Gromet's PlazaPonyGirl/PetGirl Stories

Handling Handler

by Sogo

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© Copyright 2017 - Sogo - Used by permission

Storycodes: Solo-F; M+/f+; ponygirls; cart; boots; stable; harness; bond; pantygirdle; training; bdsm; whip; branding; shave; auction; sold; cons/reluct; X

NOTE: This story is intended only as a fantasy. It does not condone or endorse such behavior in real life in any way. Do not use without the author’s permission.

"And I thought working for Uber was degrading!"

Chelsea Handler was facing the camera as a ponygirl pulled a sulky down a dirt path behind her. She was filming a pilot episode for a proposed comedy series, and had decided to be as outrageous as possible. There was a look of mock disapproval on her face, though it was obvious from her attitude that she thought this popular fetish was ridiculous and degrading. Still, sexual quirks were a quick and easy source of comedy material, and a way to place herself above such perversions. She turned and stuck out an arm. “Taxi!”

There was a clip-clop sound as the sulky came back into camera range. The comedienne climbed in next to the middle-aged man who held the reins. “To the women’s rights rally! And step on it!”

The man laughed and snapped the reins. The ponygirl, dressed in a buttless panty girdle and a plain white sports bra, set off at a brisk canter.

“Soooo, what are the job qualifications for this position? A Master’s degree in humiliation? Previous experience as a middle manager or a stripper?” She held out the mic.

The man smiled. “Nope. Just be healthy, hard-working, and submissive.”

Chelsea nodded and frowned at the camera. “Sounds like just about most jobs for women—unfortunately!” She turned back to the man. “And I’ll bet the pay is good, too!”

The man smiled again. “Room and board. And pieces of chocolate as rewards for good behavior.”

“Wow! Let me update my resume. Any chance for advancement in this distinguished field? Say, becoming a harness racer or pulling a hansom cab through Central Park?”

“Not exactly, though options similar to those do exist.” At this, the comedienne did an exaggerated double-take. “Among the very rich, it has become a status symbol to have a stable of ponygirls to give rides around huge estates and wooded retreats.”

Chelsea’s snarky attitude cracked for a moment. “You’re joking, right?”

“Don’t take my word for it. Check it out for yourself.”

Chelsea’s smile was a bit forced as she said, “I’ve always wanted to get attached to a rich guy. Just not by reins and metal clips.”

The joke fell flat, and she tried to change direction. “What other things can a ponygirl do besides pull a cart? I’m assuming if women can be trained as executives and scientists, they can be ‘trained’ to do other things just as ‘demanding,’ right?”

“Well, in addition to cart ponies, there are racing ponies, performing ponies, plow ponies, circus ponies, and show ponies.”

“Gee, the career options are just endless, aren’t they?”

“It keeps them on their toes.”

“Ha, ha! That would be hilarious if it wasn’t so creepy!”

The man tugged the reins, bringing the cart to a halt. “Well, here we are at the stable.”

They both climbed out of the cart. Chelsea watched with a mixture of amusement and concern as the man tied the ponygirl’s reins to the hitching post, then placed a bottle of Gatorade with a straw in a holder on the post. He removed the bit from the girl’s mouth so she could drink.

The comedienne gave a big fake smile as she turned toward the camera. “Gatorade! The perfect sports drink for those post-ponycart workouts!”

They headed for the stable, and passed a corral where a training carousel was sending two prancing ponygirls around and around in circles as a young male trainer wielded a whip.

Chelsea snuck a secretive glance at the camera. “I would just like to apologize right now to my fitness instructor.”

As they approached the stable, she quipped, “So this is the stable, huh? Kind of like a college dorm for human horses?”

The man shrugged and smiled. “You could say that.”

They entered, and Chelsea was speechless as she attempted to come up with a witty remark, Each ten-by-sixteen-foot stall was occupied by a harnessed and bridled ponygirl, and they came to the front of their stalls and peered through the metal bars curiously at this strange intruder. They were all young, good-looking—and docile. They stood there in their harnesses and bridles as if being a penned-up farm animal was the most normal thing in the world. Chelsea noted with shock that every one was tethered to a side wall by a leather rein clipped to one of her bit rings, limiting movement even in the tiny cell. Behind each one was a small cot with mattress and a child’s training potty.

