Hot Flash! A Stall for Cynthia!

She was a cliche, she understood that, but it changed very little.  The girl she’d found online was a fetishist interested in the same things she had been, though from the other side.  Latex and rubber, a submissive bound and gagged, control lost… it was intoxicating to Mistress Cynthia to see the look of helplessness in the eyes of her playthings, but it hadn’t taken long before she realized that Natasha was something else entirely.

At first, their meetings had been the usual sort.  A brief period of courtship, meeting in bars or clubs that catered to more exotic tastes, followed by trips to Cynthia’s home, exploring the rooms dedicated to bondage and strict confinement.  At the time, Natasha called her Mistress Cynthia and looked up at her wide brown eyes, her mouth held open by a rubber ball strapped in place.  Her hands would be held behind her, tied with nylon rope or cuffed, her ankles in a similar condition.  But there was something in her eyes Cynthia had not seen before, though she could not give it name at the time.

In the weeks that followed, Natasha spent more of her evenings in Cynthia’s clutches, toyed with and pleased, just as Natasha pleased Mistress Cynthia with her agile tongue when the gag was removed.  Still, there was that enigmatic expression, the one that suggested something else at work.  In the following days, with Natasha an ever-growing part of her life, Mistress Cynthia tried to find her limits when it came to bondage, blindfolds and earmuffs used to create a deeper sense of helplessness, but nothing shook her.  As time passed and Mistress Cynthia quietly continued her search for the perimeters of Natasha’s desires, her own confidence began to tremble.  How could she not draw from this submissive the look she had seen time and again?  The one that spoke of utter dependence and need?  The one that told Cynthia she possessed the girl utterly?

Finally, desperate, Cynthia had done the thing that was most obvious, but least preferable.  She had asked.

“What has made you weakest?” she asked in a moment that followed Natasha’s mouth on her pussy, and an ensuing climax that Cynthia remembered well even now.

Natasha wrinkled her nose in thought and hugged more tightly against Cynthia’s sweat-slick body.

“I was once with someone that made me their pony.  I don’t think anyone knows what it’s like to truly feel owned until they have had the thing that makes them human taken away.”

Cynthia nodded, as if in understanding, but she had only encountered the notion of ponygirls on the more extreme websites, and never in real life.  They were attractive, yes, but impractical.  Such elaborate bondage gear, all in the service of something Cynthia could not quite define.  And still, she wanted to see Natasha squirm.  If that meant placing her in rubber hooves and a harness, so that is what she would do.

“Interesting…” Cynthia said, running her hand down the back of her submissive, enjoying the slick smoothness of her catsuit.  “We should explore that.”

“Yes, Miss Cynthia,” Natasha said, eyes sparkling with anticipation.

The days that followed brought Cynthia greater frustration as she sensed a distance in Natasha now that the subject of being bound in ponygirl tack had been brought up.  No matter what she tried, from strict blindfolds and cuffs to more sensual teasing, the girl was constantly distracted.  She participated, certainly, and went through the motions, but Cynthia could not seem to hold her attention for very long.

The first signs of life in the girl came when she pushed a printed email across the breakfast table to Cynthia, and she lowered her head, as if ashamed of the boldness of her actions.  Cynthia looked at Natasha a long moment before taking the paper and scanning it briefly.  It was from a formed dominant of Natasha’s, the one, according to the text of the email, that had placed her in her pony gear.  It was Natasha asking to visit with her new Mistress, and the reply is the affirmative.  Her name, Cynthia saw, was Gwenn, and the tone of the email was affectionate.

“You want to visit?” Cynthia asked, looking down her nose at the girl.

Natasha squirmed, the first real sign of genuine response she’d seen in days.

“I’ll contact her, then.”

“Yes, Miss Cynthia.  Thank you, Miss Cynthia.”

