Gromet's PlazaPonyGirl/PetGirl Stories


by Megan Law

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© Copyright 2022 - Megan Law - Used by permission

Storycodes: M/f+; ponygirl; toys; chastity; harness; outdoors; training; bridle; bit; strip; punish; collar; cons; XX


He led me into a stall, tugging the reins far more than was necessary. The clip-clop of my hooves against the ground outside changed to a light thunking as we crossed onto the wooden floor of the barn. I gripped the handles inside the fore hooves, straining at the straps that kept my arms up and away from him. Between my legs, the weights attached to the agitators swung and snapped at the chains where my stride moved them with every hint of motion on my part. I thought back to the first time I had been equipped, a year ago today. I knew what today was, and I could not wait to be finally free.

We stopped outside the stall next to his barn office. I tossed my head and snuffled, the weight of the heavy bit pulling on the curb strap over my nose and pulling on the nose hooks he had added that morning. As if the entire outfit wasn’t ridiculous and painful enough, nose hooks? I’m certain my face was coated with the dust of the working day glued in place by mucus, but being messy as well as exhausted and sore I’m certain only added to his day.

The door to the office stood open. A sudden realization hit me: the new girl was in there. I recalled sitting on that straight-backed wooden chair last year, when he paraded 42 here in my place. Just like last year, he unlatched the stall, marched me inside, turning me as I entered and backing me into the middle of the stall. Backing always unnerved me, tottering on the hooved boots, unable to turn my head due to the martingale that held it down and looking forward, the blinkers removing all possibility of peripheral vision helping.

Once I was in position, he clipped snaffle leads to either side of the stall, keeping me centered and on my feet. I wanted nothing more than to collapse on the hay, get the pressure off my tormented feet, and give the agitators a chance to stop their work. He smiled and gave me a long drink from a bottle of water, the bit assuring that I spilled at least half of it down my chest and over my breasts. I didn’t mind, the coolness of even the room-temperature water was a blessing.

He leaned close, pressing his knee against the agitator in front, knowing full well exactly what he was doing. With a smile playing on his lips, he whispered “Be absolutely honest, or I’ll send you off with a whipping you will never forget.” He turned and left, kicking the stall door closed with a loud bang. I realized as this happened it was for her, the new girl, he was definitely not the door-slamming type.

I heard him enter the office, could picture clearly in my mind him shaking her hand, inviting her to sit again on the hard wooden chair, then leaning back in his own plush leather to negotiate the deal with her. I recalled the elated feeling I had, that I would be able to finish off a year and leave here, if not rich, at least with a stake in life. I would have laughed, but this was not the time to have an outburst. Not the time at all.

Time passed. I stayed as still as I could for a while, letting the fatigue of the past two weeks wash over me. I hadn’t been drugged at all since we got to the ranch, instead focusing on each day’s labor and trying to survive the rigors of life as one of his ponies. The agitators, heavy iron bars that swung between my legs, attached to the dildos locked inside my anus and vagina by the cruel chastity, were my constant, relentless companions. Every movement, even just breathing, caused them to sway and stir inside me. The harness, in essence a thick leather corset, kept me erect when all I wanted to do was slump and fall, the harness straps chafed at me despite the padding being changed 3 times each day by farm hands that were all too eager to help.

I passed into a half-stupor, finally succumbing to a gentle rocking motion that kept the agitators clinking against the chains quietly. When he strode out of the office, I startled and jerked, my legs pulling the chains attached to the agitators, attached to…

I gasped around the bit, then pulled back against the snubbers in horror. To my surprise, he looked at me and grinned. He pushed open the door of the stall across from me, the concrete stall floor bare, a small drain in the center.

The new girl followed him across the barn and into the stall. She was a pretty, if somewhat mousy, brunette, in a sundress and sandals. She had a beauty mark mole above the right side of her mouth, a spray of freckles across her nose and across her shoulders. I pictured myself standing there a year ago; we could be sisters, definitely his type.

She followed him into the stall, docile as he placed his hands on her shoulders, moving and turning her so she stood over the drain, facing the door. And me. He stepped aside, and lifted her chin, her eyes widening as I finally came into focus.

“Do not move until ordered to.”

She nodded. Oh dear. He slapped her, probably harder than she had ever been slapped in her life. I knew he could and would do much worse, but the slap rocked her.

“Never. Ever. Nod to me. Do you understand?”

She started to nod again, stopping with her chin raised. “Yes.”

“Yes what?”

Panic raced across her face, the certainty of getting slapped again. “Yes… Sir?”

He slapped her again. “Yes, Master.”

She straightened herself, tears flowing down her cheeks, a trickle of blood in the corner of her mouth this time. “Yes Master.”

He cupped her face; she flinched but didn’t pull away. “Good girl.”

During this exchange, he had lifted a bridle from the edge of the stall. With his other hand, he brought it in front of her mouth and said “Open.”

She hesitated for a moment, then opened her mouth. He slapped her again, much harder, this time rocking her into the stall wall. She cowered there. He stood stock still, waiting. Slowly, she stood over the drain, facing me, and opened her mouth.

