies, rather than as girls in bondage. My first sight of Tammy on her stand sucking down her mash somehow had that timeless, picture postcard quality, like it was just absolutely meant to be that way.
Dina let us into her cell as she finished. I put water into the funnel. Her eyes widened, she whinnied and tapped her hoof twice. Then she got to work on the water. She had her priorities straight.
She finished, and I took the funnel off her bridle. Then I took out the ball gag, and stroked her nose. “You can talk now.”
“I can?”
“Yes, dear. I expect you’ve got a lot of questions.”
“I wish you’d have asked.”
“Asked? Asked what?”
“She said you wanted me to be a ponygirl. That’s why I signed the indenture.”
“Oh, my. I assume you mean the Provost?” Tammy banged her hoof twice, and then giggled.
“No, dear. I didn’t have her kidnap you to become a ponygirl. She did that on her own. I think.”
“You don’t want me to be a ponygirl?”
“I didn’t say that. I think you’d make a fine ponygirl. I was going to sound you out later this year.”
“You were?”
“Yes, Tammy. Daddy promised me my own ponygirl for graduation. I was thinking of you as my graduation present. Only if you wanted it, though.”
“Oh, goodie. I knew I wanted to be your ponygirl the moment I saw you. Put a big ribbon on me?”
“You’re a couple of years early for a graduation present. But you’re mine now.”
She relaxed with a big smile. “I want to be yours.”
“I know. You need a new name.” I thought a moment. “You’re Gold Streak.”
“Goodie. I like that name.”
I brushed her nose again. “Talk time is over.” Gold Streak opened her mouth, and I installed the ball gag.
I waved as I left. She whinnied back.
It was time for Gold Streak’s welcoming ceremony. She was blindfolded on her stand; head at the prescribed 45-degree angle looking up. They’d done her hair in a single braid standing straight up on top of her head with a big, bow tied gold ribbon around it.
Dreammaker stood behind her. I was in front, looking down. Mother, Daddy and Fran stood to one side. Dreammaker whipped off her blindfold.
She blinked. Then she whinnied and tapped her hoof twice. I would have sworn she grinned around the red ball gag in her mouth.
“Gold Streak. You’re mine now.” She whinnied again and tapped her hoof twice. Time to cement the relationship.
Dreammaker released the ankle chains and took off the headrest. Then she and Daddy lifted Gold Streak off the stand and set her down on her feet. I took the ball gag out and inserted a bit. Then I snapped reins onto her bridle and maneuvered her out the door.
The dear had a perfect march step. Each step came up with the thigh exactly parallel to the floor, the foreleg exactly vertical. Even Dreammaker seemed impressed. A twitch of her reins, and she turned down the corridor to the practice arenas.
I spent an hour putting her through her paces with the cart. She performed perfectly. I marched her back to her cell, unhooked the reins and replaced the bit with the ball gag.
“Dreammaker’s your trainer, honey.”
She whinnied. Dreammaker started immediately on the procedure for getting on and off the stand. The training staff used the two strong men approach because it reinforced their control. Fran trained all of the ponies in her stable to come on and off on command. It was a lot easier on her staff; she refused to have any ponies that needed a heavy hand.
I left.
“Suzie, you know we’re going to have trouble with that name,” Fran said. “It’s too close to Golden Spitfire.”
“Oh, damn. I didn’t think.” I knew exactly which pony she meant. Golden Spitfire had the most incredible golden blonde mane imaginable. Her complexion and eyes complemented it wonderfully. Fran’s custom designed tack finished the job. Just kneeling on her stand, she was a work of art.
It wasn’t what she’d been born with. I’d been out with her a few times on her days off; she was clearly from my social stratum originally. Exactly who she had been, she refused to say. She was completely relaxed about switching between pony mode and girl mode. She did it easily, and kept them separate. Several of the ponygirls took a day or so to settle down after coming back from their day off.
“How about using Streak for short?”
“Might work. I’ll ask Dreammaker if she can train her to not react to Gold when the Spitfire is around.”
