- do not use without the author's permission.
"I found one!"
Archeology professor Amanda Tunnings dropped her tools and hurried over to where one of her students was frantically waving from a shallow hole. All of the students followed her.
The women gathered around the hole, where Kayleigh was crouched, wiping the sweat from her brow in the intense Meditteranean sun. In front of her, barely recognizable, was the skeleton of a woman, partially uncovered. The remains of a leather-and-metal bridle could be seen around the skull.
"So it's true," said one of the students solemnly.
"I'm afraid so," said Amanda.
There had been stories that this rogue Roman city-state, after having lost so many horses in battle, had forced the women of conquered lands to take their places. They were made to pull chariots, run races, and plow fields.
A few of the girls in the all-female dig felt chills despite the relentless heat. If they could have, they would've reburied their find and forgotten about it. Instead, they were obligated to uncover it and preserve it for generations to come.
"Were many women forced to do this?"
The professor bit her lip. "I'm not sure. Estimates range from a few dozen to a few thousand."
The students fell silent as they contemplated this. An ancient city where ponygirls were a common sight on the dusty stone streets, the naked and bridled women toiling away as they pulled heavy carts and chariots, the riders cracking their whips above their strained and sweaty bodies.
"And judging from this enclosure," she said, pointing at the ruined walls, "she died in her stall in the stable."
"Oh, my God!"
The professor felt woozy as an intense wave of heat passed over her. Or maybe it was just the realization of what they had found that was hitting her. "Let's break for lunch."
Amanda stood up, feeling light-headed. The heat was really getting to her, she thought. A movement on the ridge above her caught her eye. A man was standing there, dressed-- oddly enough-- in ancient Roman garb. A re-enacter?
"Sir. Sir? this is a protected archeological site." He looked at her strangely, even defiantly, as she called out to him. "I'll have to ask you to leave."
It was then that she noticed that he held a sword. Oh, shit, I hope this doesn't mean trouble, she thought. The man turned and called out to someone behind him.
Amanda called out to him again, this time in the native tongue. The man came down the slope toward her. At least a dozen more men appeared, all dressed as ancient Romans. What the fuck--?
The professor swung toward the students, who were also beginning to get alarmed. "GUYS, LOOK OUT! WE'RE IN TROU--"
She hadn't even finished her warning when she was grabbed from behind and thrown to the ground. She fought back, but the man punched her hard, making her head ring. Behind her, she heard the screams and protests of the students, and feared they were all going to be gang-raped in broad daylight by some local thugs.
Instead, they had their hands bound behind them, and were roped together by a single cord around their necks. At the proddings of the mens' swords, the sobbing and protesting women were yanked to their feet and marched uphill toward town, stumbling through the dig they had been working on for the past three weeks. This struck Amanda as odd; no one could fail to see them, so what was the plan?
But instead of a modern 21st-century town, there was an ancient Roman city, alive and thriving. The students' protests turned to shock and amazement. They tried vainly to convince themselves that they were victims of a mass hallucination or massive prank, but the sounds and smells and sights were all too real.
The citizens stared at the hapless girls, some of them pointing to the African-American and Asian members of their team. Liz, the Goth girl, got the most attention, with her red-and-black-streaked hair, piercings, and tattoos. After being led down several streets, the captives were herded into a large palace. Their presence was announced, and the nearly one-dozen women found themselves before a ruler sitting on a high throne.
He gave the order to have them stripped, and the struggling girls had their shirts, shorts, and shoes torn from their bodies. Their captors stopped when they saw the lacy bras and panties, and roughly inspected these strange and intricate garments as the women squirmed under their probing hands. The ruler gave another order, and the bras and panties were pulled off their bodies.
It was obvious he didn't want the underwear damaged, as the men took unusual care in removing the delicate lingerie. These items were scrutinized, especially the bras, the soldiers puzzling over the intricate construction and the shiny stretchy material. One of them soon figured out how the back clasps worked on the bras, and they spent many minutes opening and closing them to much laughter and delight.
"Let us go, you fuckers!" screamed Lissa. Bad move. The ruler gave an angry order. Lissa's mouth was held open, and another man approached her with a sharp knife, prepared to cut out her tongue.
Amanda was horrified. She knew they would do it. She had to think quickly. The professor made neighing and other horse sounds, hoping to distract the man. It worked. They all stopped and looked at her. She repeated her performance.
The ruler burst out laughing. He gave another order, and the women were hauled off.
