Misha

Misha stamped her foot, or in truth her hoof, for her leg was encased in a full length latex sheath, culminating in a perfectly formed hoof, complete with shoe, forcing her to stand on her tip toes, yet able to maintain a stance of pure equine glory. She had been a contracted pony girl for the past three years, with only a few more weeks to run before she would be given the choice of departing the ranch with full rehabilitation, or of renewing her contract for another period of time. She was not sure what she wanted to do at this stage, for although she had entered this world of Master of her own free will, she remembered some of the outside fondly. And although she at times yearned for some of those otherwise denied comforts, she had learned to love this free life as one of the ponygirls at this ranch.

Patience had sometimes not been one of her better attitudes, and now, thinking of other things, she stamped in annoyance, kicking up some dust, waiting for the race to start. Mistress Dana, her trainer and handler, pulled hard on her lead rein, forcing Misha to lower her head, allowing the Mistress to whisper words of caution and patience in her ear, or following anymore show of her petulance, she would be withdrawn from the race, returned to her stall, and there to await Master’s displeasure and punishments.

To ease her irritability, Misha looked around the arena where she stood, looking at the other seven ponygirls as they stood with their trainers awaiting the start of the race. The ponies were not yet tied to the sulkies, and they all stood in their finery as the passing race goers looked on and discussed the various merits of each pony. Sometimes a punter would slowly approach a pony and, asking the permission of the relevant Mistress, would reach out and touch. A feathery slide of hand across exposed female flesh, a shiver of contact, a spark of static, and an erotic moment caught for an instant, as the punter traded eye glances with the ponygirl before him. A refined gentleman walked towards Misha, nodding and greeting her Mistress, asking if he may stroke this ponygirl. Misha watched as the brief discourse ended in an agreement, and tensed her muscles as a hand reached to stroke her face.

His fingers traced a line from her forehead, down across her cheek, briefly pausing as he traced the thickness of the leather straps and the chain of the bridle. Down her neck and out to her shoulder, slightly squeezing as he cupped the shoulder, and feeling the muscles in her arms, for they were pulled and tied behind her. Misha watched his eyes as they travelled with his hand. As he squeezed her shoulder he looked at her breasts, and Misha wished he had been squeezing her breast. A breast that stood firm and proud away from her body, a cone of flesh surmounted by a broad pink areole and a nipple with a mind of its own. For as he caressed her, the nipple firmed and hardened beneath his gaze, standing tall away from the large brass ring buried through and through, and Misha saw a small smile cross his lips.

The hand travelled on, down her side, not touching the breast, but continuing to the hard and strong muscle of her thigh, where he laughed and gave her a small pat, or was it a slap, before standing up before her and looking her in the eye. He knew, Misha thought, he knew that his touch had aroused her, and that she was wet between her thighs, for she could feel the moisture slipping from within to dampen her lips like morning dew. The Mistress tugged again on her rein, forcing Misha from her fantasy, bringing her back to the real world of horse races and punters, and as she brought herself back to the reality, she heard the gentleman agreeing to place a bet on her, and then nodding with respect to the Mistress he strode off to become just another face in the crowd.

A horn blew, a warning for the race contenders to become fitted, the jockeys to make their way to the arena, whilst the punters took themselves to the stands and their seats to watch the opening race. There would be ten races today on the card, the first a challenge event for ponygirl and sulky, the second a race for novice ponygirls, where they would be unsupervised and allowed to run the course without controls, whilst the third, fourth and fifth, would be qualifiers for the second last race of the day.

The sixth race was a steeplechase, only for the very well trained and behaved ponygirls, the ones with extended contracts to their stable, complete faith in their abilities, full experience in all facets of being a true ponygirl, for these girls would be raced, again without supervision, over a course consisting of hedges to clear, posts to clear, and of course, a couple of water ditches to contend with. The seventh and eighth race would again be single ponygirl and sulky races, before handing to the ninth race and the qualifiers, the six fastest ponygirls in a gruelling mile long course, to show the winner by not only speed, but also stamina.

And then the final race for this meet, the race of kings, for finally there were enough stallions around the stables and the ranches to have this race between them, a race of muscular and tall men, fitted with the special harness, then mounted and ridden by their own female jockey. Five stallions were entered, five contracted men, living the life of a horse. A life of severe training and forced instructions, a life of complete and utter guidance in the art of being equine, and yet, as the stallion on their respective ranch, they had the complete run of the herd of ponygirls, to service and keep satisfied, and be it known, there was a waiting list at most ranches for suitable contenders for this position!

Misha was excited of the prospect of running in the first race, her heightened senses bringing a flush to her cheeks and buttocks, as Mistress Dana slowly pulled her back between the hand rails of the sulky. Once in position, the Mistress untied the ponygirl’s arms from the binding behind her back, lowering them, and securing them by means of chain and lock to the handles, leaving enough room for movement and for Misha to firmly grasp them. There was little weight for Misha to hold for the sulky was balanced, and balanced for when the jockey was aboard.

Mistress Dana fussed around Misha, checking for the correct degree of tightness in all the crisscrossing of harness that captured the naked body of a young lady, transforming her into a magnificent ponygirl. The black of the leather, the brass of the chain and buckle, from her latex boots to her feathered headpiece, all vied at converting this lady from woman to pony, and Misha loved it. She cherished the beauty and simplicity of her harness, the way it felt, tight and encompassing, as it wrapped around and around. She adored the feeling of the attention she received from her Mistress, and from the race crowds, as she preened in place, awaiting the jockey to climb aboard, and for Mistress Dana to lead them out to the racetrack. She stamped her hoof again, not drawing any displeasure this time, tossing her head and waving the plume of orange feathers to the punters.

Mistress knelt at her side, her hand coming around to check the seating of the butt plug deep in the ponygirl’s anus, held by the narrow neck, by her sphincter muscles, as it lay inside her, as an anchor for a long and flowing tail piece, made from Misha’s own hair. And on looking closer, a person would see that the tail piece matched perfectly with the mane flowing from the top and back of her head, for it was indeed the hair so cleverly and carefully shaved from both sides of Misha’s head.

Mistress pulled the last leather strap into place, the strap from the rear, parted to allow the tail piece through, before pulling up tight to the front, squashing hard against her outer lips, flattening and pressing against them, and flattening the ring through her clitoris hard against herself. Misha flinched at the immediate pain of the cinching, then wiggled to seat her clitoral ring against the leather a little better, standing still as Mistress slipped a hand in between her legs to test the fit and the comfort. Misha let her mind wander, settling back into the mindset of the pony she now was, allowing only feelings to register, the leather, the latex, the ring pressure, as she became her true self. Then, tossing her head finally, she made a whinny noise from deep within, squeezing it out from between her lips, holding the metal and rubber bit between her teeth, her breasts bouncing, her hard nipples holding the brass nipple rings away from her breasts, and she looked and felt the part, she was ready, she was a ponygirl, and the race was about to start.

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14.08.12