PONYGIRL SISTER
The summer smelled of hay, sweat, and sex.
Karen and Linda arrived at Aunt Veronica's estate on the longest day of the year, the sun still blazing at eight in the evening. Their parents waved goodbye from the driveway, trusting, oblivious. The moment the car vanished around the bend, Veronica closed the heavy front door and turned the key with a soft, deliberate click.
"Strip," she said.
No preamble. No gentle tour this time.
The sisters obeyed in the foyer, shoes kicked aside, sundresses pooling at their feet. Linda's small breasts trembled with every frightened breath; Karen's nipples were already stiff. Veronica walked a slow circle around them, trailing a riding crop along bare shoulders, the dip of a spine, the curve of an ass.
"Beautiful," she murmured. "And both untouched by anyone but each other. That ends tonight."
She led them naked down the corridor to the converted stable. The air was warmer here, thick with leather and the faint musk of aroused women. Three ponygirls were already in their stalls: Cinnamon, the senior mare; Nutmeg, a redhead with cruelly ringed nipples; and Clove, the newest, still learning to keep her back arched and her knees wide even when exhaustion shook her thighs.
Veronica snapped her fingers. Cinnamon crawled forward on gloved hands and booted knees, tail swaying, bit dripping. She pressed her forehead to Veronica's boot in perfect greeting.
"This," Veronica told the sisters, "is what absolute surrender looks like after six years. You will start tonight."
She began with Linda.
A steel frame waited in the center of the ring. Veronica buckled thick cuffs around Linda's wrists and ankles, then winched her arms high until she hung from the ceiling on the balls of her feet. Her small body stretched long, ribs showing, cunt lips parting with the strain. Karen was ordered to stand in front of her sister and watch.
Veronica produced a heavy leather hood. No eye holes. Only a mouth opening and two small nose holes. She worked it down over Linda's head slowly, lacing it tight until the girl's world shrank to darkness and the thunder of her own pulse. Then the bit: thick rubber-coated steel that forced Linda's jaws wide and locked behind her teeth. Drool spilled immediately.
Karen's cunt clenched at the sight. She had never seen her sister look so utterly helpless.
Veronica handed her a suede flogger. "Twenty strokes. Count them aloud. Make her feel every one."
Karen's first swing was tentative. The tails kissed Linda's breasts with a soft thud. Linda jerked and moaned around the bit.
"Louder," Veronica commanded.
Karen found her rhythm. By the tenth stroke Linda's tits were crimson, nipples swollen and dark. By the fifteenth her thighs shone with wetness. At twenty she sagged in the chains, sobbing, cunt dripping in long silver threads to the sawdust floor.
Veronica unhooked her, let her collapse to hands and knees. "Crawl to your sister and thank her."
Linda crawled blindly, hood laces trailing, drool swinging from her stuffed mouth. She found Karen's bare feet by scent and touch and pressed grateful, sloppy kisses to each toe.
Karen's voice cracked with wonder. "Oh my God."
"That," Veronica said, "is only the beginning."
They kept Linda in the hood for three full days.
She slept on a rubber mat in a cage, wrists clipped behind her, ankles hobbled, a fat plug in her ass and a dildo gag strapped in her mouth so she woke constantly choking on her own saliva. Karen was given the key to the cage and ordered to use her pet whenever the urge struck.
The urge struck often.
At 3 a.m. on the second night, Karen dragged Linda out by the collar, bent her over a hay bale, and fucked her with a strap-on for the first time. The dildo was thick, brutally ridged. Linda screamed into the gag as Karen slammed home, hips slapping against bruised ass cheeks, hands fisted in the hood's laces for leverage. When she came, she kept thrusting until Linda's muffled howls turned to broken, grateful whimpers and her cunt squirted violently onto the stable floor.
In the morning Veronica inspected the mess and nodded approval. "Good. You're learning that ownership means taking what's yours, whenever and however you want it."
The real training began in earnest.
Every dawn started the same: Linda on her knees in the center of the ring, naked, hood off for the moment so Karen could see her eyes. Karen stood over her in boots and jodhpurs, crop in hand.
"Position," Karen would say.
Linda would spread her knees wide, sit back on her heels, arch her back until her small tits thrust out, and lace her fingers behind her neck. Elbows back. Chin high. Mouth open.
Then the day's bondage began.
Some days it was the full pony harness: tall latex boots that forced her onto pointe, a cruelly tight corset that left her gasping, the heavy bit, the armbinder that welded her arms into a single useless column behind her back. The tail plug—always larger than the day before—until her asshole gaped permanently and the base nestled between reddened cheeks like it belonged there.
Karen learned to longe her for hours under the merciless sun. Linda's high-stepping trot became smoother every week, thighs trembling, sweat pouring down her torso to mix with the cunt juice that never stopped leaking. When she faltered, the crop striped her ass or the tender backs of her thighs. When she pleased her Mistress, Karen fed her sugar cubes from gloved fingers and let her lick the leather clean.
Other days were for stricter torments.
Veronica taught Karen the art of the single-tail whip. They suspended Linda spread-eagle between two posts, toes barely brushing the ground. The first real lash opened a thin red line across her belly; Linda screamed so hard her voice cracked. By the twentieth she was beyond screaming, floating in subspace, cunt pulsing visibly with every heartbeat.