They were taken to the palace stables. The students moaned and cried when they realized where they were. So they were going to be turned into ponygirls, just like other captive women! How could this be happening?
Each was put in a stall, where her feet were bound and mouth gagged. They lay on the dirt floor for a few days, with only occasional meals to indicate the passage of time. At night, they tried to communicate, but couldn't come up with any explanation for their situation or any plan of escape.
The next day, each girl was held down as her head was shaved into a mane, the soldiers laughing as they roughly cut away the thick locks. Though no one was sexually assaulted, the men did play with their titties and fondle them as the captives begged and cried to be set free.
It was three days before their captors brought the newly-made harnesses and bridles. The naked women struggled as the crude restraints were forced onto their bodies and cinched tight. They were then dragged outside to a waiting chariot, and the women hitched to the front as a team. With their arms bound painfully behind them, rough metal bits digging into their soft mouths, and naked bodies exposed for all to see, the students and teacher could not have felt more degraded and humiliated. Gabrielle, the biggest of the girls at six-foot-two, had been put at the head of the team. The professor had been placed near the rear.
They stood there in fearful anticipation as the soldiers laughed and made comments. Before long, the ruler came by and climbed into the chariot. The driver picked up the reins and cracked the whip above their heads.
The women had no choice. They leaned forward and pushed against the ground with their bare feet. After about half a minute and a few more cracks of the whip, they were able to get the chariot moving at a slow, but steady, pace.
Citizens laughed and pointed, even as the women struggled to pull the chariot, their tender feet pounding the stone road and their bare breasts and narrow manes bobbing in rhythm to their pumping legs. No one cared that they were treated like animals, slaves to the jerk of the reins and the crack of the whip, their bodies forcefully restrained and their mouths stretched open by the hard bits. No one cared that they were forced to the limits of their endurance, with moans of agony issuing from their throats and tears spilling from their eyes.
Whenever they were made to stop on public streets, they were immediately surrounded by throngs of men, and the centurians accompanying the ruler would show them off, especially the big-breasted girls, who would have their tits groped and fondled to the amusement of onlookers. They learned not to resist, or else they would get hit or abused even further.
As the days passed and they were worked mercilessly traversing the city, Amanda soon noticed one thing-- they were the only ponygirls. Had she been incorrect? Or had they been gazing upon the remains of one of their own archeology team? Perhaps it no longer mattered, as there seemed to be no way out of their hellish predicament.
Their days consisted of hours of ponygirl service, and their nights of deep sleep. They would be so tired at the end of the day that they would immediately fall into a heavy slumber, despite having nothing to sleep on but the dirt floor of their stalls. Excess fat was burned away, replaced by lean, hard muscle, and the soles of their feet became thick with callouses. Pale bodies were tanned to a dark brown, leaving permanent white outlines of their harnesses and bridles on their bare skin. Bright eyes turned glassy and unfocused as sharp, intelligent minds were dulled by the routine monotony of work and rough handling. Unsupported breasts lost their firmness and became saggy and stretch-marked. Anyone who had known them as college students would not have recognized the docile, dirty, and degraded animals that they had become.
It was only a few years later, after a prolonged war, that horses were replaced with female captives, and Amanda had to face the horrifying fact that she had unwittingly given them the idea for this barbaric form of slavery. The increasing number of naked ponygirls on the streets was a constant reminder of her casual mistake. By then, she and the others had resigned themselves to the fact that they would live out the rest of their lives and die in this hellish existence.
Professor Mark Arvenou and his team worked away at the archeological site which had been the scene of the horrific tragedy only a few months before. Amanda Tunnings and her entire team had apparently been swept away in the freak tsunami that had slammed into the coast without warning. No bodies had ever been recovered and-- at this late date-- it was unlikely none ever would. It was a tragic loss, one that was felt throughout the academic community and the entire world.
As he slowly scraped away the years of accumulated dirt, he caught a glimpse of something shiny, something metallic. He carefully dug it out and held it in his hand.
How odd, he thought. It looks like a hook-and-eye closure, a metal clasp to a modern bra. But how did it get embedded in the dirt like that? Perhaps it had been torn free by the tsunami and jammed into the ground, then buried in the mud. Stranger things had happened. He shuddered at the thought of the forces that could do such a thing, and knew that no human being could have survived them.
He set the tiny bits of metal aside and continued digging.
Copyright 2009 by Sogo.