My junior year dawned. I hoped it wouldn’t be as eventful as last year. James brought the car expertly off the expressway to Fran’s Ponygirl Stables. Gold Streak piled in; James stowed her luggage. This time, James didn’t put up any fuss; the social line was now drawn in concrete. He was happy.
We continued on to the off-campus condo Daddy had bought for me. Gold Streak sat next to me; Nancy (the ex-Provost) sat beside James in the front seat.
She’d broken during the summer. The weekly excerpts from the surveillance, and the cold shoulder everywhere she applied for a job finally did it. She was one of a large number of women who thought that they had to out-male the men around them to succeed. She had never twigged to the truth: men have a sense of proportion about their fights; women are completely ruthless. I’d let her cry herself out. Then I sent her to Daddy, he put her on staff as security.
James was still around because I had lost the coin toss with mother. With three roughly equal dominants in the family, we had a very structured set of conflict resolution rules. The coin toss was the last level. He was on his best behavior around me these days. He still disapproved of undue familiarity, but since Tammy had become Gold Streak, he felt the social line was adequately drawn. He could live with it.
We arrived in a flurry of early autumn leaves. James, Nancy and Gold Streak made short work of getting our luggage into the condo. I watched. There was absolutely no sense in getting James huffy again.
Gold busied herself getting stuff unpacked and put away; I got onto the comp and checked us in. My registration was in order. Hers was totally screwed up. I found out why right away. The coach was so impressed with her stats from the old college that she had awarded her an athletic scholarship sans application. The effects had rippled throughout.
“Hey, Gold. Get us lunch, and then we’ve got to see the registrar about your schedule. They’ve got it screwed up.”
She did her usual good job on lunch. I was halfway afraid she had forgotten; she hadn’t done housekeeping or cooking for over eight months.
I’m afraid we looked like a vaudeville team. I’m 5’3” in flats; she’s 6’4” in her 5” heels. She has to wear them, because her feet have adapted to pony boots. 6’4” with a black leather miniskirt and black leather boots are going to get noticed. The white silk blouse with gold piping didn’t hurt either. Nor did the pony cut.
We added ourselves to the end of the line. It wasn’t that long; most of the hassles had been taken care of by the system. Eventually, we got to the front.
“What’s the problem?”
“It’s this athletic scholarship. We didn’t ask for it, and she’s ineligible. It doesn’t belong here. And you’ve got the wrong major. It should be liberal arts, not athletics. Also the wrong core curriculum.”
“The athletic committee awarded it. They must know what they’re doing.”
“Obviously not if they awarded a ponygirl an athletic scholarship. She’s on my nickel, not theirs.”
The registrar did a double take. “Ponygirl?” Then she looked. “Aren’t they indentured? Where’s her collar?”
“They use ear tags, not collars. Gold, show the lady yours.” Gold bent over so the registrar could see the number.
“Hum, now, I’ve seen this number somewhere.” She mused.
“Try after IPC#,” I said.
“Got it. What’s an IPC?”
“International Ponygirl Consortium. It’s her registry number.”
“You’re right, this is totally messed up. There’s also a financial problem.”
“Huh? I’ve got a receipt for the full tuition.”
“They refunded part of it because of the scholarship.”
I wrote her a check. We got an appointment with the registration problems committee that night. Next stop was the athletic department. We could hold liberal arts; I wasn’t certain that our original registration was appropriate anyway.
The athletic director was in another building. As usual, the rumor mill beat us there. He was talking to his secretary. “I just got a call from registration about a foul-up. What’s a ponygirl?”
“I am,” Gold decided to cut the conversation short.
At least, he got the essentials. Tall. Athletic. Female. “What’s the problem?”
“I’m ineligible for any competitive sport. I shouldn’t be in the athletic department at all; I was originally enrolled in liberal arts. Somebody switched my major and gave me a scholarship I didn’t apply for.”
His secretary had caught up. “You’re Gold Streak?”
“Sure am.”
He cut to the essentials again. “Why are you ineligible?”
She looked at me. Right, nobody had ever told her. “Gene engineered enhancements. She can beat anything except another ponygirl without breathing hard.”
“Those stats looked so good, we thought liberal arts had to be a mistake.”
“No mistake.”
“Can you make the registration problems meeting tonight?”
