I first off should apologize for the cheeky rude title, but the main character's rather large endowments are a source of envy for her "friends," so much so that the rude nickname stuck. I also probably shouldn't have to say this, but this story is complete fiction, and no actual ponygirls were injured in any way while writing this, although I have actually ridden a short distance in a stock trailer before, less than fully dressed on a dare, although purely for research purposes…
I had been asked to reflect back and tell this story with as many details as I can remember, for therapeutic purposes, and I must start by saying that it has a somewhat happy ending, at least so far. I am also reminded that if one wishes to one day be forgiven, she must first forgive, a concept that apparently comes more easily to some, than to others. So anyway, here it goes, B.T. (Former IPRL grand champion ponygirl, legally owned by the JK&S consortium and so branded on or about November 1, 2021)
…The over-the-top hot kinky desire my enforced nudity and abstinence had provided, mixed in with the apparent betrayal by my best friend in the whole world Sam, was like trying to find the perfect mixture of salt and sugar in a recipe. It ended up being far too much of each, and therefore overwhelming to my senses; just like a botched up made-from-scratch cake can overwhelm your pallet. There was no "throw it out and start over" option here though, so my mind apparently did the next best thing, it shut down certain higher order critical thinking functions, on and off, with no rhyme or reason as to when, nor for how long… or so goes the present medical theory on cases such as mine.
I'm told this is one possible outcome for somebody in my proverbial shoes… ponygirl shoes it would seem.
Anyway, as I was trailered away from my clothes and other personal effects, and the witch's somewhat familiar grand holdings on that metamorphic summer day - after Sam and the witch had ridden up together in the utility vehicle like BFF's themselves - I finally realized that I had gone too far and seriously screwed up. Sam may have betrayed me, but in her mind, I had betrayed her first, and then I had done so a second time by manipulating things with the privileged teen girls so that Sam and I could have this humbling experience together. It was oh so confusing.
And, not being an especially forgiving woman wasn't exclusively a Kathy characteristic either, something I well should have seen for myself beforehand, before I committed unconditionally to Sam's initial Halloween clown costume ordeal. I maintain that I hadn't done anything with that particular boy of Sam's, on that fateful day while skinny dipping with him… or at least that's the way I choose to remember it. In all fairness the mind can block out things that it doesn't want to remember, and I'll let the reader decide if it was "just" skinny dipping, or a very friendly game of hide the pickle, Sam's pickle…
Anyway, that was the initial first-event action that set things in motion as far as Sam was concerned, and by that I mean her uniquely plotted retribution in delivering me to the girls helplessly gift wrapped; although I also chose to believe her when she told me she didn't know the depth of sadism the girls would sink to once I was helplessly in their clutches. So naturally when presented with the opportunity to reciprocate in kind, after clearing up the little ponygirl misunderstanding between the witch and I, I took it…
But in my defense, I wanted company on this rather strange and kinky journey, and who better to take along but my BFF, the same one who dumped me off on the witch's proverbial doorstep, bound, stripped, and helpless? Back then I also thought we were only working towards a Halloween deadline, and in my mind - even though I thought this might be bad - I thought it could only possibly be bad for so long. We had a whole life ahead of us, what's one kinky wasted summer and fall getting into the best physical shape of our life while training like an athlete… in the grand scheme of things? I reasoned at the time. It was for charity I further justified, and who doesn't want to do charitable things for the less fortunate and needy; serve society like that?
I also had sexual cravings and desires that went unanswered, and my usual hunting grounds came up short too, as if no man now wanted to touch me with a ten-foot pole. I didn't have all that much free time to actually shop for a stand-in lover either - once I had made my foolish offer to the little witch - so my default go-to was self-entertainment in my bath. This was a poor substitute for a real flesh and blood man, especially when I have had the pleasure of so very many with which to compare, and I therefore well knew what I was missing, in the flesh. Eventually my aggressive physical training schedule made the unanswered need for sex almost bearable, but it was still there, although those desires had been redirected, those energies now went exclusively into building muscle mass and endurance; and clouding my conflicted mind with ever darker and nastier desires for kink.
At one time I actually feared the whip; now I fantasized about it regularly, as if it was a sexual object itself!
