The unusual sound of a diesel engine interrupted Angela and one of her personal bitches. The big domina jumped up fast enough to snap the poor girl's head back, cum still dripping down her chin. By the time the subs got their mistress squeezed into her outfit, a cloud of dust was settling over the barb wire pen where the big rig stopped to deposit its cargo.

The truckers greeted her with the usual erections straining their dirty jeans - a predictable male reaction to the sight of a raven-haired 6-foot Amazon striding toward them in boots, bare 40 DD boobs bouncing down over her corset, although those were forbidden fruit. Even slavers seldom saw female flesh in this striking a package.

As the trailer doors opened, Angela caught the sweet, familiar sound of moaning girls, mingled with the sour scent of their sweat. The truck crew quickly unstrapped the ponies, one by one, from the cargo racks, and prodded them single-file out into the blazing sun, their heels clattering unsteadily down the steel ramp, their buttocks already bearing the Circle Star brand.

Even though Angela could easily have handled all twenty of the new girls, cuffed, gagged and hobbled as they were, she had Jenny, her top hand, help her line them up for inspection. Jenny's good eye for ponyflesh and skill with rope earned her rights to her pick of any new fillies that hadn't already been consigned to a buyer.

The newbies were a reasonably fit, but unruly bunch, straining at their waist-clipped cuffs, and trying to plead through the unfamiliar steel between their teeth. Finally, after some cursory poking and probing, Jenny nodded.

Turning to the truckers, Angela purred, "I appreciate punctuality. Stop by the stables on your way out to get your bonus. Just cut your pick out of the herd." They needn't know that the choicest twat was reserved for her and her customers.

"Jen, let's introduce these cunts to our local customs." The ponies quickly learned how easily two strong, expert handlers could control them. In five minutes, all twenty were obediently bent over, legs spread and asses thrust out. If they cried out at the stroke of Angela's cane against their butts, they were punished with another, and another, until they learned they could utter no sound without permission.

Jen, her bronzed, muscular torso stripped to the waist, was as impressive as Angela. Unzipping her jeans, and grabbing one captive by the hair, she forced the bitch to her knees, silencing her slobbering protests against her crotch.

With satisfaction, Angela watched the girl's game attempt to put her tongue and lips at Jen's service, despite the pony bit she wore. Still, Angela knew it would be weeks of lying in cold pens and trotting in circles under threat of the whip before these raw fillies began to behave like proper livestock.

As she watched the new ponies fastened in their stalls for the night, Angela reflected upon how smart she had been to become licensed as a trainer, after the economic crisis brought the welfare state crashing down.

With the new government authorizing indentured servitude, hoards of hungry girls were signing up for service in legal operations like hers, rather than take their chances on the street. The foolish things thought they'd pay off their debt in five years, and become free women. They didn't realize that in a matter of months, the pony bit and butt-plug tail would be as much a part of them as their tits and clits, and they'd obediently prance up on the auction block for resale to a select clientele of wealthy connoisseurs.