She nearly lost her composure. “Th-this is kinda like a New York City apartment. With hay. Annnnnd . . .restraints.”

The man reached into one of the stalls and petted a ponygirl on the head. The pale, freckle-faced redhead with small boobs leaned her head into his hand and closed her eyes dreamily. Her look of contentment wouldn’t have looked out of place on a pampered dog or housecat.

“Awww, how sweet,” whispered Chelsea into the camera. “I’m sure Mom and Dad are proud they raised such an obedient little beast of burden.”

The man pulled his hand out, then unwrapped a piece of chocolate from his pocket and gave it to the comedienne. “Put it in the palm of your hand and offer it to her.”

Chelsea cringed into the camera as she gingerly slipped her hand through the bars. The ponygirl leaned in and licked the sweet treat from her hand. Chelsea squealed and yanked her hand out. “This is like a petting zoo for perverts. How does it feel to be trained like a circus animal?” she said, and held the mic up to the ponygirl’s face.

The ponygirl made a horse sound through her lips and nodded her head.

“They can’t speak,” said the man.

“Oh, that’s right. I guess I’ve been brainwashed by all those old talking horse movies.”

There was a commotion at the other end of the stable. A couple male stablehands were opening stalls and attaching something to the ponygirls’ faces.

“And what’s going on down there?” said Chelsea.

“Lunch time. They’re attaching feedbags to the girls’ bridles.”

“Feed bags! Right! ‘Cause horses can’t use utensils because they have hooves or whatever.”

She walked over and watched with a frozen smile as a ponygirl’s bit was removed and a feedbag strapped over the lower part of her face.

“So, what’s on the menu? Oats and berries?”

“And nuts and dried vegetables.”

“Sounds yummy. And they get this every day?”

“We change the ingredients every day, but it’s a good healthy mixture of organic foods.”

“Well, I’m glad to see you’re looking out for their well-being. What about intellectual stimulation? Any college-level courses for these bright young fillies?”

“Circus routines and complex dressage maneuvers are all the intellectual stimulation they need.”

“But what about at night? Are they allowed to do anything? Use the computer? Read? Listen to music?”

“Nope. They’re ponies twenty-four seven.”

The comedienne tried hard to keep from losing it. This was getting to be too much. “B-but don’t they have other interests?”

The man shook his head. “This is their lifestyle choice.”

“Okay then. I see you have a few empty stalls here. You expecting any more young girls to come prancing in here?”

The man held out his arm, indicating the one stall. “Well, this one is reserved for you.”

“Ha ha! Very funny! It’s not going to be that easy, Roy Rogers.”

The man didn’t laugh. “Your agent called and said she had made a deal. One that stipulated that you had to be trained and treated like a ponygirl for your series to be bought.”

She realized he was serious. “What the fuck!! Why didn’t she clear it with me first?” Chelsea angrily pulled out her cell phone and dialed her agent.

“Hi. This is Chelsea. What the hell are you doing to me?” she spat.

“Uh huh. Uh huh. Uh huh. And you thought I would be okay with this. You thought you wouldn’t have to run it by me first. Uh huh. Fuck.”

She shoved her phone back in the pocket of her jeans. She was near tears. “What she did was totally wrong from every legal and ethical standpoint. A month. A whole fucking month.”

She wiped at her eyes, then handed her mic to the cameraman. “Okay, let’s do it.”

“You can start getting undressed. And we need your bra and panty size.”

She gave them to him and began unbuttoning her shirt. She whipped it off, then kicked off her shoes, unzipped her jeans, and shoved them down to her ankles.

She waited until the sports bra and panty girdle were brought to her before removing her bra and panties. The stablehands told her to keep her arms at her sides, and she stood there stiffly as they worked the new undergarments onto her body, moving only enough to help them along. She stared straight ahead as they tugged the panty girdle into place and adjusted the cups over her tits. The open back of the panty girdle left her feeling a little vulnerable, but at least the bra was a firm, full-coverage high-impact model.

They guided her into the stall, then pulled her hair back before dropping the bridle down over her head. She made little grunting sounds as they shoved the thick rubber bit in her mouth and tightened the straps. Her breathing quickened as the leather cage gripped her head.

