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RND authorizes Sir Jeff's Ponygirls to feature

The Notnilk Prophecy part 2 Pony Irene

The following is from a larger work that clearly establishes the story as total fantasy, and general theme as consenting adult behavior. Any valid review for censorship purposes must peruse the whole work! Although random excerpts may appear to show non-consenting themes, within the context of the larger work-of-fiction, such situations are presented only as dreams by consenting adult characters. The complete work is entirely make-believe, however, and should not be viewed as bearing malice toward any person, gender, race, or institution. Resemblance to any real persons or institutions is coincidental. All characters in this work-of-fiction are "Adults".

If you are under 21 years of age, or if such material is illegal in your community:

DO NOT READ ANY FURTHER!

If you are offended by "adult" themes, non-consenting themes, B&D, S&M, or make-believe situations that would be inappropriate in real-life:

DO NOT READ ANY FURTHER!

If you cannot separate fantasy from reality, or can't control your conduct:

DO NOT READ ANY FURTHER!

GO GET SOME HELP!

and,...

DON'T READ ANY MAIN-STREAM FICTION;

DON'T WATCH TELEVISION,...

and especially,...

NO ROAD-RUNNER CARTOONS!

For those into this genre of fiction,...

ENJOY!

( p.s. special thanks to Sir Jeff for demonstrating how fab the web can be )

Introduction

There are a million dreams recounted on a shrink's couch. The following is one of them.

Prologue

"Jahst relax, Mr. Rangoon", the Psychiatrist advised, as he swung a pocket-watch back and forth. "You're getting v-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-r-y zleepy now! Cloze za eyes, go night-night, ond tell za dooktor ool about zat krazy dream you can't zeem to zhake!"

-1-

Welcome to Planet Ponyworldo.

Zometime,... errr,... Sometime in the 23rd century.

Irene's undercarriage had the jitters --- blatantly sashaying --- back and forth --- north and south --- undulating with every labored step.

The itching-goop Niles had smeared up her asshole and pussy was certainly working well. No need to exercise it's money-back-guarantee! That was for sure!

In fact, the only thing getting exercised was Niles' whipping-arm!

w--o--o--s--h

CRACK!

jingle! tingle! jingle! tingle! jingle! tingle! jingle! tingle! jingle! tingle!

"Mnnnnngggggghhhhhheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Whinny!"

Niles wore a dreamy smirk as he lashed Irene's big jouncy bottom. Wielding a fluidian baton, the senior-groom slashed without prejudice, unconcerned with curbing any stroke's ferocity. Simply let it rip; then savor the resulting eye-candy:

A completely nude female's unabashed recoil!

And wow! Did Irene ever deliver! Her goods joggled in directions that would've confused an eagle-scout --- pliant titties wildly flopping; bottom cheeks jitterbugging; haunches locked in spasm; calves drawn tight as snare-drums. And, of course, sweat exploding everywhere.

w--o--o--s--h

CRACK!

jingle! tingle! jingle! tingle! jingle! tingle! jingle!

"Gnnnngjjjjuiuiuiuiueeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Whinny! Sob! Pant!"

s--w--i--s--h

CRACK!

jingle! jingle! jingle! jingle! jingle! jingle!

"Pfffthiissssggggghhheeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Sob! Whinny! Whinny!"

w--o--o--s--h

CRACK!

jingle! tingle! jingle! tingle! jingle! tingle! jingle! tingle! jingle! tingle!

"Nagagagagagnnnnggggeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Whinny! Whimper!"

s--w--i--s--h

CRACK!

jingle! jingle! jingle! jingle! jingle! jingle!

"Gahhahahhahpftftfhhhagsgeeeeeeeeeeee! Boo-hoo-hoo! Sob! Snort! Whinny!"

The 21st stroke pummeled Irene into a staggering, bow-legged waddle; erasing all vestiges of finishing-school. She was absolutely befuddled --- with pee-pee dribbling --- lips and toes vying for which could curl more. Even her bare heels withered, touching the cinder-track for several seconds --- a definite no-no at Notnilk!

It was evident the woman convicted of workplace harassment wouldn't last many more circuits.

"Alright, woah it right there!", Niles barked. "Come on, I said Woah!"

The mill-capstan grinded to a halt. Irene sagged on her oar, snorting for breath amidst heaps of muffled sobs. Her big jiggly boobs heaved furiously, making her nipple-bells sound like dueling Salvation Army santas.