“Already scheduled. We’ll be there,” I said.
It wasn’t working. Both Dreammaker and Fran had tried to tell me not to do it. I just absolutely hated to admit that I was wrong; truth to tell, I also didn’t want to do my own housekeeping.
I had Gold Streak trying to juggle being a ponygirl, a full time student, and my housekeeper. It was at least one role too many, maybe two. She’d done both housekeeper and student easily before she was kidnapped and trained as a ponygirl, but that was with an athlete’s schedule of fake classes. It wasn’t fair to her.
I was just about ready to send her back to Fran’s full time and be miserable doing my own housekeeping. I was trying to hang on to the end of the quarter; the last thing she needed was two incomplete quarters on her record. And this utterly unlikely picture kept popping up in my head.
We were having a fast lunch at Eat’n’Run when the picture walked in the door. She was about 5’6”, mouse brown hair and a bit on the plump side. Not exactly overweight, but definitely not an athlete. The only thing she was missing was the collar with her name on it. I’d never seen her before in my life. I waved to attract her attention.
We locked eyes, and she stiffened. Then she smiled, walked over and sank to her knees beside me.
“Don’t tell me you’re Dione, right?”
“Then I won’t. So there!” she stuck out her tongue at me.
Sassy, too. James was going to have a fit. “Well, get yourself on a chair, and let’s get acquainted. She’s Gold Streak.” I nodded to Gold. “And I’m Suzie.”
She took a chair. “When do I sign the indenture?”
“Hey, slow down. We haven’t even found out if the fit is as real as it feels.”
“I have to move fast. I’m going to be evicted this afternoon.”
It turned out she had serious money problems. She thought she had financing lined up, and then had it pulled out from under her. She was behind on her rent, owed on her tuition, and was in hock to one of our friendly local loan sharks.
“Gold, get her address and rustle up a car and trailer. We’re moving her in today.”
Gold headed for the door at a trot, people breaking in front of her like a bow wave. Dione relaxed.
“The indenture depends on whether it makes sense for you to continue here as a student. How are your grades?”
She was an A- student in liberal arts. “You need to get your degree. I’ll give you the indenture after you graduate.”
“But the shark’s after me. That loan is due next week.”
“That gives us time.”
I cancelled afternoon classes for all three of us, pleading urgent family business. Then I called the bursar, and punched in the transfer for her tuition. Last call to Dewey, Chatham and Howe to settle the loan shark.
We got there just in time. The landlady was standing in front with two movers. I got right down to it.
“How much?”
She crossed her arms. “She’s out of here.”
“Agreed. The trailer is on its way. How much?”
She named a price. We went upstairs to check for damage. I wrote a check, and chatted with the landlady while we watched the movers, Gold and Dione sweat. The move in went without incident. I mentioned the surveillance system where the movers could hear it.
“Dione, Gold is going to shift the housekeeping to you in the next couple of days. Then I’m going to show you how to handle her in pony mode. I’m going to shift her to pony mode as much as possible; she’ll be in girl mode only for schoolwork.” Dione looked intrigued. Gold looked relieved.
Getting Gold back into pony mode helped. Dione shared my bed; Gold went back to sleeping in her cell in bondage. We handled sex in a daily three-way romp. By the end of the quarter, things had settled to where I could look at the training issue. Gold really needed to be worked daily; three times a week just wasn’t doing it.
The years melding ourselves into a championship heavy sulky team had been intense. Moving Gold Streak back into Fran’s stable full time was one key. I’d been deluding myself that I wanted her close to me all the time. Our relationship was rock solid on the emotional and physical level; being together when I wasn’t working her weakened it, not strengthened it.
Sending Dione out for the advanced trainer’s class was a second. I couldn’t have gotten the level of training that the Streak needed from Fran; her trainers were overextended. I had gritted my teeth and prepared to do for myself for the six months, but I lucked out. Daddy’s last toy had set some kind of record on getting him disenchanted. He was going to dissolve the indenture and kick her out; I bought her from him with the understanding that she would be gone when Dione came back. I outlined a bunch of options for her; she gave me devoted service. After six months, we agreed to dissolve the indenture, and she got a trust fund that enabled her to train for the career she had always wanted.