He placed the bit in her mouth. “Bite down on it, gently.” She took the bit in her teeth, which allowed him to work freely on the straps. I thought back to my bridling a year ago. I didn’t know then, but do now, the bridle had been custom made to fit her, from measurements taken early in the recruitment.

He fitted the straps around her carefully, lifting her hair where needed. The bridle was free of adornments for now, they were hanging in a net bag next to where the bridle had hung. When he had the bridle fitted to his satisfaction, he said quietly “release the bit and relax your mouth.”

She released slowly, exploring the bit with her lips and tongue. He smiled at her “You’ll find it’s less uncomfortable if you can keep your mouth relaxed. Frowning is a bad idea, it will make you very sore. Now say something for me.”

She looked up at him. “I donn no wha shto shay.” He laughed and brushed her bangs away from where the bridle strap split her forehead. “You are such a special one. We are going to so enjoy you.”

He picked up a snubber line from each side of the stall and clipped it to the rein rings on her bit. “These will keep you in place, in your stall, where you belong. Do not try to pull on them, or it will make you very very sore. 43 over there is an expert at having a sore mouth. 43, do you have any advice for 44 about snubbers?”

I glowered at him. “Puhlhing againsh shuh bit will ohnly make your mouhh thore.”

You could see her doing the math in her pretty little head. He turned away, then back to her, and mathematics flew from her head. He had a pair of sheep shears in his hand. He grabbed her sundress by the front and quickly snipped from top to bottom, tearing it away from her and throwing it over the stall wall.

He knelt and expertly cut the straps on her wedge sandals, lifted each of her feet off them, then gathered the pair and tossed them over the wall as well. By this time, she was frozen in place, moving only when she was touched. I watched carefully, thinking she was either much more docile or much smarter than I, wondering which it was.

The pony boots came next. I recalled thinking they weren’t terrible when I was first strapped into them. It didn’t take long to dispel that notion, but it would take long enough to get her dressed and out to work before she learned better. These too had been custom fitted for her, a necessity for something that creates that much stress.

“Eyes forward, move as I touch you.” He pushed her back one step, placed the boots in front of her. He lifted her left foot, cleaned the bottom with a rag, then brought her foot forward and placed the ball of her foot on the platform that formed the hoof. He buckled a strap across the ball of her foot, then a much wider strap with two buckles across the instep, drawing her foot into the painful bend required by the boots.

He laced the boot to about her ankle, then slid the metal-shoed hoof back under her. Patting her foot, he said “stand on this foot.”

This raised her other foot up. He quickly cleaned and booted it, also lacing to the ankle. When he had her standing on both hooves, he slid into the corner of the stall as one of the “veterinarians” walked into the booth. I now knew he was actually a world renowned kinesiologist who worked with star athletes and Olympic champions, he provided “vet” service for the Ranch in exchange for his membership.

Walking around her, viewing from front, back and side, he moved the girl a quarter-step to her right, then looked at her posture. Smiling at Master, he said “Jorge is such an artist, he never misses. A perfect fit. Shall we?”

Together, they knelt in the stall to the girls feet. “Rock side to side, gently and slowly, a few inches until told to stop.” The girl began rocking, a jolt of envy shooting through me. Oh, to be able to move without being raped by the agitators! I knew the girl had minutes of such freedom left, and still I was jealous.

As she rocked, the two men laced her boots higher and higher, the wide leather cuff built into the ankle of the boots locking her ankle in place over the steel stiffener running from the hoof to mid-calf. They laced the inner boot, pulling and tightening as she rocked back and forth, then zipped the outer boot each few inches.

When they reached the top, the vet stood, reached into the bag, and knelt at her knees again. He handed Master a small lock, then proceeded to thread a short length of gold chain onto a padlock, locking a leather strap at the top of the boot that sealed the zipper and the laces inside. He lifted the chain, Master threaded his padlock through it, then locked her right boot.

Welcome to ponyhood, honey.

The vet reached into the bag and pulled out two long, floppy bits of leather. I gripped the handles on my fore hooves as they had her hold onto hers, then laced and zipped and locked the gloves, keeping her hooves up and her elbows bent as mine were.

Next came the harness. I knew why this was, and wondered if it was more cruelty or necessity. They fitted the harness across her belly, pulling the straps over her shoulders, buckling them in the back, then threading the laces. Once they had the harness in place, they tightened the laces hand-tight, bracing one hand against her back and pulling with the other while the other held the laces in place so they could be tied. The real tightening would come later, using a winch and a lacing frame, this was simply to hold her in place.

Two more snaffle lines were run from each side of the stall to rings at the top and bottom of the harness-corset. If she had any inkling of what was coming, she didn’t show it. She seemed almost placid about what had been done to her so far.

When the next piece of gear was pulled from the net bag, it was my turn to be startled. The crupper strap was not a surprise, of course, my sex was currently ensnared in one much the same. What surprised me was that this one featured one intruder, not two. 