Next came the harness. For a minute, there was only the tinkling of the metallic buckles as the comedienne was rendered helpless. Things had happened so quickly, it was only now that Chelsea began to have doubts about the whole situation. Something about it didn’t seem quite right, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

But it was too late. They had her lift her feet one at a time so they could fit the pony boots on her. The full weight of her body was now balanced on her toes and the balls of her feet. She could not imagine walking around all day in these, let alone do hard physical labor.

“Gggaaauuuggg. Ggggghhhhhh.”

“Quiet. Ponygirls don’t talk,” said the man. He clipped one end of a rein to her right bit ring and tied the other end to a metal ring in the wall. “We’ll give you time to get used to your tack and living quarters.”

The man and his stablehands left, and Chelsea made some feeble attempts at trying to free her hands. She knew it was pointless. The leather tack was just too sturdy. She surveyed her stall, and realized this was going to be her world for the next month. Fucking agent! That’s it. She was fired! What the fuck could she have been thinking?

Chelsea wanted to sit on the cot, but the rein was too short, and she could only get halfway there. She growled in frustration. At first, she thought she could work the knot free with her teeth, but the rubber bit made even using her lips impossible. Shit! Fuck! A whole month! There was no way she could last that long!

She stood there, already bored, and looked at the camera. Without anything to say, she was nothing. The cameraman kept filming. Chelsea kicked at the hay in frustration. The more she thought about it, the more she fumed. This was going to kill her career. Nothing she could do would overcome this humiliation.

She paced her stall for nearly two hours before the men returned. By then, she was ready to do anything to escape the boredom, one of the main reasons they had let her stew for awhile.

They hobbled her feet with a short strip of leather between her pony boots before untying the rein from the ring and leading her out of her stall. She stumbled along, trying hard to keep from tripping as her stride was constantly brought up short by the 8-inch restraint. The cameraman followed. Outside, they took her into the corral with the training carousel. Her rein was tied to one of the overhead bars before the hobble was removed.

“We’re going to start out with the various gaits: prance, canter, gallop. We’ll start with prancing.”

Chelsea was told how to perform the gait, and the carousel was started up. As she circled around, the rein tugging at her bridle, she struggled to keep bringing her knees up to her waist. Several times, the trainer’s whip licked her bare ass, eliciting squeals of shock from the funny woman. Her out-thrust tits bouncing around in her sports bra—despite the firmness of the cups—was a major distraction to her. It was alright to parade around naked when she had control of the situation, but to jiggle her boobs under someone else’s command while being bound and punished was beyond loathsome.

By the time she was made to canter, she was sweating profusely and her feet were filled with sharp, stabbing pains from the pony boots. Several minutes was enough for her to become exhausted and her feet to throb with numbing pain.

“ ’An’t we ‘ake a ‘reak or—“

The whip stung her ass once more, and Chelsea let out a short yelp.

“Ponygirls don’t talk!”

Right. She would have to remember that. In the meantime, she would just have to tough it out. Maybe at the end of the day she could get a word in. Put an end to this bullshit.

Galloping was next, and the comedienne flew around the corral, her tits bouncing merrily in her now-damp bra. Her feet were now consumed with a dull throbbing. When they finally allowed her to stop, her face was red from exertion and her breath whooshed out from her distended lips. She was dizzy from running in tight circles, and sweat poured in tiny rivers down her pale skin. Thankfully, they hitched her to a post and gave her some Gatorade.

The damp undergarments clung to her tits and crotch like plastic wrap. Her ass stung from all the whippings. She could barely feel her feet anymore. It was a mystery to her how anyone could enjoy such misery.

It took almost ten minutes before her panting stopped and she could sip the sports drink. Because her lips had been stretched from the thick bit jammed far back in her mouth, some of it dribbled out of the corners of her mouth. She must look like an idiot. Things had to change—the main reason was that she needed to be funny, and for that she needed to talk. Perhaps that hadn’t been made clear to the macho Neanderthals who ran this place.

After she had drunk enough to satisfy her thirst, she turned to one of the stablehands.

“Listen, I think we need to—OOWWWWWW!”

The whip had slashed across her ass once again. She tried to protest, but they held her jaw and rammed the bit back in her mouth.

Goddam it! What the fuck was going on here? It was then that she suspected something was definitely not right, and it scared her. She tried to convince herself that it was just a prank, that someone was punking her, but that theory no longer held up. Not when she could no longer feel her feet and there were whip marks on her ass. It was then that she was truly terrified.