The field from the second race had crossed the on ramp, and now knelt and stood before the judge’s stand. It was time to prepare for the third race. Dione had gotten Gold Streak to the ready circle in good order. Dione was a 5’6” chestnut brunette, not particularly athletic. Her collar was one of Fran’s custom designs; it set her off nicely. Her tunic had my sparkly blue above the waist, Fran’s red and black blocks below. She was wearing a prod, a whip and other accessories on her belt. The only one she used with any regularity was the cell phone.
Gold Streak knelt there on her stand, patiently waiting; her head back on her rest, her gag red in her mouth, and her golden blonde hair in a single braid just touching the stand. My sparkling blue with her gold streaks adorned her bustier; the stable’s red and black blocks marked her boots and puppy paws. It was time.
I replaced the red ball with the bit, and snapped on the reins. I clicked the latch on the left ankle chain; her leg came forward, lower leg exactly parallel to the ground until the knee was in position. Then her foot came down and planted itself exactly next to the other knee. I did the same to her right leg. She was now squatting.
“Stay.” I removed the headrest. Then I removed the collar. Her head came up, and her body followed it like a cork rising in water. Her braid fell down her back, her tail flowed next to it. We had practiced this movement so it was one flowing unity; this was a special race. The stewards had decreed that it be run with head erect.
I spent a brief moment admiring her. Her movements were so beautiful; it was hard to imagine that they were totally programmed. She had no more discretion in this sequence than Pavlov’s puppies. The difference was that she luxuriated in it; she regularly made suggestions to Dione when she reviewed the training records. Pavlov’s dogs had been pissed as hell.
A twitch of the reins, and she marched to the sulky, her legs coming up with the thighs exactly horizontal, the calves exactly vertical. She made the form flow so each movement led seamlessly and inevitably to the next. She sank to one knee, the other leg with shoe planted exactly beside the knee. I buckled the harness about her shoulders, and checked that the fit was perfect.
The sulky attached with four straps; two from the front of the shafts buckled in back of the harness, two from the back of the shafts buckled in front. She was now welded to the contrivance; there was no slack. Every movement she made would be reflected to the sulky, she would feel every pressure on the sulky.
I positioned myself carefully; balance was critical in a race. She came off her knee in response to the merest twitch of the reins. Another twitch and she marched to the starting line, showing the same exquisite form as before, knees rising and falling according to that strict and graceful rhythm. She knew as well as I what was required, the slightest twitch was a sufficient cue for the next movement in this drama. She approached the line exactly on the step, and sank to starting position, right knee exactly in the center of the white chalk, left horseshoe planted firmly on the line.
I let myself merge with the sounds of the racetrack. I felt a sense of timelessness descend. It was time to wait for the start, but anticipating it would be hazardous. The moment expanded.
The starters pistol came, “CRACK. THEY’RE OOOOFFFFF!” exactly as it should. Totally unexpected, but totally inevitable. The ponies came up in a perfect synchronized start, and leaped forward. Her braid and her tail came out behind. It took exquisite control to avoid fouling the reins with the braid; this was one of the real tricks of racing a ponygirl. The girls had to have long hair; it was one of the points for evaluation. They couldn’t have it pinned up for a race either. We usually compromised on a braid, some drivers set up loose hair, but they learned better quickly.
My part of the job began on the second step; before that the movement was exquisitely choreographed, totally programmed. I let the feel of the racing field settle in and guided her toward the rail. Spots opened up, I took advantage of them. We crossed the finish line third. My job was done. Gold knew exactly what was needed now; we had practiced this part incessantly. She slowed and made the turn. The racing gallop evolved into the march step with the precision of long practice. She hit the judge’s line exactly on the step, and sank to one knee precisely on the chalk line.
I stood at attention behind and to her left, the sparkling blue of my colors bright on my blouse, Fran’s red and black blocks in stark contrast on my skirt and boots, owner’s belt around my waist, her reins held precisely in my right hand.
She stayed in third after the style points were counted. Not a surprise, this was a tough field. Another pony from Fran’s stables had come in first: Golden Spitfire. Again, not a surprise. The Spitfire was something else.
