No Hooves In The House!
Bitgirl chuckled, a soft, breathy sound. He followed her eyes to the sign, smiled, reached over and took her hand, squeezed it. The Bookside Inn was in fact an equestrian center. There was a large barn behind the inn, a paddock, an enclosure for jumping practice and dressage. But for a month each year the equines left and the ponygirls took up residence. The double entendre tickled her. Some horse owners loved their horses, some a bit too much. As for the ponygirls ...
Her owner pulled the car up to the main house, entered through a side door. Bitgirl and the maid stayed in the car.
"You've never been here, have you?"
"no," Bitgirl whispered.
"It's a family thing. The sisters run it and for a month each year the brother and his wife come down. The sisters go on vacation and the brother does some handyman things, then invites some special friends to visit."
Bitgirl nodded. She knew who these special friends were. The thought filled her with trepidation. This was why she'd been purchased, modified, trained. It was a coming out party of sorts and she shivered at the thought of the possibility of disappointing her owner. She so wanted to please him.
She turned in her seat. "have you ever been here?"
"No, but it was my job to find an appropriate, er, venue. It wasn't easy, but Evans knows people who know people." She shrugged.
Evans slipped behind the wheel, backed the car, and drove down to the end of a side building, a low-slung affair that looked like any other motel. He pulled in and stopped by room #7.
Bitgirl followed him into the room while the maid tended to the bags. Inside it was very much as it looked on the outside. Your standard motel room: king size bed, credenza with a TV on it, a couple of chairs and a table, a closet, a door to the bathroom. What was different was the archway. It led to a hall. At the end of which was a door, but to the left was a second door. Evans opened it.
Bitgirl followed him into the stall. It smelled of disinfectant and fresh hay. There was a large mound of it in the corner. On a shelf were a couple of blankets. To the right was a Dutch door. Evans opened the top half. Bitgirl could see an expanse of lawn and off in the distance, across a pond, the barn. She heard a whinny. Apparently not all the horses had left.
Angela set the duffle on the floor. (That was Bitgirl's name, too. Evans had named them both Angela. And at home they were interchangeable - both owned, both served their owner. But she was Bitgirl the pony and Angela #1 was the maid.)
Evans watched as the maid fitted Bitgirl's tack. Nothing extreme, just a bridle and hooves. Bitgirl opened her mouth and the maid wedged the hard rubber bit between her teeth. She clipped reins to the bridle and hitched them to a ring by the door.
Bitgirl leaned against the wall, raised one foot then the other. The maid slipped the hooves on Bitgirl's feel and laced the laces. These were Bitgirls's every day hooves, not her running hooves or her pretty show hooves. Kind of like a favorite pair of sneakers, though, truth be told, she couldn't remember the last time she'd worn sneakers.
The maid left and Evans stepped over to her. He ran his hands over her tits, toyed with the heavy rings in her nipples, ran his hands down to her waist, around to her ass. Nothing hurt, everything had healed, although her nose ring gave her a bit of grief now and then.
She thought he was going to speak to her, but he merely cupped her cheek, gazed into her eyes for a moment. Bitgirl flushed and lowered her eyes. Evan's patted her cheek and left.
The trip from Deerefield House had taken two days. Angela realized that she'd probably been drugged for the trip. She remembered nothing. But now her head was clear. She had been sold, branded and pierced, packed into a wooden crate stuffed full with straw. Some vaguely citrus-flavored liquid had been dripped into her mouth, not enough to make her have to swallow, but enough to keep her hydrated - and drugged. Now her head buzzed, a triple-espresso buzz.
Her world began to tip and jostle. She sensed more than felt motion, being rolled across a tiled floor. There was the screeching sound of nails being pulled, then, bit by bit, light as the stuffing was removed.
Angela, nee Linda, pressed her eyes shut against the glare.
"She might be a bit groggy."
She recognized the voice. It was the agent, Evans Craig's agent, the one who paid for her, supervised her branding and piercing.
A hand gripped her arm, helped her to stand.
"I gave her a bit of pain killer, just something to take the edge off you understand."
And Angela realized that she, in fact, felt no pain - not her branded hip, not her pierced clit hood, not even her cramped muscles that she flexed as she tried to stand.
"Angela, fetch a robe. I thought she might have been dressed."
Angela's mind swam, befuddled. "Wha..." she started to say.
"Yes sir," a soft, female voice replied.
She felt herself being hefted from the crate and set on the floor. The tiles were cool on her feet. Her other senses started kicking in. She could smell cologne, a man's cologne and a fresh scent - soap? The woman? The body next to her smelled of sweat, but a clean sweat. Probably the agent. Angela pried her eyes open.
It was bright, but not painfully so. Through squinted lids she surveyed the room. A man stepped up to her.
Of course she recognized him, didn't know, never knew his name, although she did now. Evans Craig, Evans Craig III she recalled from her bill of sale.
A robe was draped over her shoulders. She slipped her arms into the sleeves. The woman tugged it closed and tied the sash. It wasn't a regular robe, but a kimono, silky and warm.