"Gasp! Snort! pant! Whinny! Whinny! Whinny! Snort!"

jingle! tingle! jingle! tingle! jingle! tingle! jingle! tingle! jingle! tingle! jingle! tingle! jingle! tingle! jingle! tingle!

"Come now, girl, have ye got a short memory? Get thet torso pitched backward! Titties brazenly jutted! Like we've taught ye! Or maybe ye require another frontal session, eh?"

Irene hurriedly shook her head from side to side; jerking into the commanded posture. Her mouth struggled to articulate the word "no", but ball-gag wouldn't cooperate.

"Nooomgmgmgh! Sputter! Snort! Grunt!"

slap! slap!

slap! slap!

slap! slap!

jingle! tingle! jingle! tingle! jingle! tingle! jingle!

She was striving to be a good pony. She truly was! Which is why, without Niles having to ask, she obediently assumed the standard-presentation-position ( SPP ). Or at least tried to!

Niles had locked Irene's mill-oar too low --- immobilizing her DPH ( double-pronged-hitch --- see chapter 3 ) at only 30 inches above the track. She couldn't stand up straight. The only way to remain on tippy-toes ( equestrian ), was to squat, with thighs vulgarly straddled!

Which of course she did. But, as any limbo champion will attest, it's a brutal posture to maintain.

Niles slowly circled the naked female, intently eyeballing every curve and cranny. His smile inched further earward.

Irene was a quite the looker. Or at least she had been! Although pushing 34 ( if one believes the birth date in her Notnilk file ), she still had fabulous stats:

five-foot eight,

145 pounds,

alabaster skin --- sprinkled with freckles,

heart-shaped face,

aqua-blue eyes,

earthy pout,

luxurious auburn hair --- cascading to mid-butt,

athletic shoulders,

large droopy tits,

washboard tummy,

womanly hips,

big cheeky bottom --- as whipable as one could imagine ( and I can imagine a lot! ),

glorious haunches,

oh-so shapely calves;

perfectly feminine feet!

Let's face it, in Irene's former life, at her discretion:

she wouldn't have left the dance alone!

But now, after six moon-weeks of incarceration at Notnilk, Irene looked a tad different.

First off, she hadn't worn a shred of clothing since her veterinary physical. And that'd been on day-one!

Latex ball-gag, behind-the-torso cuffs ( securing wrists to opposite elbows, i.e. a Notnilk harness ), and the occasional implementation of a DPH ( like now ), or helmet --- had been her exclusive wardrobe. Otherwise, she'd been kept completely naked.

Secondly, her swell bangs ( perfectly wispy and flowing ) had been summarily cut off; lovely hairline razored backward by almost two inches. Her eyebrows were shaved away, as well as every follicle from neck to toes ( including pubic hair of course ). Then she'd received multiple applications of a special depilatory-gel --- rendering everything permanently smooth. The surviving locks were wrenched tightly against her scalp; secured into a plush, butt-grazing ponytail by a padlocked O-ring.

Irene's make-up was an ongoing experiment, with eye shadow and penciled-brows done differently every day; lipstick applied in various shapes and hues. Finding the perfect equestrian countenance was taken very seriously at Notnilk. Weekly photographs were intently studied. When consensus prevailed in any pony's case, the look was permanently tattooed in place.

Thirdly, she'd been extensively pierced, utilizing methods neither hurried nor subtle. Nipples and clitoris were first bloated with itching-goop ( a chore assigned to a pair of ranch-hands ); then skewered and fitted with gleaming hoops. Smaller versions were pierced through her ears ( four each ), shaved labia ( two per side ), belly-button ( one ), lower-lip ( one per side ), tongue ( ditto ), and, of course, nasal septum. Then, split rings had been slipped around each thumb and big toe; welded shut; locked permanently in place. These had attached eyelets.

Lastly she'd been indelibly marked --- I.D. numbers tattooed on the soles of her feet; the Notnilk Crest right between her big tits.

Niles slipped his fluidian crop under Irene's chin, prodding upward.

"Head back, horsy. And jut the bags more audaciously!"

jingle! tingle! jingle! tingle! jingle! tingle! jingle!