We were the only owner’s stable that could count on a good showing in international competition. Fran had three senior trainers; Dione made it four. Other stables were lucky to have one. The centers had them coming out their ears. A lot of that was Fran’s attitude. All she cared about was her ponies coming in 1, 2, 3. If they could do that on part time, more power to them. All three of her senior trainers were still racing ponies when they became trainers. Dreammaker had to quit racing because of an injury, the other two were still racing. And winning.
We came off the judge’s line to the circle in order by finish. A twitch of the reins, and she came up, turned and followed the second place pony and sulky, using that same exquisite march step. I walked behind her and to the left. She showed off a bit; she synchronized her step with the pony before her. We reached the circle; she guided the sulky to just before her stand and sank to one knee. I removed the four straps from the shafts and then unbuckled the harness and placed it in the sulky. Dione came up and took the sulky to a reserved area; we would need it for the eighth race today.
“To the stand.” She came off of her knee, and marched to the pole on her stand, turning so that the rings on the back of her bustier were exactly above the pole. “Head back.” She brought her head back, and I replaced the collar. “Down.” She sank onto the pole with liquid grace, coming down to a crouch, then bringing the right leg back so the knee was resting on the platform supporting her weight, the right foot and ankle precisely in position for the ankle chains. Then the left leg came back likewise. I installed the headrest, and locked the bolt into position. Her head came back that last little bit as she settled onto the rest, her back arched to compensate. Then I fastened the ankle chains.
I took out the bit; she gave me a grin. We had discussed the field; she knew that her third place finish was good. I held out a sugar cube; she flicked out her tongue, brought it into her mouth, crunched it and swallowed. Then she opened her mouth again, and I popped the red ball into it, and attached it to her bridle. Dione pushed her stand back to the cell we had been assigned.
Back in the cell, I switched her to girl mode. She wanted the cutout blouse so she could display the ribbon on one of her breast rings. No way. She was going to wear the standard medium cut blouse. She was now dressed almost the same as I was; sparkling blue on her blouse, red shadowed blocks on her skirt and boots. Her blouse had her gold streaks, assigned to her by the stewards when she placed first in national competition. I had the gold owner’s belt.
Oooofff. That was some three way hug. We finally came up for air, and headed off for Fran’s owner’s box.
Another oooooffff hug. This time it included Mother and Daddy. Dione got us all drinks, and then settled in, kneeling on my right, the 5’6” brunette contrasting with the 5’11” blonde on my left. Mother and Daddy’s current toys knelt by their feet, pretty as a picture. They were absolutely identical 5’5” blonde twins; Mother and Daddy swapped them occasionally. The only way I could tell which one I was looking at was by the name on her collar. One was Jeanine; the other was Jeanette. I suspected they were telepathic; I had never been able to catch one of them not knowing what the other one knew. I didn’t bother to distinguish them.
The Spitfire bounced in right after, and threw herself into her daddy’s arms. I’d figured out who she was the first time I saw her do that at an international. Her hell raising was legendary. I’d never dared ask if she had signed the indenture at the point of a shotgun.
She pulled up a chair next to me; her driver was circulating somewhere. The Spitfire ignored protocol when it suited her, which was just about all the time.
“If it wouldn’t be prying, I’ve got a question about them?” She was looking at my parents and their toys.
“Of course it’s prying. Ask away, you will anyway.”
“What is their relationship?”
“Absolutely convenience. She’s an obligatory lesbian. The notion of sex with a man is profoundly disturbing. Her parents threatened to cut her off when she rejected every man on their preferred list. So she researched the list and picked the one that nobody could even imagine being faithful. He was having similar problems; all the eligible girls knew that they’d be lucky to stay in his bed through their wedding day. They trade notes on their toys. It works.”
A very puzzled look. “Then how?”
“Oh, I figure there’s a test tube in my ancestry somewhere.” She choked on her drink.
I whacked her across the back, and she quit sputtering. “Now you owe me one.” She got a wary look. I figure she knew exactly what I was going to ask. “Was it a shotgun indenture?”
