"Go ahead and do what you need to do, Cathy." Says her trainer. "Every pony needs to shit once in a while."

Cathy knows why they are doing this to her. They want to break her pride.

They want her reduced to the status of a domesticated animal. Something that does as it is told. Something without a will of its own.

But knowing why and being able to resist are two different things. The stimulant in her guts is not something she can resist much longer. The cramps are coming every few seconds now and she can barely stand the pain.

She wants to stop walking but cannot. She wants to squat but cannot. She feels the approaching loss of control and can do nothing but continue walking in the circle mandated by the exerciser.

Suddenly the time of resistance is over. Despite her efforts to control her bowels it happens. She begins to shit onto the backs of her own legs, the exerciser forcing her to continue walking forward, blindly following the reins as her bowels empty out onto the circle track behind her. Then as she comes around again she knows the shame and self-disgust of feeling her iron shod feet slipping in her own mess. She screams in defeat, the gag making her sound like an animal.

* * *

After her bath and three way sexual servicing she is put to bed, her arms still up behind her head, her hoodwink again tied down under her chin. To keep her from running away in the night they have strapped her right leg to itself so that her heel is tight against her buttock. She thinks, At least they left out the gag tonight.

As she slips into dreamland she remembers the tenor's last words. "You did well today Cathy, tomorrow you will do better."

* * *

It is cold and quiet when Cathy awakes. She can clearly hear someone snoring nearby, sounding like a baritone sawmill. She struggles and strains against her bondage, not because she thinks she will get anywhere but because it is the only way they have left her to get warm. To her shock the strap around her bent leg parts suddenly, allowing her to straighten out her aching knee.

Suddenly she doesn't know what to do. Still blind, still helpless in the arm binding, miles from the nearest road, naked and shoeless in a desert full of snakes, scorpions and spiders, she knows she has no real chance to escape. But to remain where she is, captive to three sex maniacs is even worse.

She struggles to sit up, wondering if someone is toying with her. Perhaps the leg strap was cut while she slept. Perhaps it is all a game or maybe a test of some kind.

Struggling up to her feet she tries to find a way to navigate. She feels the cold desert wind against her bare body and wishes she could grab up her blankets and wrap them around herself. Inside the black cloth hoodwink her eyes strain to see through the tightly woven cloth. She thinks she can just make out the crescent moon glowing through the weave and with that as a reference she makes a few tentative steps away from the sounds of snoring.

Almost immediately she finds herself in trouble as she blindly walks into a patch of cacti. Biting her tongue to keep silent she backs out of the prickles only to hear the warning rattle of a snake off to her right.

Stumbling away from this, expecting to feel fangs sinking into her bare legs at any moment she tries again, tripping over stones and pucker-bushes as she moves, shivering with the cold, out into the open desert. After falling several times she learns how to feel her way before stepping and after a half an hour feels that she may have gone a hundred meters. When she runs into a barbed wire fence she gets down on her belly and crawls under it, feeling the sharp barbs poking and scratching at her bare back, bottom and legs as she slithers under its tightly stretched wires. Forced to crawl like a snake she ends up getting the front of her hoodwink even more caked with mud.

It is only after she has walked another fifty meters that she gets the idea of using the fence barbs to possibly rip a hole in her hoodwink.

Backtracking blindly she at last runs into the fence again and with a lot of struggle finally gets a barb hooked into the blinding cloth and rips it enough that she can at last see a little. She nearly cries out in frustration to see the van parked next to a large horse trailer less than twenty meters away, her shelter off to one side, her captor's tent off to the other.

Turning away, Cathy checks the north star for direction and begins to jog out into the trackless wastes, her arms still bound up behind her head.

* * *

By ten o'clock in the morning she knows she has probably made the last mistake of her life. The desert is seemingly endless. She does not know which way to go. The hot sun is drying her out so fast that she doubts she'll live to see sunset. She is still running north, hoping that she will find a road, a track, a rescuer, even perhaps a windmill powered stock watering hole. But the desert just mocks her, stretching away to the circling mountains in the blue tinged distance. She feels the sun burning down on her unprotected skin and wishes they'd put more of that sunscreen on her last night after they'd bathed her.

Then she hears the motorcycles. She turns back toward the sound and peers into the heat-distorted distance, trying to see from where the sound is coming. At first she sees nothing, then through the small triangle she has ripped in her hoodwink she sees a dust cloud approaching on what seems to be a track. She stands up on top of a hill and screams at the top of her lungs, not caring that she is still naked and helpless, not even caring if the riders are friend or foe, caring only that they come and save her from her own folly.