That first night in my new stall at the J.M. Smith ponygirl ranch was a real eye opener; it was just the worst. I could hear the other's mocking me with faux pony noises; whinnying and snorting and kicking and grinding violently at the walls and posts of their stalls like enraged animals themselves, all as I lay locked in my own new stall curled up in the fetal position on the straw covered floor, wishing for this nightmare to end. Misery loves company though, or so the old saying goes, and I think I always knew in the very back of my mind that I didn't want to take this kinky trip solo, and having the "other" ponygirls there with me made this seem, if not normal, then maybe slightly less insane.
I "thought" those other girls were mocking me, but I was to learn later that's about the extent of what they could say without earning a serious physical punishment - the longtail whip a favorite go-to tool for correction by the trainers - although many of them had forgotten HOW to speak by that point. I will also say that I might have had a different reaction to being trailered away from Sam if I had known that every single moment that I could potentially get myself off for some sort of private sexual relief, I would be chastity belted with a locked on thick leather device that prevented me from even touching myself in that way.
I'm embarrassed to say that in the days that followed I even tried to grind one off on the posts of my stall myself, when the grooms and handlers weren't around, grinding my thickly belted crotch onto the posts while searching for enough friction and pressure to do the deed and make me pop off. A non-ponygirl might be horrified by the mere thought of me dry humping up and down on a massive wood post, or be concerned with accumulating splinters in her more tender thighs, or elsewhere. But, as proof that I wasn't the first to go down this proverbial dark needy road, the protruding thick posts of my stall had already been ground silky smooth by the previous residents of my stall doing much the same, leading me to the conclusion that this ranch and it's unique beasts had been here for decades, perhaps even before the war.
They say that there truly is nothing new under the sun, and ponygirls and ponygirl racing is apparently nothing new, it's just that the internet has made it slightly more known, and dare I say more accepted and popular. People at one time used to hide their kinks in the proverbial closet - and a remote ponygirl ranch in the middle of nowhere is a well-hidden closet - but now we proudly advertise them, myself obviously included…
What if I told you that the I.P.R.L. had been around since the turn of the century, the one BEFORE the last? Originally founded in the 1890's the I.P.R.L. has been the premier organization for human ponygirl racing for well over a hundred and thirty years, formed when several smaller groups of like-minded men wanted a standardized set of rules to race their girls in competition, both domestically, and even abroad. How tall could a ponygirl be, how old or young, how heavy, how long should the races be, how should the sulky be configured? Much was borrowed from legitimate harness racing; both the sulkies and the tracks themselves, as well as the actual betting structure. It was one thing to boast that your ponygirl was faster than another, but wagering on the outcome of that race was what this kinky spectacle sport was all about.
Casual racing events where an especially athletic woman, or even a young energetic wife, could be put up against another soon led to stables, jockeys, and full-time trainers. Not that men of the era didn't like to proudly put their wives and girlfriends up for nearly naked semi-public display, sometimes even letting the losing wife go home with the winner's husband for a month or so, to "train," if the wager couldn't be immediately settled. Sometimes they were even sent back home to their husbands with a bun in the proverbial oven, depending on the specific terms of the wager.
Men of the era also had big egos and liked to win, and the way to ensure good racing stock for this, or any other win, was to acquire it by any means necessary, and then train the hell out of it like an Olympic athlete. Contracts were written, the wealthy buying the best racing stock from the less wealthy, even though such things weren't strictly legal. Young physically fit wives were also sometimes purchased from their husbands outright, either because the family had come on hard times and needed the cash to save the proverbial farm, or to trade off a troublesome young high maintenance urban wife for another less needy one, or perhaps one that could produce a legitimate heir, if that was her deficiency…
Anyway, enough with the ancient history lesson on the I.P.R.L. If one wants to learn any more about this particular organization, I suggest reading The Reluctant Racing Pony, or The Investigative Reporter, as both document its long history, and rich traditions…
Back at the ranch there was no distinction between myself and the other ponygirls, except that they had obviously been there longer. Tan and fit, big and strong, but mostly flat chested and lean from their conditioning. These "women" were almost like quasi-men themselves; aggressive too, they were almost scary, confirmed by their antics when the lights went out at night. After I had been there a few days I began to realize that the locks on the stall doors were there for more than one purpose, almost like a bird's cage: keeping the bird in yes, but also the hungry cat out.