Afterward Karen carried her to the recovery stall, wrapped her in blankets, held water to her lips, and whispered love words until the shaking stopped. Then she spread her slave's legs and ate her gently, reverently, until Linda came with soft, wondering sobs against her Mistress's mouth.
Piercings came in July.
Veronica drove them to a private studio run by a woman who had once been a pony herself. Linda lay on the table trembling while her nipples were pierced with thick 10-gauge rings. Then her clit hood—horizontal, to allow constant stimulation from any harness. Finally the guiche between cunt and asshole, a secret ring only Karen would ever tug.
Karen watched every needle, every drop of blood, and felt her dominance root deeper into her bones.
Back home, Veronica locked Linda into a new training corset—steel-boned, twenty inches closed, worn twenty-four hours a day. Breathing became a constant conscious act. Her waist shrank dramatically; her tits looked obscene above the shelf of the corset. The nipple rings were chained to the front busk so that every shallow breath tugged them.
Sleeping was its own torment now. Some nights Karen chained her on her back to the bedposts, legs spread wide, a massive dildo buried in her cunt and locked in place with a leather harness. A ring gag kept her mouth available. Karen used her whenever she woke—slow lazy fucks at 2 a.m., brutal face-fucking at dawn, leaving cum and drool crusted on Linda's chin.
Other nights Linda slept in the cage at the foot of the bed, hooded, mittened, plugged front and back, only her collared throat visible through the bars. Karen would dangle one foot through the bars so her slave could lick it clean before sleep.
By August Linda no longer walked upright in the house. She crawled everywhere, knees padded, tail swaying. Speech was rare and always punished unless it was "Yes, Mistress" or "Please, Mistress, hurt me."
The final initiation came on the night of the new moon.
Veronica declared Linda ready for permanent marks.
They took her to the branding room—a small stone chamber lit only by candles. A brazier glowed. The scent of hot iron filled the air.
Linda was bound over a padded bench, knees wide, ass high. The corset had been removed for the first time in weeks; her waist looked impossibly tiny, ribs fluttering. Veronica shaved a small patch high on Linda's right ass cheek.
Karen lifted the branding iron herself. The mark was simple: a small elegant K entwined with an L, no bigger than a quarter. She held it in the coals until it glowed cherry red.
Linda was sobbing already, but she pushed her ass higher in offering.
Karen pressed the iron home.
The sizzle, the smell of burning flesh, Linda's broken animal howl—everything happened at once. Karen held it for a slow count of five, then pulled it away. The brand was perfect.
Veronica applied ointment while Karen unbuckled the straps. The moment Linda was free she turned and flung herself at Karen's feet, kissing boots, sobbing thanks between kisses.
"Thank you, Mistress. Thank you for marking me. I'm yours. Forever yours."
That night they did not sleep.
Karen chained Linda to the breeding bench in the center of the stable—on her back, legs locked high and wide in stirrups, cunt and asshole completely exposed. She invited the three ponygirls to watch from their stalls. Then she fucked her slave in every hole, over and over, until the sky outside turned pale.
She used cocks of every size, double dildos that filled cunt and ass at once, her fist slick with lube until Linda's cunt gaped loose and ruined. She whipped her branded ass until it blazed darker than the fresh mark. She clamped the new piercings and hung weights that made Linda scream herself hoarse.
And through all of it Linda begged for more.
When Karen finally collapsed beside her, both of them drenched in sweat and cum, Linda turned blind, tear-filled eyes toward her and whispered the only words that mattered.
"I was born for this. Born to be yours. Use me until I break, then put me back together and do it again. Please, Mistress. Never stop."
Karen kissed the tears from her cheeks.
"Never," she promised. "You are my heart walking outside my body. I will keep you in chains until we're old and gray, and even then I'll find ways to make you crawl."
They left Aunt Veronica's on the last day of August.
Linda wore a high-necked sundress that hid the collar, the bruises, the brand. She walked upright to the car for their parents' sake, but the moment the doors closed she dropped to the floor mat at Karen's feet and stayed there the entire drive home, cheek pressed to her Mistress's thigh.
That night, in their childhood bedroom, Karen locked the door and ordered Linda to strip.
The brand was still raw, an angry red K&L against pale skin. Karen traced it with gentle fingers, then bent her slave over the childhood bed and fucked her slowly while their parents watched TV downstairs.
Linda bit the pillow to muffle her screams of ecstasy.
Years later, people would comment on how close the sisters were. How Linda's eyes followed Karen everywhere. How Karen's hand always rested on the small of Linda's back, thumb brushing the hidden steel collar beneath her clothes.
No one ever saw the basement playroom in the house they bought together. No one saw Linda spend her evenings in full pony tack, trotting circles while Karen worked at her drafting table. No one saw the cage under the bed where she slept every night, or the way Karen still woke sometimes at 3 a.m. to use her slave's throat like a toy.
And no one ever would.
Because Linda had gotten exactly what she'd always wanted: to belong, utterly and irrevocably, to the only person she had ever loved.
And Karen had gotten the only thing she'd ever needed: absolute, eternal ownership of the girl who had been born to kneel at her feet.
They lived happily, filthily, perfectly ever after.