Holding as still as possible, I watched as the vet handed the crupper to Master, then applied a tiny dab of lube to the tip of the probe. You could see the realization of what was about to happen spread on her face. Her eyes widened, she bucked backwards. The snaffles drew taut, the bit punished her for her mistake. She wailed as the bit demonstrated why it is called that. Master, never one to tolerate resistance, punched her directly in her right breast.

The girl crumpled, the reins pulled her head forward. As she fell, he grabbed her by the throat and stood her up. “No more nonsense.” He pressed a knee between hers, spreading her to the limit of the chain directly below, at the boot-tops, reached around her, and shoved the lubricated intruder into her anus forcefully. The girl wobbled in his grip, choking at his hand on her neck. The vet moved behind her and began calmly buckling the straps that held the crupper to the harness, then I watched in curiosity as he took two more small padlocks from the bag and locked the buckles at the back.

With the crupper firmly locked at the back, Master stepped back from her a half-step and reached between her legs. Satisfied with the results, he pulled his hand back, gripped the top of the crupper at the front, and lifted the girl off her feet. She fell back against the snaffles, the reins again jerking at her mouth. She squealed and tried to kick her legs, but his knee was still jammed between hers. He set her back on her feet, then he and the vet buckled the two straps at the front of the crupper to her harness. Two more padlocks were applied, she was now locked into the crupper.

The vet produced a long iron weight with a loop at one end from the bag. She was about to learn what an agitator is, and what it will do to her. The vet held it up in front of her, her eyes still blurred with tears. He stepped behind her, attached the agitator to the protruding loop on the intruder buried in her ass, and let go.

The heavy agitator swung forward, bouncing off her legs. The girl squealed in surprise, no doubt astonished by just how good it felt after her ass was so violently taken by the intruder. I kicked my left leg, stirring my agitators, clamping down on my bit as I watched the girl learn just how heavenly hellish her life was going to become.

Master took the second agitator from the back and held it up to her. I actually leaned forward, trying to see better, knowing not to pull on my own reins. Master bent and attached the agitator to another protruding ring at the front of her crupper, and I watched her eyes close and her face flush as he touched it. Master dropped the agitator and the girl actually squealed when it pulled at her.

He slapped her again, the left breast this time. Her squeal turned to a keening groan, stopped immediately when he drew back his hand again. He smiled, cupped her face, helped her right herself, then batted the agitators with his knee, holding her in place. She squeaked and squealed as the tormenters worked their magic, he placed his fingers over her lips shushing her.

Next from the bag of horrors were the thigh straps. They came out of the bag looking like lopsided Ts; the long tail buckled to the harness to keep them from sliding down her legs, the cross part buckled at the backs of her thighs. Attached between D-rings on the inside of the straps were two chains joined with two rings, the rings were slipped over the agitators before buckling the straps in place. Four more padlocks came out of the bag, her thigh strap buckles each locked, two at the harness, two at the back of her thighs. The poor thing was apparently not even going to be spared the intruders for the humiliation of being fucked by the farm hands.

As she wobbled on her hooves, getting used to the constant motion inside — and outside, in her case — Master and the vet added the final touches. The additional snaffles came off her harness, those rings were used to secure her wrists and elbows to the harness. Some of the more trusted ponies were given the ability to use their fore hooves in a limited manner; I had yet to be freed even this much.

Blinders were attached to either side of her bridle. These were training blinders that cupped around her eyes, making certain she could see only what she directly faced. I had worn the same last year, it was a claustrophobic experience.

Next was the collar. Master slipped it across the front of her neck, forcing her head up, wrapped it around her neck, pulled it together in the back. While he held it, the vet inserted the lock rod, pushing her head forward. Once he had it fully inserted, he handed Master a tool that he used to bend over the end of the lock rod, locking it in place.

A short leather martingale was clipped to the chin strap on her bridle, then to a ring on the harness between her breasts. At this point, she had very little mobility in her head, unable to look up or down, able to turn her head only a few degrees before the chin strap pulled on the bit.

The vet patted Master on the shoulder once and said “Thanks, I may want this one once she’s trained.” I stared daggers at him as he exited the stall but he didn’t even notice me as he walked out of the barn, checking the other stalls casually as he left.

Master had taken the final piece from the bag. I nearly gasped when I saw it. Her plume was white. That explained the lack of an intruder in the front. I wondered how he had ever managed to lure an actual virgin into agreeing to this, knowing that I would likely never hear the girl's story.

With her shock-white plume mounted to the top of her bridle, he took a step back and admired his handiwork. The girl's legs trembled, both agitators swirling in tiny angry circles. “You are a work of art, my dear.” He stepped right into her, bent, and kissed her firmly, a Master’s rape of his pony’s mouth. He took his time, the kiss seemed to last moments, then he pulled back leaving her gasping.

Taking a clipboard full of documents, with a tablet attached to the back, off the hanger on the side of the stall, he walked over to me, leaving the stall door wide open.

“Now, 43, about your renewal…”


Continues in

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