Anyway, I don't want to gloss over the early training schedule, but these early days and weeks seemed to blend together, I going home to briefly visit every now and again, until Sam had talked my folks into the concept of us "traveling around the country, and living in the summerhouse together" when not. We didn't do any of those things together obviously, but they apparently thought we had, Sam sending creatively edited pictures to them to keep them up to speed on "our" extensive travels. Apparently, my phone "broke" at some later point, or so they had been told, so all communication "had" to go through Sam's, exclusively in text format. In other words, I would eventually find out that Sam's betrayal was quite well plotted and complete, but you know what they say about a woman scorned, and Sam's IQ was quite high as well…
Anyway, several things stick out in my memories from my early training sessions, first of all the B.T. hand carved ornate plaque that was hung from the door of my stall soon after that first horrible night in it, this telling me that the stall was not only mine, but that I might expect to be here for a while; otherwise, why go through all the trouble? Looking back on this now I realize that there were a hundred little clues as to what was really going on at the ranch, my stall plaque exactly like the other ponygirls', the ones I eventually learned were being specifically trained for racing. There was nothing to differentiate myself from the racing ponygirls, except for the method of acquisition, although I hadn't yet been "officially" acquired, as in contractually acquired, at that early point in time. I didn't know about any of that legal stuff, but I would become intimately familiar with racing contracts before I ran my first race.
Training without a contract of possession, a bill of sale, or some other arresting legal document signed by a judge, I was to learn, was unusual, but not without precedent. Sometimes the ranch was a convenient out of sight and mind "parking spot" for troublesome women that needed to be made to disappear for a while, until the legal details could be sorted out. As rough and dehumanizing as the ranch could be, I could only imagine that a work farm prison would be exponentially worse.
There was also the air of "spare no expense" to my specific ponygirl training, and even more generally at this peculiar ranch, something I most certainly hadn't grown up with on my small family farm. We just got by, struggling as we did to turn even a minor profit on our produce, where these people had money to burn. Upon reflection, these were very powerful people with vast political connections, and very foolish ones to cross too.
The B.T. plaque told me that this was to be my only name while at the ranch, my old given name just didn't exist any longer, and the sooner I learned this the better. It was degrading, objectifying even, but animals had animal names, just to remind everybody who was who; no anthropomorphizing here at the J.M. Smith ponygirl ranch. All of us animals - ponygirls - were equal, just some were more equal than others.
"…Nobody bets on a disease." I remember those specific words from my trainer as if it were yesterday, and while I know now what he had meant, back in the moment I just didn't get it, even though several clues were evident. Such shortcomings made me question my very intelligence, at least as compared to Sam and the others, but the ranch didn't exactly promote deep thought in its ponygirls; quite the opposite in fact. Do what you're told and run as fast as you can for as long as you can… or instead learn to enjoy the "kiss" of the whip on your bare flesh!
I can clearly call them the "other" racing ponygirls now, and I had learned from eavesdropping on the humans - while sporting a blank stare as if looking off into space - that they were acquired by various means, and usually the law was involved in one form or another. A troublesome wife, or a troublesome family member in some minor and embarrassing legal situation, and needing to be made to go away for a few years while things settle down, and perhaps learn a lesson as well. They could call it rehabilitation, a prison work camp, alternate sentencing to keep the prison population down even, or really anything they wanted, as no one would suspect the truth; that their little embarrassing pain in the ass had been stripped and shipped off someplace far away and transformed into a human animal, racing stock for the purposes of both gambling and display.
How did one re-humanize a racing ponygirl, after her racing career had "run" its course one may ask? If you'll pardon the cheap pun. It was suggested that I try to see the humor in my unique situation, and I'm working on that too, so please excuse my little self-deprecating attempts at humor here. I was now finding the answer to that little mystery myself though, firsthand it would seem. Not that I was the first, but I was somewhat unique as in I had no criminal record to compel me, nor a husband that wished I would permanently disappear. The law hadn't been involved in my acquisition either, so I had an actual path to eventual freedom, after my sketchy legal contract had expired, and after I had made my three owners filthy rich, or in two of their cases, richer, after all racing expenses had been paid first.
I was therefore a positive on their ledger sheets, and a compelling reason to try this again sometime, with the right ponygirl wannabe. For all I know the trio were at this moment searching for a new racing ponygirl to replace me with, their business model a proven winner. Doing this the first time for them I had inadvertently shown them how to do it easier the next time, and the time after that even. Could the three ladies even take the next logical step, buying their own ponygirl ranch and running a stable full of ponygirls, as well as boarding and training for other owners? Had their winnings been that grand, could their partnership and economically unlikely team endure something like that?