Bags! That's what a pair of unambiguously female breasts were called at Notnilk. And boy-o-boy, did Irene ever have 'em! 42-DD whoppers! And in homage to that, it seemed like every ranch-hand in the quadrant had taken a turn groping them.

"Now that's a good pony", Niles praised, with eyes widening. "Noble and proud and wiggly! That's how udders should be presented! Especially ones as commodious as yer's! Now what say we get 'em galloping?"

"Sob! Mgngmgngmgngmhhh! Hnug! Hnnnuugh! Grunt! Grunt!"

Joggle! Wobble! Joggle! Bounce!

jingle! jingle! jingle! jingle! jingle! jingle! jingle! jingle! jingle! jingle! jingle! jingle!

Slap! Slap! Slap! Slap! Slap! Slap!

Irene flushed deeply, eyes shut in mortification, bawdily undulating her torso. Gooseflesh erupted everywhere, but was most flagrant at her nipples, which looked pointy enough to cleave bauxite. She'd always gotten hideously embarrassed when they made her joggle her titties, slapping them up and down on her ribcage; jutting everything so crudely. What girl wouldn't? And with arms criss-crossed behind her back, how much more sexy could things get? Didn't they know how self-conscious big-breasted girls are? That heavy-duty bras are endured precisely to avoid the jiggle-spotlight!

Of course they knew!

Heck, they're professionals!

Which is why, with voluptuous mares like Irene, galloping girl-bags were no stranger to any training session.

Joggle! Wobble! Joggle!

jingle! tingle! jingle! tingle! jingle! tingle! jingle!

slap! slap! slap! slap!

"Sob! Snort! Sob! Whinny! Whinny!"

Joggle! Wobble! Jiggle!

jingle! jingle! jingle! jingle! jingle! jingle!

slap! slap! slap! slap!

"Whimper! Snort! Wheeze! Whinny!"

Joggle! Bounce! Joggle!

jingle! tingle! jingle! tingle! jingle! tingle! jingle!

slap! slap! slap! slap!

"Whinny! Sob! Snort! Whinny!"

"Good show, Mr. Niles!", a booming voice interrupted. "You've really got 'er bodaciously joggling now! You've done a man's work again, Sir!"

The groom pivoted toward the voice, tucking his baton under an arm; flashing a genuinely warm smile.

"It's me job, Colonel, and I'll focking go down swinging to do it properly!", Niles responded. Then he quickly doffed his cap.

"And a good-day to ye, Miss Tristin. Nice to see ye again!"

-2-

"Hello Niles", Tristin Notnilk gushed, as she hugged the burly groom; gave him a kiss on the cheek. "It's so very good to see you too. And I've brought a surprise! Let me introduce my fiance, Professor Donald Baxter."

"Fiance? What? Ye've got to be pullin' me leg! Colonel, is it true? Why didn't ye let me know in advance? I'd have had a bottle on ice; a proper toast prepared!"

"Hell, man, you know my daughter. I only first got wind of it a bloody half-hour ago!"

"Miss Tristin", Niles offered, "other then growin' into a beautiful lady, ye haven't changed a bit! Still the unpredictable one, ye are. But if this bloke's good enough fer ye, then it's my fockin' pleasure to make his acquaintance!"

Niles stuck his hand out to the stranger.

"How'd ye do, Sir. Niles Promanout's me name --- at yer bloody service!"

Silence.

"Errr,... I said,... at yer service, Sir!"

Still silence.

"Errr,... Miss Tristin, is yer man a wee hard-o-hearin'?"

"Either that, or he's being a bit of a rude bloke", interjected the Colonel!"

"Tee hee hee!", Tristin laughed, shaking her perfectly coiffured head. "You two are are totally oblivious to the rest of the Cosmos, aren't you? Don't you realize this is Donald's first time on Ponyworldo?"

"First time? No bloody way?"

"Now it must be me with the hearin' problem, Miss Tristin. I could-o-sworn ye said it was his first focking time?"

"You both heard me. Here,... take a peek. Where'd ya-all see this face before?"

The blonde reached up, casually slipping Donald's dark-glasses from his eyes, unveiling a look of unbridled rapture.

And he wasn't staring at Tristin, or at Niles, or the Colonel!

"Yikes!", the two men blurted in unison --- first glimpsing at Donald's mesmerized expression, then tracking his gaze straight toward Irene; then looking back at Donald; then Irene; then Donald; then Irene...

