Roundup Time

The herd was in full flight. The bunched mass of ponygirls flowed like water over the undulations of the ground. Bronzed bodies flashing in the sun as they ran and leaped over fallen logs and rocks in their path. Arms pumped as they reached full speed, turning as one at the crest of the hill, before at a breakneck pace, they came as one down the slope and onto the flats. It was almost impossible to see individuals as they approached the river's bank, but this group hardly slowed as they took to the shallow water of the ford. Great gouts of water spewed up as their hooves thrashed into the river. Great waves of spray hid the running girls as they forged through and out this side.

Wet bodies now glistened with the residues of the ford, as the herd again turned and ran alongside the river, thrashing the grass, lifting clumps up as they ran on. Sweat could be seen, coursing from their bitted mouths, splashing across their own bodies, yet driven by the wind to hit the girls behind them. Hair flowed in the wind also, for each pony was cut in the traditional way, a broad mane from forehead to down her neck, with the side pieces shaven and formed into a tail, ever fitted into her anal passage.

The pace slackened as the herd reached the woods at the left corner of the field, their frantic pace reducing as they entered the narrower path as it wound its way through the trees. The girls realising the protection within, were loath to continue, but the ever present barking of the herd dog forced their weary limbs to flight again, and as the dog slapped at the butts of the rear ponies, they neighed into the wind, spurring the front-runners on.

Having spent the time chasing down individual ponies, the dog had continued circling the ponygirls, until they were all combined as a herd. Then the dog had started them off running, bunching them together, forcing them into the run and into the chase, a deliberate move to tire the ponygirls legs out, and to make them more easy to capture. This herd of thirty-four ponies were due for a culling, as the older ones were now ready for pasture and pleasuring and eventual breeding. There remained a number, maybe twenty or so, that were still good for working and even some of them were still used for harness and a few for racing. Yet the main purpose of this gathering was to separate out the young, for there were three, just turned eighteen if the records were correct, and they were due for capture, for branding and for tagging.

The dog was gallant, running and running, circling the ponies and bringing them down towards the corral, where they slowed almost to a halt as they were driven in against the bars of the fence. The handlers started to move amongst the ponygirls, driving them this way and that with their canes, separating them into the branded older ones and the main group of operating ponies. The young were forced away from their mothers and the dog took over driving them into a separate and smaller corral. Many a pony tossed its head, neighing to others as their panic dissolved into compliance, and as they were calmed and rested in the corral. The young cried more, desperation seeing tears flow, and attempts to climb out of their holding pen.

These ponies were the redwood ponygirls and they did not have the normal arm bindings associated with the other ponygirls, for these were bred for using their arms in holding and pulling of carts and racers, and as such they had to develop strength in the muscles of the shoulders and back. The young scampered around as the handler entered and looped a rope around, waiting for his turn to cast and bring a pony tumbling down. The fire was burning hot at the side of the corral and the second handler stood tall, holding the branding iron into the flames.

The first handler cast, the rope settling over the shoulders of a ponygirl, and as she ran the noose tightened, pinning her arms down alongside her body, then with a flick of the wrist, the handler sent two loops of rope up and over the pony, the first settling around her upper thigh and the second dropping to her ankles. The pony stumbled and fell, and the handler was on her in an instant, tying off the rope and rendering her caught and trussed. With a strength born of many years of handling young ponies he picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder, walking back to the fire and the branding iron.

As she came ever closer to the inevitable, she struggled and fought to get away. However the handler held her hooves tight behind him and held her head down against his chest, then as he knelt, the other handler walked behind him and pressed the iron to her naked butt cheek. The pain of the burn forced a scream from within her, and as the pain registered fully she passed out, lying now limp across his shoulder. He rose up and walked out the gate depositing the still tied ponygirl on a stretcher. Then she was lifted and taken to the facility for ear tagging, nipple and clitoris piercing. Lastly, she was fitted with her anal pipe plug, an extension which allowed her to defecate through it, and yet a permanent fixture for her tail as well.

The day passed quickly enough for the handlers but slowly for the ponygirls, for the older ones were having their ear tags changed to indicate that they were now for pasture, pleasure and breeding. The remainder were let loose again. The dog used to push them back out into the top field, for the mothers separated from their young were reticent to leave. The older ponies once tagged correctly were driven down to the main farm buildings where they would be given their own breeding stall, and allowed to be serviced by any of the farmhands, at the appropriate time of course. As they became pregnant they would start to be milked. This in itself was a separate sideline for the farm, for many a gentlewoman would ask for some extra milk for their babies. The gentlemen of the area came by from time to time, and for a small recompense were allowed to service the breeders, or having made arrangements were allowed to saddle up and enjoy a race or a run with one of the others from the top field. The whole countryside at one point or another would use the facility for either servicing, or milking, or racing, and the farm became renowned for its ponygirls.

The young however had now to be trained in all aspects of their duties, from becoming runners, or holders of carts, or in some rarer cases, they would be sent off farm, to another establishment that wanted young blood to strengthen their herds. They were to be let loose later in the afternoon, but kept close to the facility, by binding their arms and attaching them via neck collars to the side fence. The vet had to check on the various piercings and their recovery from the branding, before he would allow them loose. By nightfall, the young girls had settled down from their initial pain, and the nurse and the vet had checked each individually, placing creams and lotions as required. And of course, although these ponies were not to be serviced, both the nurse and the vet had enjoyed the touching and the prodding of these fresh, nubile ponygirls.

The farm managed to turn out about half a dozen new ponies each year, a mixed bag of colours, for the breeding was always kept at a random, and the men servicing the ponies were also indiscriminate in their choice, thus ensuring that the gene pool was forever mixing. They were known however as the redwood ponies for every now and again, there would be a pure redhead amongst the young foals and she would be treated somewhat favourably as she grew up, for the redwood was in demand and would sell for a great price. This year was not a good year and the ponies available for sale ranged from a full black to a mousy brown, however nearly top money was paid when they were sent to auction, and many a farmer was pleased with his purchase, for they were already broken to the staves of a cart, or the neckpiece of the plough. In fact the redwood ponies were trained in all aspects of their duties of being a ponygirl, including that of allowing them to be serviced at will by their new owners, and it was many a pony that received their master's seed on that first night in their new home.

For me, many years have passed. And the years will continue to pass in this valley between the high peaks, where ponygirls are bred for the gentlemen and gentlewomen that abide there. The valley is closed to outsiders, and a towering sheriff and his deputy ensure that no outsiders ever see what goes on within those hallowed fields. But I had seen what those folks do to their ponygirls, and I had lived to write it down, for once I had erred in my judgement, and I crashed my light plane in their fields. They took me for judgement to the local courthouse, and having seen the ponygirls, I would not be allowed to leave, but like all isolated groups, they found a way that I could become useful to the community for my crime.

They took me also to the facility, and drugged me, and whilst asleep, they pierced my nose, my nipples and my scrotum. They shaved my head and made me a small but effective tail fitted to the anal ring I also wear, and can use quite well without fouling my legs, but the ultimate change was the alteration of my vocal chords, for now all I can do when I open my mouth is bark. And yet all these changes allow me to often chase the ponygirls, and there is nothing I like better than slapping at the rumps as I drive them around, or collect them for riding. However, the only downside to my captivity and my transformation is the fact that as I race with the ponies I often get aroused, and whilst watching other servicing being done a similar effect transpires, however I always get cuffed and my arousal is dampened. My master says there will not be any breeding going on, for a dog cannot pair with a pony.

12.07.12