They led her over to the sulky—the same one she had ridden in as a passenger just a few hours before—and hitched her to it. The funny woman held back tears as leather straps connected her waist belt and back harness strap to the cart. Another rein was clipped to the other bit ring, and the woman could feel the tug as an unseen passenger got in and gathered them up in his hands. The rider waited until a golf cart pulled in front of them. The cameraman was turned toward the back, facing her. The harnessed woman had never felt so self-conscious in her life.


The reins snapped, and Chelsea leaned forward, straining at first to get the sulky moving. She managed a trotting pace, acutely aware of the harness digging into her chest and stomach.

Following the dirt path was easy, so the reluctant ponygirl felt a surge of anger whenever a tug on a rein, however slight, told her which direction to turn. She tried to focus on the beauty of the wooded area they were traveling through, but there were constant irritations—loose stones on the path, clouds of gnats, and sweat stinging her eyes.

The half-mile trail ended near where they had started, and Chelsea was once more drenched in sweat. Not only that, the saltiness of her sweat was making the undergarments itchy. And she had to pee. Badly.

“Ungh! Ungh!” She signaled the stablehand as he tied her to a hitching post, hopping around in a little pee-dance.

“You have to go?”


He reached down and twisted the crotch of her panty girdle to one side, exposing her pussy.

“Okay, go.”

She looked at him pleadingly, then stole a quick glance at the cameraman. He couldn’t be serious.

He stood off to the side, looking away, his arms crossed, a bored look on his face.

He was serious.

Fuming, the bound woman crouched down as far as she could and let loose. A heavy stream hissed out from between her legs and spattered on the ground, creating such a large puddle that she had to frog-walk backwards to avoid stepping in it. When she finished, she stood up, feeling awkward that she couldn’t wipe herself. As if it was the most normal thing in the world, the stablehand pulled the crotch panel back over her dripping pussy, then went and got her some Gatorade.

Chelsea was left with one disturbing thought: What if she had to take a shit?


By this time, it was early evening. The cameraman packed up and left, and it was explained that the surveillance cameras would take over for the rest of the night. Chelsea was taken back to the stable with the other ponygirls. The middle-aged man had only her, but the stablehands had three or four ponygirls each, the girls marching behind obediently in small clusters. In an end room, they were hitched to a row of rings six feet from the ground on one wall. Then one by one, they were stripped, cuffed spread-eagle between two posts, and hosed down. They had all been ordered to face the wall and not move, so the comedienne could not see how the showering and drying of the girls proceeded. Instead, she focused on the wood grain pattern before her eyes. She had already studied the metal ring and the thick steel plate and large bolts that connected it to the wall and concluded that yanking it free was impossible. The people who ran this place had taken extraordinary precautions to ensure that no one could escape, and she had missed this warning sign altogether. Stupidly, she had not left any messages with friends or family before handing over her clothes, and she no longer had access to her cell phone.

And then it was her turn. She allowed her outstretched arms to be cuffed, and stood patiently as the stablehands removed her tack and underwear, then pulled her legs apart and cuffed them, too. As they pulled the bit from her mouth, she again tried to protest, but a ball gag was immediately rammed between her lips and fastened behind her head. It was obvious they weren’t going to let her speak, and she wondered if this was going to be the norm for the next few weeks. She hoped not, as she was starting to get mighty pissed.

One of the men aimed a garden hose at her and pressed the nozzle. Chelsea squealed with shock as she was hit with an ice-cold spray across her naked torso. They hosed her front and back, even getting under her breasts and between her legs. Though the entire shower lasted about twenty seconds, she was left shivering so hard the metal links of her cuffs rattled.

The man wiped her down briskly with a thick towel, drying her tits and crotch so quickly it didn’t even feel invasive. The men popped the ball gag out of her mouth, then threw a leather hood on her, zipped it closed, cuffed her wrists behind her, cuffed her ankles with a short hobble, and clipped a rein to a D-ring attached to the neck of the hood. It was done so quickly and efficiently that Chelsea still hadn’t stopped shivering as they led her to her stall.

They tied her rein to the wall ring and unzipped the mouth zipper of her hood. A feedbag was strapped to her face and secured with straps around the sides and top of her head. She looked over at the stall across from her and saw the naked ponygirl arching her head back, her throat muscles moving.