"How do you feel?"
Angela nodded. "Fine, Sir."
He gestured toward the crate. "Harold, would you please clean up. Angela will show you where the trash is."
Angela followed her new owner out of the room. Her eyes were adjusting and what she saw was impressive. Not gawdy-impressive like Deerefield House, something more subtle, but there was no mistaking Evans Craig III was a man of means.
In his study, Angela knelt by the overstuffed leather chair, much as she had at Deerefield House, though she couldn't remember even seeing him there. She served him at the pub. She had seen him several times, sometimes with the same girl, sometimes with a different one. Then came her turn. He had become something of a regular, availing himself a half dozen times, maybe more. But then his attention turned to another girl. That was, she realized, about two months ago. And in the same instant she realized he'd been sampling the merchandise, taking a test drive as it were.
"Do you recognize me?"
"Do you know who I am?"
Angela nodded. "I saw your name on the bill of sale and on the disk." She gestured at her lap.
"Was it very painful?"
In another life Linda would have said, "Well, DUH!" But Angela the newly purchased slave just nodded. "Yes, Sir. Not the brand so much, but the piercing was, er, intense."
"You saw the disk, so you know your new name?"
"Yes, Sir. Angela."
"You realize, of course, that you're Angela #2."
"I didn't ... I mean I was confused when you spoke before. She's Angela, too?"
"No, you're Angela 2, she's Angela 1."
She blinked up at him, saw the smile, and realized he was making a joke.
"Yes. You're both owned, you serve the same functions. You share the same name. You are, in my eyes, interchangeable."
Angela #2 nodded. "Yes, Sir."
Although as it transpired, they weren't.
Bitgirl rested her elbows on the door, surveyed her new world, well her new world for the next month.
It was peaceful, bucolic. The expanse of lawn, the farm buildings. There were trees, lots of trees. Up against the edge of the woods was a sign. She couldn't read it, but there was an arrow pointing to a gap. Probably a riding trail.
Angela came in. She stroked Bitgirl's back.
Bitgirl nodded. "yes," came the garbled whisper.
"Don't be. Evans wouldn't bring you here if he didn't think you could handle it. I think you'll kill them in the race. Most of the others are just here to play. Even the serious ones aren't in your league, haven't had your mods. Dressage on the other hand ..." Angela shrugged. "Like they say 'Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.' But you've got your routine down. You'll be fine."
"But that's not all of it, is it?"
Bitgirl shook her head.
"This?" Angela said, tapping her throat.
Bitgirl frowned and nodded.
"Yeah. I can imagine, or not. I don't know. I mean it's one thing to be mute at home in private, but here? You're going to have to deal with the pity thing."
Bitgirl nodded. The worst part was when some helpful soul tried to use sign. Evans had forbidden her to learn it. She was Bitgirl and she was mute, well mostly. She could whisper.
At first she and Angela were pretty much joined at the hip, except at night when one of them shared Evans' bed. He used her mouth mostly, sometimes her ass, but he always finished in her mouth. Her aching clit drove her to distraction. She willed it to heal soon. Evans never touched her there, but there was only one reason for a triangle piercing and she longed for the day when he'd use her properly. Angela had said, "Be careful what you wish for." But she didn't care. He was good in bed, very good. Always treated her more like a lover than a whore.
"There's going to be a division of labor," he had said one day. "While you'll both pretty much share all the chores, you're the maid," he said to Angela #1, "and my assistant."
"You, on the other hand, are primarily responsible for the house. That includes the inside and outside. As I said, you'll share the chores, but it's your responsibility. Understand?"
"Yes, Sir," they echoed. Although, honestly, she didn't. But as it turned out the division of labor worked itself out. She supervised the gardener, did most of the cooking and heavy cleaning, the other Angela did the day-to-day maid things when she wasn't attending Evans.
A month passed. Things had settled into a routine. One day Evans called her into his office. A man was there. She didn't know who he was. She hadn't let him in, Angela had.
Angela unzipped her skirt, set it aside, unbuttoned her blouse and stepped out of her shoes. She wore no underwear.
The other man examined her, had her open her mouth, looked in her ears, the usual things. He palpated her tits, ran his hand down her rib cage, said "hm" a couple of times. He examined her legs.
"Doable. All doable."
"It won't be ..."
"Obvious? Well, the voice box, yes, but the rest, no."
"She'll never wear flats again. Lift your foot."
She lifted her foot.
"Shortening here, will cause the foot to bend thusly. She'll be able to walk barefooted, but only briefly and only slowly. Any undue stress and," he touched her leg, "this will snap. It can be repaired, but like any athlete, she'll never be 100%."
"Hm. I see. What about the other?"
"The other" turned out to be her voice box and her ribs. Evans drove her to the clinic a week later. Angela stayed with her the whole time, nearly three weeks.
She woke that first morning with a sore throat. It reminded her of when she'd had her tonsils out. Then, as now, she was fed sips of ginger ale and spoons of ice cream.
"How do you feel?"
She nodded. "okay ... sore" She gestured to her throat. "what happened?"
"They removed your voice box."