The trio had put some of their profits aside to rehabilitate me, after they had run the snot out of me for all they could, bless their cold tiny opportunistic greedy hearts. So here I am, a bitter millionaire former racing ponygirl, and not just any ponygirl, but an I.P.R L. triple grand champion, one of a very few. More humans have walked on the surface of the moon than there are triple grand champion I.P.R.L. ponygirls, so mine was an exclusive club, presently I was the only living member, or so I've been told. The money is in a managed trust for me, as I can't even "manage" to live inside yet, after becoming so comfortable in the various stalls and stock trailers as I toured a good portion of the lower forty-eight, and even Mexico for the winter season. I'm fairly certain that they even ran me in some summer events in Canada, but my exact memory of that is a little murky to be honest.
With that money properly managed and a humble lifestyle I may never have to work again, which is good as I can't even find the desire to wear clothing like an ordinary human woman, let alone use something like an indoor bathroom… Well, enough of my sorry-for-myself bitching, nobody wants to hear a millionaire bitch about how hard they have it, and it's not the least bit therapeutic either, or certainly not what I was asked to do. If one wants to one day be forgiven, she must first forgive… It's my new mantra, and I think if I say it often enough, I might just start believing it…
…To pick up the story where it had been left off, on that fateful night right after I signed my freedom away in Sam's contract - to both her, and the JK&S consortium - I gave some uninspired cart rides next, just basically killing time until the proper elements could be put in place. There was a stoutly constructed breeding mount with thick straps and buckles to secure the one to be bred in the proper exposed position, and I knew there was also likely a big stud stallion or two on site someplace to do the actual inhuman breeding, for whoever wanted to watch something like that, as Sam herself suggested she would not! Having actual sex with an animal is just something that never crossed my mind, but then again, neither did becoming one, horsehair and all.
I had signed their contract though, so the threatened stud service wasn't necessary - again another joke - although I don't know for sure how many party guests were disappointed by that "lesser" outcome. At least some of the guests almost certainly knew that I liked to screw around with their men, and watching a thousand-pound stud stallion tear me up for their entertainment, while helplessly bound before them and screaming at the top of my lungs, likely seemed a "fitting" conclusion to my "coming out" party. From my point of view that would have been horrific, and no man on the planet would have wanted me after that as well, assuming that there would be anything left to have after it was all over.
Anyway, hot iron branding has a great many hazards associated with it, and to either prevent me from the burning flesh agony of such a thing - and again potentially screaming at the top of my lungs - or less charitably to make sure I could be entered into the first race of the new season uninjured, the girls, my new owners, apparently elected to do the deed with a tattoo instead.
…After the rides had been completed, I was buckled into the unmovable breeding contraption with my legs about as far apart as they could be made to stretch and left to wait there on display, hoping that they wouldn't let the big stud have at me anyway, as if a sideshow attraction at some freak carnival. Such would be a further betrayal, but I was getting used to it to be honest. Eventually though, a woman with ink all over her body and more piercings than I'd ever seen walked up to me, taking in my furry appearance as if she did this all the time, and then my hanging little nipple mounted bells, snickering to herself after doing so. She then shaved a small circle on my rump to get to the bare flesh beneath, this perhaps how the rest of my new fur would be removed when my owners deemed it necessary. She then put a scripted trademark brand JK&S inside a circle, inside her shaved circle in my fur, the process about a hundred times less painful than getting my boobs pierced.
I then watched the partygoers leave in dribs and drabs as it was getting quite late by then, and I'm quite certain that I had even drifted off in my displayed suspension. It wasn't so much uncomfortable as humiliating, and perhaps my wish to be about anywhere else had me deep into ponygirl subspace by then, as if watching the actions of another, or perhaps even a movie.
…Well anyway, before I even know it I have a number on my outside hip and I'm harnessed and shod, attached to a racing sulky getting ready for the gate in front of me to pull out of the way. We've done mock races at the ranch, so this is familiar, but not quite knowing how I got here, or where exactly "here" is troubles me. I don't dare turn to even see who's driving me, but when the gate swings and the other ponygirls bolt out like they're life depends on it, I feel the almost immediate slap of my reins on my bare shoulders, and the sharp bite of the whip, telling me it's Sam in the sulky. I'm fully awake now, and she's got a score to settle, and maybe something to prove to the other two ladies who also now contractually own me; and prove it she does!