They departed without a word. By this time, she had stopped shivering. A soft plastic tube about a half-inch in diameter pushed against her lips. She opened her mouth, letting it enter. Was this dinner? Cautiously, she tilted her head back slightly.

A thick mush spilled into her mouth. She could taste oatmeal, and apple juice, and various vegetables—peas, corn, carrots--, and beans. It was a healthy, if unappetizing, mix. Having not had anything to eat for most of the day, she was soon wolfing it down, tilting her head back every few minutes until only a small dribble dripped from the tube.

She had to pee again. She turned and saw a child’s training potty on the floor a few feet away, the bowl lined with a plastic bag, and sighed. It was the only option.

The comedienne had to kneel down and angle her body so that she wouldn’t overshoot the small bowl. Bent forward in an awkward position, she had to struggle to keep from falling on her face as she emptied her bladder. And then she felt a bowel movement come on.

She finished and shuffled forward, plopping her butt down on the small opening. How differently her day was ending from what she had planned. By now, she would have been having dinner at a restaurant or relaxing at home, not bound and naked and pooping in a kiddie toilet in a horse stable.

Her only hope was that someone would miss her and start asking around, perhaps call the police if they couldn’t find any answers. A day or two, maybe three, and someone would come looking for her, and then she would be free. One of the first things she would do would be to call a lawyer and start filing lawsuits. Someone was going to pay for this bullshit.

She finished and got to her feet, frustrated that she couldn’t wipe. The toilet seat closed and played a little tune, and Chelsea found herself getting red with embarrassment. They didn’t miss a trick, did they?

During the next fifteen minutes, there were brief bursts of nursery rhyme tunes throughout the stable, and Chelsea felt her fists clench. How long did it take before such things were accepted as normal by these captive women? How long would it take for her?

The stablehands returned. The feedbag was removed, the mouth zipper was zipped shut, and her ass was briskly wiped. The waste-filled plastic bag was removed from the toilet and replaced. And then, in a welcome gesture of generosity, a long-legged body briefer was brought into the stall. She was held steady as she stepped into it.

Though form-fitting, the undergarment gave her a much-needed sense of security and modesty, feelings which had been pretty much destroyed by the nakedness and bondage. However, the hood was left on, and her hands were encased in leather mitts that secured at the wrists. She was led over to the cot and, before she was tucked in, a leather cuff was strapped around one ankle. The comedienne noticed that it was attached to a floor plate by a sturdy chain. So much for a nighttime escape.

Despite her fatigue, it was a while before she was able to fall asleep. The morning wake-up call came all too early.

She was allowed to pee in the kiddie toilet—and endure the tinny computer-chip nursery rhyme again-- before her hood was replaced with a bridle and she was hitched to the wall. The breakfast feedbag contained oats and fruit and what seemed to be some kind of protein drink, and she ate hungrily. When she finished, the feedbag was removed, and her body briefer was replaced with a sports bra and buttless panty girdle. And then it was back outside for more training.

She and the other ponygirls went round and round on the carousel, practicing their various gaits until the mind-numbing routine made the comedienne want to scream. So it was a relief when she was hitched up to the sulky for a trip through the woods. Already, she was looking forward to these little excursions as a break from the tedious training, and this shift in her perspective was disturbing. Only one day into her bondage, and she was adjusting to it. What other indignities would she get used to?

She realized her cameraman was no longer with her, but assumed they were filming her with surveillance cameras and tiny video recorders. How much of this would make it into the series? What would the bonus footage on the DVDs consist of?

As the days went on, Chelsea noted with alarm that she was completely cut off from the outside world, and that there was intellectual stimulation to speak of. Her entire world consisted of the farm and ponygirl training: perfecting her gaits and dressage routines, avoiding punishment, looking forward to simple pleasures such as rest, feed times, and sleep. She could almost feel parts of her mind shutting down from lack of use. When was the last time she was able to speak? Or poop in complete privacy? Do anything on her own and in complete privacy? She was no longer ashamed to squat outside and relieve herself with strange men present, or have them wash her or change her sanitary napkin.