As the cloud of dust leaves the track and comes toward her she sees that it contains two fairly new looking dirt bikes, each carrying a single rider.

She sees that they both are wearing nothing but boots and full-face helmets, reflective shields covering their faces. One is large, hairy and strong looking, while the other is smaller, slimmer and entirely hairless. They both ride as if used to the desert, weaving through the pucker bushes at high speed as if it were easy. As they come up the hill she sees that the larger one is wearing the number 9 on both his helmet and bike and the smaller the number 77R.

The bikers slow down as they approach, then stop, one on each side of where she stands, her arms still fixed up behind her head. Shutting down their motors the two just sit and stare at her for several seconds before the tenor says, "Going somewhere, Cathy?" from the confines of his helmet.

Cathy looks from one to the other, feeling the mixed emotions of the recaptured sex slave. Here is water, food and shelter from the burning sun.

But so too here is torture, humiliation and pain. Here is sexual immolation and pleasures beyond description. Here is possibly death and perhaps life.

The two men dismount and approach, revealing that the tenor is, as she'd noticed before, the better hung of the two. Not that there is anything small about the baritone, she thinks watching his cock swing like a length of hawser. Each is making soothing sounds and holding his arms out wide to prevent her from trying to run away again. In the smaller one's left hand is a canteen, the water inside sloshing as he enticingly shakes it back and forth. In the larger one's hands is a wide leather strap.

Cathy, desperately needing the water, stands and lets the tenor untie and remove the torn hoodwink before lifting the canteen to her dry cracked lips.

As she drinks she feels the baritone strapping her knees tight together so that she will not be tempted to run again. After she has had her drink they pull the hoodwink back down over her head, this time with the torn triangular hole in the back and retie it around her throat, blinding her once more.

The ride back to camp takes a distressingly short time, considering how much effort she has expended running away. Strapped tight to the baritone's back, hooded and facing backwards, her knees still strapped together, her bare feet split and lashed up to the frame of the motorcycle, her screaming ignored, Cathy feels like an escaped calf being brought back to the branding fire.

As they pull into camp and shut down their motors, Cathy hears the woman's voice coming from off to her right, "Think we let her run too long? She looks kind of sunburned."

"She'll be easier to train this way." says the tenor, working on getting her free of the baritone's bike. "We won't have to hit her so hard to get her attention." He demonstrates by lightly slapping Cathy's sunburned bottom, making her yelp with the pain of being touched.

The baritone chuckles deep in his throat and says, "Putting her sun-block on aught to be a hoot, I call dibs!" as he drags her over to the shade of her shelter.

Hobbled by the knee strap, Cathy can in no way resist as she is noosed to the hanging rope, tethering her to stand in the middle of her blanket. The sun screen is cold when first it touches her burning skin. The hands that spread it are like twin branding irons, slathering her in exquisite pain.

She feels like she might pass out under the rush of sensations. The noose terrifies her to the point that her body responds in the only way it can, by slipping into a state of slave passion. She feels her labia swelling and begin to drip her passion juice down the insides of her thighs, she smells her passion scent rising from her groin, filling both her nose and the nose of her tormentor. She feels his hands on her burning body become gentle and caressing, no longer just pain but instead torment.

She feels his hot hands on her erect, sunburned nipples, his organ probing between her bottom cheeks, finding her center, her starfish, her, until 30 hours ago, virgin asshole. She screams and tries to escape but tethered and hobbled there is no escape. The hot cock spears her rear and impales her.

The pain is sharp and deep and there is no escape. She struggles, clenching on him with her sphincter, drawing groans of pleasure from him as he grips her sunburned breasts and begins the dance of lust, his powerful hips lifting her from the blanket, her knee hobbled feet kicking and dancing a jig in the air.

When it is over Cathy finds herself lying on the blanket, more sexually confused than she's ever been. What is happening to me? She thinks, feeling the baritone's cum trickling out of her burning asshole. Have they really made me into some kind of a sex slave, a thing to be used in any way they want, a domestic animal who has no will, no rights, no say?

Still knee hobbled, hoodwinked and helpless, Cathy tries to sit up, only to run into a restraining hand. "Roll over onto your face, Cathy, you need some rest after all that." Says the woman's voice, husky with lust. The cinch of the slipknots around her ankles again hogties her, this time with the connecting rope passed up over the points of her elbows. The removal of the hobbling strap frees her knees to spread but it doesn't do her the slightest good. When she hears the buzzing of the big strap-on she knows rest is not exactly what the woman has in mind.

She feels the woman's hands positioning her on her face and bent knees and as the big dildo slides its buzzing bulk into her throbbing vulva Cathy feels the excitement rising within her once again. There is no escape; there is only passion.