An Equestrian Fetish

While riding clothes can be sexy, and horses are fun, what I’m talking about here is a little bit kinkier…

One common fetish in the BDSM scene is what is called “pony-play” where the submissive dresses up (or usually down, weather permitting) as a pony which the dom(me) then trains and rides (or more often gets to pull a small cart, as humans don’t do all fours very well and a male dom is usually it a bit heavy for a female sub anyway). The costume the sub wears is usually very sexualized, consisting at the least of a bit (which also functions as a gag) and bridle, harness, boots (usually with horseshoes attached), gloves or other restraints for the arms, and a tail (often attached to a butt plug). Sometimes the sub is naked, others they wear a catsuit – especially if the weather is less than clement). Sometimes this is combined with a chastity belt or other restraint or stimulation on the genitals.

Training a pony-girl or pony-boy is performed like training a horse, making the “pony” learn to walk, trot, prance etc. on command. And yes, there really are “farms” and “ranches” run where you can go and indulge this fetish.

So why, some may ask, do they do it?

I think the reasons are as many and varied as people are, but I’ll take a stab as to what I personally find attractive in playing the part of an animal. Pony-play is a subset of a larger fetish which includes dressing and acting as different kinds of animals – cats, dogs, cows, and others – but most are distinct in being domesticated animals. It’s about becoming a pet, I think, something that is trained, controlled, has no choices, but is also cared for and treasured. Pets are looked after, sometimes quite intensively, and that level of care is very reassuring.

The submissive lets go of their responsibilities as a human for the much simpler role of the animal. They don’t just have to obey orders – after all, they are an animal, how many orders can they understand? They can play, misbehave, and still be cared for (though they may be punished). It’s a more extreme form of the slave-master/mistress relationship in that respect. The slave is sexualized, deprived of their rights and responsibilities as a human, and played with. Needless to say it requires a great deal of trust, more so than the usual owner-slave relationship as the sub will often be unable to speak.

For the owner, it’s an exercise in even greater power and authority over the submissive, as they control just about everything. For the submissive it can be tremendously liberating to leave the responsibilities and inhibitions of being an adult behind. There is also the sexual angle, in the case of ponies – long hair and rolling gait are strong feminine sexual characteristics, and I don’t think it’s any coincidence that from what I can tell the majority of the human ponies are pony-girls.

It’s something I have tried to communicate in the story Pony Play, the ninth in the Lydia’s Path series of short stories. The protagonist Lydia is taken to a farm to undergo pony-training under a Dom; she submits to and very much enjoys being sexualized, losing all rights as a person, being trained in her role and on one occasion being mated with male ponies. At the end of the training she is displayed with other ponies at a show put on for those in the scene.

To give some idea of how common this fantasy is that story is far and away my biggest selling single story to date. I’m currently writing a second story on the fetish and have more planned including a science fiction tale and one that crosses over with my “werewolf” series. In the meantime, Pony Play is today being promoted on a Book Blast, so please make the most of the low price if your interest is piqued…

Slave Girl #9

Oh, and of course here’s a teaser…

Come along Scamper,” Mistress Meredith tugs my leash and stalks quickly down a long passageway with me hurrying to keep up. She takes me straight through to the back of the house and a cool, bare room with some lockers in it where she unclips my leash.

“Strip,” she commanded, folding her arms beneath an impressive bust and tapping her booted foot.

For many months now I have been given orders like this, orders I have become accustomed to obeying, and now is no exception despite my apprehensions and doubts – the collar and leash take care of all of those; I am a slave and responsible for nothing that happens. I quickly slip out of my jacket, scarf, skirt, blouse, garter belt and bra. I carefully fold them as I remove them and set them aside on a nearby bench. Then I slip out of my shoes and feel the cool flagstones under my feet as I carefully slip off my stockings and add both.

Mistress Meredith watches me with a slight smile of approval, and opens a locker. At her gesture I place my clothes in. She squats in front me to unlock my chastity with the key that Master Daimon gave her, and we remove it to place that in the locker as well, closing and locking it.

Except for my collar, I’m now completely naked.

“You won’t need those for a few weeks,” Mistress Meredith remarks with an amused glint in her eyes. “Now, arms up.”

Without questioning I raise my arms and clasp them behind my head, pulling my hair back as I do so – this way she is unobstructed in whatever she wishes to do with me. Smiling more she runs her hands firmly over my body as if inspecting livestock. She cups and squeezes one small and pert breast, and gives me a sharp slap on my bum.

“Not bad,” she remarked, pulling a tape-measure out of one pocket. With practised speed she measures me around the waist, bust, hands and feet, and glances at a notebook she pulled from another jacket pocket. “All seems to be correct,” she mutters cryptically, and disappeared through a small door behind me.

I stood there on the cold stone floor, still with my hands clasped at the back of my head, naked, and just waited. Mentally I counted my breaths, keeping them slow and even, reminding myself: I am a slave, my body is no longer mine, I must follow all orders.

A long moment passes before I hear Mistress Meredith’s footsteps return, and I keep my eyes forward, refusing to look curiously at what she is carrying.