Not only was there the training carousel, but there were dressage routines in which she and the others had to prance around in choreographed maneuvers like some kinky Rockettes, The obstacle course with its ramps and hurdles and flaming hoops, plowing practice in which two ponygirls were yoked together like oxen and forced to pull a plow, and—scariest and most humiliating of all—harness-racing practice. Every other day, she and the others had to run for long periods of time hitched to treadmills in full ponygirl tack; they would not be released until they were completely exhausted and dripping with sweat. She found that she looked forward to little pieces of chocolate as rewards for good behavior. Little pieces of chocolate, for chrissake! Is this what her life amounted to now?

Chelsea soon lost track of the days she had been held prisoner. Had it been a whole month yet? She wasn’t sure. She wasn’t even sure what day it was anymore. But it had to be near the end. It had to be.

And then one day it dawned on her as she toiled in the hot late-summer sun: She had been here for about two months! Didn’t her agent say that it was only for a month? In those brief moments when her mouth was free, she tried to voice her complaints, but found that, through lack of use, she could no longer speak distinctly, her words coming out in a drunken slur. Chelsea Handler feared she was trapped in a nightmare world from which she could not escape.

Day after day, the training continued, until all her ponygirl routines and duties became second nature. She no longer thought like an independent woman. She thought like a ponygirl. A domesticated animal whose sole reason for existence was to serve as a beast of burden for men. She was no longer Chelsea Handler, famous comedienne; she was Celebritits, anonymous ponygirl. They had even put a nameplate on the front of her stall with her new name. It was just one more indignity that she got used to.

And then the day came when they were taken to a special room, where they were all hitched to metal rings along one wall. In the middle of the room was a table. One by one, the ponygirls were unhitched and made to lie down on the table, where their heads were shaved, leaving a mane down the back of their bald heads, and their asses were freeze-branded with the ranch’s logo. Chelsea no longer had the power to resist as she was submitted to these final indignities, even as she was aware that they represented a turning point, a point from which there was no going back. These were long-lasting, if not permanent, marks of her new status.

The bare skin of her head only made the leather straps of the bridle more oppressive, and the scarred flesh of her ass sent lightning bolts of pain all the way to her skull. As she was re-hitched to the wall, she saw that the other ponygirls had tears streaming from their eyes as they, too, realized what this event meant, and she felt the tears streaming from her eyes, too.

There was no work that day. Instead, they were taken to another room, a small auditorium, where they were led onto the stage and lined up in a row. One by one, they were brought forward into a spotlight, left there for a few moments, then led back to their place in line.

After the third or fourth ponygirl, Chelsea figured out what was going on. We’re being auctioned off! Online! The thought sent chills through her body. This couldn’t be real, could it? This has to be some kind of role-playing thing, some kind of test to push our limits and see how we’d react. But she wasn’t entirely convinced. Not after the head-shaving and branding.

Her body shook as she was led forward into the spotlight. She stood there, blinded by the bright overhead light, totally humiliated in her bra and panty girdle and pony tack and her shaved head and branded ass. Who was watching? Who was bidding on her? And was this to be a permanent thing?

After what seemed like hours, she was taken out of the spotlight and replaced with the next girl. Who had “bought” her? What plans did they have for her? Would she ever know freedom again?

Though it probably took less than an hour, the auction seemed to take an eternity. They were taken back to their stalls, where they were left to stare at each other from their gated pens in helpless solidarity. Some had peed themselves in fear, and the stablehands had to wipe them down and change their panty girdles.

There was the sound of a vehicle pulling up outside, and a ponygirl would be taken out, then the sound of the vehicle leaving. Chelsea—Celebritits—watched as the stable slowly emptied.

And then it was her turn. She stood there meekly as a lead was clipped to her bit rings and she was led out. A Rolls Royce with a horse trailer awaited her. She followed the stablehand, her pony boots clip-clopping up the wooden ramp and onto the metal floor of the trailer. Numerous straps hung from the sides and front of the interior. Two stablehands quickly and efficiently strapped her in, immobilizing her, a fly caught in a spider web. Even her head couldn’t move, because of the straps clipped to her bit rings and the top of her bridle. Blinders on each side of her bridle ensured that she would be staring at the featureless front wall of her mobile prison the entire trip, however long that would take.

A stablehand brought his lips to her ear. “Season two will see you as the ponygirl chauffeur at a Russian billionaire’s estate. Enjoy your new country.”

The closing of the trailer doors muffled her screams, which continued as the Rolls headed down the road.


Copyright 2017 by Sogo.

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