...then epiphany!

His was the face typically seen during ponygirl auctions ---

--- amidst the totally smitten spectators!

"Great Clinton's ghost! How could I have been so insensitive?", exclaimed the Colonel!

"I've got mush fer brains today", lamented Niles. "Can ye ever fergive me stupidity, Professor?"

"Har! Har! Haw! Of course he will", the Colonel bellowed, obviously recovering his pluck; smacking his future son-in-law affectionately on the back.

"Egad man, if Tristin picked you, I just know you must be a gamer! Aren't you, Professor?"

The whack jolted Donald back to reality, breaking his fixation on Irene. He blinked and stammered, turning beet-red; realizing he'd been caught by both fiance and future father-in-law --- agog over a strange woman's big bare tits!

Geezzzzzzzzzzzzz!

"S-Sorry e-e-everybody", Donald jabbered, "I g-g-guess I d-d-didn't g-get enough s-s-sleep last n-night! M-Must have z-z-zoned o-out for a s-second."

"Well if you spent the night with Tristin, I can understand why!", the Colonel guffawed, cigarette holder swiveling from one side of his jaw to the other. "Har! Har! Har!"

Donald's embarrassment skyrocketed. Did he just hear what he thought he did? Pulling out a handkerchief, he nervously wiped his brow, searching for a gracious retort.

It wasn't necessary, however. His fiance grabbed the spotlight.

"Of course we were together last night, Daddy", Tristin barked. "And shame on you for bringing it up just to make Donald blush!"

Niles could see Tristin was perturbed, and braced himself for the eruption. He'd known the girl since she was a teenager, working as a weekend ranch-hand, helping out with the ponies. She'd always spoken her mind. Now would be no different.

"And, as for how much sleep we got, Daddy, well I wanna tell you, Donald's doctorate is in Clintonantics, so we sure-as-shit didn't get much!"

"Errr,...Tris, maybe we s-should just ge....", Donald tried to cut in.

He was unsuccessful.

"He diddled me until I couldn't fathom what was more tired, Daddy, --- my vocal cords from moaning, or face from smiling! Then I did him, until he came --- four times in all! Heck, I was gulping faster then a beer chugging champion. One more drop of man-milk, Daddy, and I'd have needed a nanny to burp me to sleep!"

"OK, dear. You've made your point", the Colonel conceded. "I was just having a little fun. You can spare me the rest of the details."

"You mean, like whether or not Donald assfuc...?"

"Hey everybody", Donald nervously interrupted , "w-why d-don't we all go back to the h-h-house for a d-drink? Huh?"

"Ye know, that's not a bad idea", Niles quickly agreed, sensing Donald's uncomfortableness. "I've got a few things to finish up with here anyway. Ye all run along."

But the Colonel wouldn't let it go. He and Tristin were cut from the same cloth. No doubt about it!

"I can't fathom why Donald wants to go back to the house? From the looks of that bulge in his pants, he seems to like it fine right here --- ogling that pony. And you say he jizzed three times last night? Sorry, Tristin, no slam intended on those mosquito-bites of yours, but I fathom your boyfriend covets big tits!"

"It was four times, Daddy!", Tristin shot back. "All big yummy geysers, too! And why shouldn't he have a boner now. Heck, I'm getting gooey just looking at that pony's droopers!"

The Colonel smiled. He'd really gotten under his daughter's skin. There'd be no more kid-gloves now. Donald was about to get a crash-course in Notnilk methodology.

Niles saw it coming too, back-pedaling accordingly.

"Well of course, ye're all welcome to stay and watch, if ye'd like!"

Tristin, however, didn't need an invitation. She pushed past Niles, getting right in Irene's face, eyeballing her intently; then palming both robust floppers; kneading them like pizza-dough.

"Gaw-w-w-w-w-wd these are fantastic", Tristin hissed! Then, with as nasty a sneer imaginable, she addressed her fiance.

"It's alright, baby, I totally understand your urge. Boobs like these were meant to have a cock between them. You don't have to be a tit-man to want that!"

"Well put, Miss Tristin!", Niles offered. "There's no sayin' a bloke can't love an a-cup, jest 'cause he'd give his last clintollar ta wrap a pair of saggers around his dick!"

"Bloody damn right!" seconded the Colonel.

"Come on, darling", Tristin cooed. "You've just got to feel these monsters!"