Angela blinked up at the other woman.
"This is your new voice. You can whisper, but not speak. We won't have to worry about you yelling 'Fire!' in a movie theater anymore."
"Sorry. Bad joke. Seriously, I'm sorry."
Angela nodded and accepted another spoon of ice cream.
She was there when Angela woke a few days later. No ice cream this time.
"Ribs." She pointed at herself. "Me, too. You think I got this wasp-waist naturally? Uh uh. You too. They took out the bottom two ribs."
Another trip to the o.r. another groggy awakening.
"Welcome back to the land of the living."
"what this time?"
Angela could feel the casts on her legs.
"I'm not a hundred percent sure what all they did, but the gist of it is they shorted the muscles or tendons or something. From now on you'll be stuck in fuck-me pumps or hooves."
It took a second for that to register.
"Hm. Hooves as in ponygirl."
Angela frowned and shook her head.
"You don't know what a ponygirl is?"
"You take a girl, put her in pony gear - bridle, bit, harness, hooves - and, voila, ponygirl."
It still wasn't registering.
"But the thing is, Evans is very serious about this. I mean competition-wise. Which is why they messed with your legs. You'll be spending most of your time in hooves, kind of like a ballet dancer always on her toes."
Angela blinked, trying to imagine it.
"And your feet. They did something to your feet. I heard them talking about your toes. I don't know if they removed your toes or what. No! Don't look at me like that! I'm sorry! I don't know what they did, really! I was just speculating. I'll shut up now."
They hadn't removed her toes, but what they had done was a modern version of foot binding. Her feet had been remodeled, toes tucked in, everything compressed into an almost solid mass.
They left the casts on for weeks. They replaced them with new casts that allowed her to walk after a fashion with the help of a cane.
It was over a month later that she had her first fitting for her new hooves. By then she'd found out what this ponygirl thing was all about. Angela had pretty much summed it up: bridle, bit, harness, hooves - and a sulky. Kind of a two wheel cart with arms.
Evans decided she needed a few more piercings. The woman who came wasn't the one who did her clit (and by the way, hers had healed and Evans was fucking her and Angela's words came back to haunt her because she was horny, ALWAYS horny). Nipple rings and a septum ring found their way through her flesh. Once healed the nipple rings had a similar effect to her hood piercing and the nose ring made her feel owned, seriously owned. She knew, and felt, she belonged to Evans, but nothing says "Owned" like a nose ring.
"Celeste! How nice to see you."
"You remember Angela? And this is Bitgirl."
She didn't offer her hand and it wouldn't have mattered because Bitgirl was wearing her 'pretty' tack, which included a harness with her wrists cuffed and locked to rings at her hips.
"Dee, you're looking well."
Dee said nothing, nodded and proffered a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
Evans steered them to another spot on the patio.
"That's your competition."
Bitgirl looked at the other. She was buff, a serious hardbody.
As if reading her thoughts, "Don't let the muscles fool you. It takes strength and speed and she spends way too much time working on strength and most of it in her upper body. You'll cream her."
Bitgirl looked up at her owner. He was smiling. She nuzzled him. God! She wanted to believe him, to please him, and she was overwhelmed with an urge to kick Dee's ass!
He was holding her reins, gave them a shake, and said, "Come on."
In a few minutes she was clipped to her sulky. Evans climbed aboard.
"Take it easy, girl. These aren't your running hooves and the ground back here is kind of uneven.
Bitgirl nodded. Her hair, that several months back was short and perky, was now long and she felt her ponytail jounce as she trotted.
"Come on, we have to do the show off thing. You're the new pony on the block."
Bitgirl nodded again and settled into a nice ponytail bouncing (actually she had two - one on her head and one attached to the plug in her ass) trot. Evans flicked the reins and she picked it up a notch. Her tits bounced in time with her hair. The bells clipped to her nipple rings jingled. Bitgirl ran.
It felt good.
She rarely ran with Evans at the reins. Angela was her jockey. Usually with him it was a walk or a trot, but he flicked the reins again and she changed gears.
He flicked the reins again. "Fuck it! Let's throw down the gauntlet! GO!" She went.
He steered her downhill and, thankfully, she hadn't gotten up to speed yet because when she made the turn she almost dumped the cart.
He took her down behind the barn. She was going flat out now as he led her on a wide turn around the barn, up the hill, and close by the patio.
Bitgirl ran. Something clicked. Something, some small piece of the puzzle fell into place. She was Bitgirl, she belonged to Evans, and she was running, it was what she was meant, what she was born to do, running as if her life depended on it, running for him, for Evans, her owner.
She raced by the patio. Every ounce of her being focused on maximum speed. She didn't see the people, didn't see anything except the ground a few feet ahead, adjusting her stride to avoid the dips and bumps. Bitgirl flew!
He led her down behind the 'motel', slowed her to a trot, to a canter, to a walk. He climbed off the seat. Bitgirl was trembling, shaken from the effort, shaking with what? She felt the urge to cry. And he was there, holding her, soothing her. She melted against him.
She was Bitgirl.