It was a beautiful summer day, so I decided to take a ride to the local park. I brought out my two best ponygirls, gave them some water, and let them relieve themselves before I got them ready. Because of local health and decency laws pertaining to public places, I had to dress them, so each of them got a white exercise bra and beige panty girdle.
The clothing tipped them off that they were going on a special trip, and my two raven-haired beauties could barely contain their excitement as I hitched them to the sulky. It was a warm day and several miles to the park, but my fillies had both been marathon runners before they had been captured and tamed, so I knew they could handle it.
I led them through the suburban streets at an easy trot. Though ponygirls were still a new phenomenon, the neighborhood was accustomed to the sight of me and my fillies, and our presence generated little more than passing interest.
We reached the park and, even though it was still early, the grounds were already busy with joggers, rollerbladers, bicyclists, sunbathers, and tennis players. I led my girls over to the picnic area and hitched them to an overhead tree limb before giving them their water bottles of sports drink. As they drank and walked off their sore muscles in the shade, I spritzed their nearly-bald, sweating heads with cool water.
As usual, curious people wandered over, but not too close, as they were intrigued but a little wary. A few of the bolder ones asked questions, which I did my best to answer.
The reactions of the women were the most interesting. You could see by their body language that they were repulsed, yet their eyes betrayed a longing that they could not fully hide.
I was going to get a damp rag to wipe down my ponygirls when I noticed three young women marching straight toward me. Uh oh, I thought. Trouble.
They stopped a few feet away, and the leader, an attractive girl with short dirty-blonde hair thrust her arm in the direction of my fillies.
"Don't you realize how disgustingly vile this is, exploiting these women this way? It's barbaric!" Her companions stood behind her looking angry, their arms folded.
I tried to counter with humor. "Don't knock it if you haven't tried it." Big mistake.
She stomped right over to me. "Listen, you pig--"
I could see the other two were heading toward my fillies, and knew they were going to try to free them. It was obvious that they had planned this out beforehand. I had to act quickly.
I pulled a squirt bottle out of the sulky and spritzed the angry girl in the face. This squirt bottle was filled with a specially-formulated knock-out drug, one which was absorbed into the skin and carried by the bloodstream into the brain within seconds. She blinked twice and wiped at her eyes before a glazed look came over her face. She wobbled a little and collapsed, already unconscious.
A dozen feet away, one of the other girls, a brunette, was clutching her leg where one of my ponygirls had kicked her. I could already see the purplish bruise that the iron horseshoe had left on her flesh.
The third girl, with long reddish-blonde hair, was arguing with my fillies, attempting to convince them that they were being exploited. Fat chance. I went over to her first and sprayed her in the face, then did her injured friend. By the time they realized what had been done to them, it was too late. They both keeled over and lay still in the grass.
I had the Commissioner of Equine Acquisitions on speed-dial. I asked to have an officer with police back-up sent over right away, as I had three girls that needed to be licensed. I gave my name and Ponygirl Owner Number and hung up.
The next few minutes were touch-and-go. A crowd formed, and I told them to step back and not interfere. My fillies were agitated, so I petted them briefly and pushed a mint into each of their mouths to calm them down.
The three troublemakers were next. Luckily, I had enough spare equipment stored in the sulky-- three sets each of bridle and bit, elbow cuffs, and ankle hobbles, all sturdy nylon.
I went to the leader, stripped off her shorts and T-shirt-- leaving her in bra and panties-- and quickly secured her with the restraints. Though she could try to escape if she wanted to, she wouldn't be able to go fast or far.
I was taking care of the other two when the CEA officer and police arrived. As the police kept the crowd back, the officer took my credit card, personal information, and the details of what had happened. He then searched the girls' clothes for their ID, which he then took back with him to his van. By this time, I had finished securing the girls, and I took their clothes and dumped them under the seat of the sulky. The girl with reddish-blonde hair wasn't wearing a bra, so I took two strips of duct tape and slapped them over her nipples; it would sting like hell when I ripped them off, but maybe that would teach her a lesson. Not that there would be a next time, of course.