Rationally and logically, I know I'm attached to the same cart that Sam is riding in, but like a terrified gazelle trying to get away from the hungry lioness I bolt ahead anyway. It was a bad start to be honest, and I know that there will be a price to pay for it at some point. Even with blinders on I'm aware of the other ponygirls being driven just as hard, I hear the crack of the various whips and the thunder of bipedal shod animals running just as scared as I. In just a few strides I've recovered the distance lost to my bad start, but the feeling of being behind, of letting Sam down in her debut first official race permeates, and I so want her to be proud of me, irrational as that sounds. It's a ponygirl mindset though, something you just have to experience firsthand to truly understand.
Anyway, I hear for the first time ever the roar of the watching crowd, and the track announcer over the loudspeaker calling the race. "B.T." this and "B.T." that is all I understand, but the enormous speakers are facing the crowd in the stands, and the echo by the time the sound gets to my ears is hard to comprehend. I can hear the frantic pace of announcing, the staccato of words, and even not understanding exactly what is being said, it's still clear that something exciting is happening. There are thousands of people in attendance, cheering us on, watching the show we ponygirls are providing. It's a cool late fall day, but I'm covered in fur and plenty warm with my exertions, and even though I'm aware of my nipple mounted bells flying all over the place, I can't hear them over all the other noises of the track and crowd.
Sam has me on the inside rail now, it was a bit of a struggle to get me there, but it's my hard-earned spot on the track and I'm not giving it up easily. Her whip hasn't even touched my shoulders in the last few seconds, it's still cracking close to my ear, but there is no searing pain to accompany the cracking sound, just the slightly less frantic slap of my reins. Maybe to somebody watching in the stands it still looks like she's whipping me raw, but the reality is that I'm running quite hard without it. There is no competing sound of pounding shoes now either, at least not alongside me, and this lets me hear the frantically ringing little bells permanently pinned into my nipples, one of the very few places on my body not covered in reclaimed horsehair. They're flying all over the place, these special dark repurposed gifts from one of my now owners, I feel them, but I dare not look.
"…AND IT'S B.T. BY TEN!" I hear in the overloud speaker as we cross the start finish line, there being a long pause before I hear the others called. Taking a risk, I look over my shoulder as Sam runs me down to cool off, I see her in the seat behind me and she's smiling broadly, pleased with my performance, and surely her own too. I then see how far behind the others are, and the fact that some of the pony girls are still being run hard to qualify for the next race, their jockeys beating the snot out of them. As Sam walks me down some of the others eventually trot by us, getting a good look at this newbie racing team, and their stare is none too friendly. I'm used to some of this back at the J.M. Smith ranch, from the other ponygirls, as we mock raced each other; back when I foolishly thought I was just in this until Halloween.
I ran pretty well that day and likely made my owners some serious cash, because they were all smiling and even treated me quite well, post-race, my lazy first start all but forgotten. All three washed me down personally, this particular time the duty not falling to a track groom, which was quite nice. I don't remember too many of the other details of that day, other than sleeping in my stock trailer as the girls ate a very nice white tablecloth meal to celebrate their first win, dining at a swank restaurant. I watched them briefly through the window at their table, but the exhaustion of the day soon overtook me.
We made our way south from there, track to track, to chase the weather to where it was actually warm enough to run ponygirls, even with pony fur on. Sometimes the girls rented out a stall and a track to train me on the road, the network of ponygirl sympathetic ranches more numerous than one would imagine. It was mostly a blur to be honest town to town, state to state, even getting into Mexico had been easy, Kathy driving me while sitting in the racing sulky across the border, the two other ladies likely taking a more legitimate route. The competition down south was fierce, those ponygirls were no joke, very fit and fast, and their jockeys were ruthless too. I didn't have any wins down there, but I ran well, and depending on how one bets a third-place show can still pay out well enough.
Well anyway, that's the highlights from my "coated" fall/early winter season of racing, in the spring season the ponygirl coats come off and the girls are run in mostly just their skin and harnesses, and with the nicer weather the crowd sizes grew, as did their enthusiasm. One team even wanted to purchase me from my owners, as I had beaten out their first round best ponygirl handily. The girls apparently couldn't come to a proper number to complete the transaction, but the fact that they even entertained the thought, negotiated, calculated their expected wins vs losses as if I were just another investment, reminded me of my precarious position with them. I was contractually owned, but that contract could apparently also be purchased too. They obviously didn't sell me that day, but the fact that they might also motivated me to perform. I shall attempt to document the spring season next, as the details float into my memory, in between trying to get used to living like a human again…