“My, we are a well-trained filly, Scamper,” she chuckled. I hear her set down whatever she is carrying, and she pulled something made of pink leather and lined with soft pink satin around my waist. I immediately recognize a waist cincher or short under-bust corset, one that jingled with D-rings, straps and buckles. I keep still and exhale as she tightens it up firmly, cinching my waist in firmly by a few inches. It’s not uncomfortable, at least not more so than the corsets I often wore for my Mistress.

“Hold your arms out,” she instructed me, and I released my hair and extended my hands toward her, for her to slip a harness of pink leather straps over my arms, one that framed my and supported breasts like a bra, yet kept them uncovered with a steel ring framing each nipple. The harness buckled to the top of my cincher, and I could feel that it gripped me firmly and actually gave my breasts good support.

Mistress Meredith picks up a net of straps and pickles, still in pink leather, that could only be called a bridle. Shaking it out and holding it in shape she smiled at me, a very wicked smirk.

“Open wide,” she commanded, and I opened my mouth obediently to admit a ball-gag on a short shaft that fills my mouth and tugs the corners of my lips back a little like a horse’s bit. Straps all over my head hold it in place, and my hair is pulled back through a small gap in it so that I now have a pony-tail again. She moves behind me, and I feel the buckles being tightened and I locks click shut.

Being gagged is a regular occurrence for me, and ball gags are especially fiendish: you can say nothing, and having it in your mouth makes you drool uncontrollably. Unlike most ball-gags, this one seems to have a hole drilled through it that makes breathing easier at least.

I now have a very good idea as to what is going on and what I am to be trained in. It’s confirmed as Mistress Meredith produces gloves and boots, again in pink leather. The boots are somewhat like ordinary high-heeled knee-boots, save that they had no heel: instead the platform ‘sole’ of the foot was formed into the round base of a horses hoof, and Mistress Meredith held one up with a smile to show me that it was shod with a real horse-shoe.

“Aren’t they delightful, Scamper?” she asked as she set them on the floor in front of me, and looked at me expectantly.

Delightful? I’ve played the part of cat and dog before now, but never horse. Being treated as an animal is a step further into submission than being a slave is…tingling with excitement that is part fear, part arousal, part eagerness.

Obediently I step into the boots, and Mistress Meredith buckles them up. For a moment I totter until I find my balance. They are easy enough to wear if I adjust my posture and lean just a little forward…which of course makes me push my bum out, and will put an extra roll in my stride. My pussy tingles as I anticipate my butt will be the target of a good few spanks, and I’ll probably be fucked from behind a fair few times over the next few weeks.

At least, in my heart I hope so; I’m horny for it already.

No, I won’t be fucked. When I am a pony, I’ll be mated.

I’m so lost in my realisation I don’t see Mistress Meredith until she is in front of me again, holding out some leather cuffs of the kind I was used to wearing almost as much as wore my collar. She fastened them on and buckled them firmly before taking up a pair of gloves.

“Make a fist,” she instructed, and I did so. The ‘glove’ had no fingers, just padding that ended in a smaller set of ‘hooves’ than those on my feet, with horseshoes at the end. The gloves would fasten to the cuffs I was wearing, and with them on I would be unable to use my hands. Mistress Trudy had restrained me similarly in the past, but this woman is unknown to me and I cannot suppress some trepidation as I slipped my hands inside the gloves. Mistress Meredith buckled them to the wrist-cuffs, making them impossible for me to remove, before firmly raising each wrist to my shoulder and clipping the cuffs to the shoulders of my harness.

This pose with no meaningful use of my hands or arms I know well, although the last time Mistress Trudy bound me this way it was with bondage tape, and she had added pads to my elbows and made me crawl on all fours. Ponies, it seems, get to walk on two legs.

“Now, I’m told you can take this size,” Mistress Meredith held up a steel butt-plug, and my eyes widened. It was big, probably slightly bigger than the plug Mistress sometimes made me wear, but I probably could take it, and I nodded slowly.

“Good girl, Scamper,” she said, and I felt a little thrill run through me. Just two words, and I could feel a warm glow of pride inside me and little shiver at my new name. I was a good slave…no, I was a good pony.

“Bend over, Scamper,” she ordered me brusquely. “I’m sure you’ve had this before.”

Oh yes, I know what’s coming. I bent forward at the waist, the position of my arms necessitating that I thrust my ass back.

Picking up the plug, she took a long plume of glossy black hair and an odd, slender probe with a ring in the end. She placed the latter at the outside end of the plug, and screwed the plume onto the end as well. The plume and probe pushed out at ninety degrees to the base of the plug, and I watched in puzzlement as she then applied a lot of lubricant to the business end of the plug.

She moved behind me, and I mentally brace myself. Sure enough the cold, wet and metallic nose of the plug began to press against my sphincter, and I relax and push back to accept it. It is quite big and heavy, and I strain to take the widest part before it was in. As soon as she pulled me upright I felt the tickle of hair on my buttocks and legs.

A thick, black silky tail that thrust up and out from between my cheeks and cascaded almost to my ankles. I could feel the weight of it as I shifted my stance it seemed to swish delightfully on its own.



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