“Just don’t tell anyone else. I did one of my pranks here. At the first international, as it happens. The security chief set it up, daddy told them to go ahead, and Fran stunned me. I was in the chair that night.”
“I can just see it.”
“When they delivered me, Fran gave me a choice. I could either race for her and like it, or I could begin serving the suspended sentences. Sequentially. She had a marshal waiting. I signed.”
“That sounds exactly like Fran.”
“Yep. Took me a few years to discover it was the best thing that could have happened to me.”
“Those two slaves bother me,” the Spitfire commented.
“Well, they bother me too. They’ve had them for three years now. Daddy’s previous record was about a year. When I was growing up, it was about three months. And this set knows the difference between a convertible debenture and a conversion option.” Mother’s current toy looked at me with a friendly smile and winked. They were telepaths, all right. Hopefully, that wink meant what I thought it did.
“Yipe. Makes me glad I’m a ponygirl. Daddy can have all the intrigue. He likes that stuff.”
The photographer steamed up towing Fran. Fran took one look at the Spitfire. “Down. Now.” Gold flowed out of the chair, twisted, and hit her knees exactly in position on the opposite side of Fran from Dione. She really was well trained when it suited her to be. Especially if she could show off. I chuckled. I’d seen her working with the Princess on exactly that maneuver.
The photographer arranged us. The two ponies on their knees, each with her golden blonde braid to the outside, framed the picture. Dione held the center, her chestnut hair with its red highlights topping her collar and fitted tunic.
The three of us were wearing our racing colors, sparkling blue, as a top, with Fran’s red blocks stable colors on the bottom. Fran and the Spitfire both had her red blocks on top; the Spitfire had a motif of fire breathing gold lizards climbing on the blocks. They emphasized the ambiguity. The Streak had her personal gold streaks on top of the blue. I was surprised it didn’t burn the electronics in the camera; no one had ever said racing colors had to coordinate or the pictures make sense.
“Hey Fran, can we see the Wolf and Ponygirl show tonight?” asked the Spitfire.
“You’re in a race in two days. Remember?” Fran said.
Dreammaker had come up. “If you’re back in your cells on the running machines within the next half hour, I’ll consider it.”
Dione chased them out the door, laughing.
We didn’t have anything in the fourth. Anna drove Startled Faun to a second in the fifth. We’d figured no better than fourth, but Anna had been developing an uncanny sense of racing strategy, and Startled Faun was acting like she could read her sister’s mind. They bounced in just in time for me to give them a hug before heading down to harness up Black Beauty for the eighth.
Black was the real surprise. She had been a community trainee that had been assigned to Fran. When it came time for her to come out, she didn’t. As she put it, if she had to be a championship pony to enjoy life outside of the community, so be it. The stewards told Fran she was entering too many ponies as owner, so she sold her to me. We hit it off splendidly. I don’t know what it was, but she put out that something extra when I drove her.
Dione had her in the ready circle, all prepped on her stand. Her bustier was my blue with sparkles, with her personal black stallion, rampant on all four sides. She still snorted whenever anyone complimented her on her name. Lord knows; it fit that mane of absolutely jet black hair, and total drop dead beauty. I’d gotten the Princess to teach her a real pony type snort; she was the only one that had enough experience with real horses to know how it worked. That may have been why we hit it off; I helped her express her opinion about her name, even though I wasn’t about to change it.
We came in first, shocking the hell out of each other. I hadn’t expected it this soon in her career. Her smile was like sunlight when I held the filled chocolate out in front of her. She took it daintily on her tongue, savored it, and swallowed. She stayed in Fran’s box just long enough for our pictures, and then she was out the door. This was her only race; she wasn’t due back in harness until the day before the owner’s parade, when she had to practice with Gold Streak. I’d already spotted her parents; I was tempted to clock her race time.
Fran was in her element. Her stable had two blues, a red and a white in one day. She had an absolute lock on bragging rights.
The owner’s parade was glorious. With two blues and a white, I followed Fran. Anna wasn’t too far behind us. The only owners ahead of us were community; Fran’s stable total had beat out some of the smaller communities. Gold Streak and Black Beauty were in their element, showing off their high step. Dione drove, and I sat in back as owner.
God, did I love racing ponygirls.