The officer returned with my credit card and the ownership papers for my three new ponygirls. As he handed me their ID cards, he smiled. "Healthy young college girls. Straight-edge vegan soccer players. You hit the jackpot."
I thanked him. The ID cards would be sent back along with their clothes to their nearest relatives, as they would have no need for any of that now.
He nodded toward the girls. "Need help shaving them?"
I noticed that they had started to stir. "Yeah, I think so."
As he held each girl, I chopped and shaved the hair until just a thin mane remained down the back of the head. Fully conscious now, they fought and yelled, despite the fact that they knew they were trapped. As a final touch, I took a rubber stamp and marked them on both cheeks with my brand in indelible ink, just in case they escaped or were stolen.
The hair I kept, as it would be fashioned into their new pony tails. Trying to hitch them to the back of the cart was a struggle at first, but I threatened them with the water bottle and kept them moving with deft applications of the riding crop. They tried appealing to the crowd for help, but no one did, especially not with the police there. In fact, they cheered each time I managed to get one hitched up, which destroyed the girls' morale more than anything I did to them.
Finally, the three stood there, panting, nearly naked, and utterly defeated. I suppose if they had known what the outcome of their activism would be, they would have minded their own business. They must have known that, legally, they had no recourse, and were now my property.
After I hitched up my own fillies-- who stepped proudly into place in front of the sulky-- I waved goodbye to the officer and police and headed for home.
I kept an eye on the new girls behind me with the help of a sideview mirror. I had deliberately not given them any water beforehand so as to wear down their resistance. At first, there were feeble attempts of protest, but as the journey wore on, these quickly disappeared as fatigue set in.
By the time we got to my pony farm, they were exhausted. I tended to my fillies first as the new girls stood there dry-mouthed and sweating, then had my stablehands take them to the shower room, where they cut off their underwear before hosing them down with ice-cold water. The one girl screamed as the tape was ripped from her tits.
The girls looked thoroughly defeated, but I knew that would only last as long as their tiredness.
Finally, they were allowed to sip a sports drink from bottles-- I didn't want them suffering permanent physical damage from their ordeal.
When they had finished, we zipped tight latex hoods on their heads, cutting off all but their breathing, and used long poles clipped to their collars to force-march them into the next room. There, we attached the rings on the tops of their hoods to overhead chains. They stood ten feet apart on the dirt floor, unable to move far from their positions. Unbeknownst to them, laxatives and diuretics had been added to their drinks. Sensory deprivation, vulnerability, and humiliation were very effective in breaking resistant minds.
At first, they merely stood there, undoubtedly too afraid to move. As time wore on and impatience set in, they began to test the limits of their confinement and slowly move around.
That lasted about fifteen minutes, and then boredom and frustration set in. They began to struggle and cry out under their rubber hoods. My stablehands just stood there and watched.
Their protests were cut short when the laxatives and diuretics kicked in. Of course, they struggled to hold it in, squealing and moaning as things got more desperate, but finally they had to give in. They squatted as much as their chains would allow and let loose, spraying the floor with piss and shit. The fact that they couldn't wipe themselves afterwards only made them more distressed. We let them suffer.
After another hour, when they could barely stand and had stumbled barefoot into their own waste, we began randomly whipping them with riding crops. After ten minutes of this, when they finally just hung there limply and allowed the punishment to come, we unhooked them and took them back to the showers.
We cleaned them up and removed their hoods, pleased to find that they were completely subservient after their breaking in. The eyes of the leader and her brunette friend were red, which meant that they had been crying. Good.
We refitted them with leather harnesses and bridles, then shod them with pony boots. They were completely silent the entire time, and offered no resistance as we led them to their stalls. To prevent them from communicating with each other, we left a couple empty stalls between them.
Only a few hours ago, they had been a couple of college girls with freedom and dreams and bright futures. Now they were nothing more than domesticated animals, and would forever remain so. Perhaps they had hopes that they would one day be free, that they would someday be able to resume their former lives, but they would be mistaken, as ponygirls were forever. Once a ponygirl, always a ponygirl.
And, after my training, they would be happy, obedient ponygirls.