Only three days later, Natasha was driving them to the home of the enigmatic Lady Gwenn, as Natasha referred to her.  A more regal name than Cynthia would have assumed, and an unusual blend of haughty and archaic.  The house of Lady Gwenn was a wide, squat home that sat on a large plot of land far removed from the nearest town.  While inauspicious, the house was well-kept and lovely in its rural charms.  Cynthia noticed that there was a wide barn connected to the main house by a dirt path notable for the ruts carved in parallel upon it.

“So lovely to see you!” Gwenn exclaimed, kissing Natasha’s cheeks, bringing a crimson flush to her cheeks.  “And very nice to meet you!”

She extended a hand to Cynthia, her aggressive friendliness disarming to the mistress.

“Very good to meet you.  Natasha has been excited to see you again.  Thank you for accommodating us.”

“Of course,” Gwenn said, waving them toward the barn rather than the house.  “Natasha is a born pony.  I was surprised whens he asked to be released, to be honest.  Some girls just take to it.  Nothing else is good enough after.”

Cynthia nodded, wondering if that’s what accounted for the submissive’s distraction.  Was there something so compelling about her pony experiences that ruined her for all other forms of play?  And why had she fallen so deeply under the spell of the so-called ‘Lady Gwenn,’ a woman with rather plain features, though her broad, perpetually smiling face did make her prettier.  Where Cynthia was lean and elegant, Gwenn was wide-hipped and earthy, a woman who looked like she could prepare a casserole rather than bind and control a submissive.

The barn doors swung open outward, and it took a moment for Cynthia to register what she was seeing.  Within, stalls lined both walls, and four of them were currently occupied by young women, nude save for harnesses looping between their legs and up their chests, a human-sized bridle and bit fixed in their mouths.  On closer inspection, Cynthia saw that they had boots and mittens laced onto their hands and feet emulating the hooves of a pony.

Natasha chirped happily, expressing an excitement Cynthia hadn’t seen in weeks, rushing to one of the empty stalls where similar tack had been hung in waiting for an occupant.

“She remembers her stall,” Gwenn smiled, leaning toward Cynthia.

“She does seem happy.  Would you like me to outfit her?”

Gwenn tutted and shook her head.  “I appreciate the offer, but you really have to be familiar with the gear.  I wanted to talk to you about that, actually.  You and Natasha are both welcome here anytime you like.  The barn and the grounds are at your disposal.  But I would suggest that you familiarize yourself with the lifestyle first.”

“I know my share of fetishes,” Cynthia replied, trying to shrug off the superior air Gwenn was taking, keeping her voice measured rather than defensive.

“Ponies are a different breed, no pun intended,” Gwenn said, leading Cynthia deeper into the barn’s interior.  “They have an element of pride that many submissives lack.  And simplicity.  Truly different from any sub you have had before.  And the trainer, well, they have to be in tune with a pony’s thoughts, too.  As simple as they are.”

Cynthia watched as Natasha shifted in the stall she’d entered, restless as she watched the two mistresses speak.  Her eyes had a glistening need Cynthia did not recognize, and it saddened her.

“So, how do I get ‘in tune’ with a pony’s thoughts, then?”

Gwenn chuckled and gestured to another empty stall, beside Natasha’s.

“You have to feel yourself in tack for once.  You have to know what the straps feel like against your skin, the helplessness and the power of it.  There is simply no way to describe it like a flavor of ice cream or the color of a car.”

Cynthia laughed, both surprised and oddly curious.  It was a form of play that she had never considered, and she would have been lying to herself if she wasn’t intrigued by the barn and its trappings.

“You laugh,” Gwenn said, opening the door of the empty stall, “but I’m not kidding.  Without the first-hand experience, you’ll never truly connect with a sub who has the heart of a pony.”

This last struck Cynthia hard.  Her loss of Natasha’s affection, the challenge she represented… It was strange to have allowed herself to need a sub like she needed Natasha, or at least needed to be Natasha’s ll so she could regain some semblance of control.  It was this that led her to the decision, at least she told herself as much.

“Fine,” Cynthia said, terse and sharp.  “You can put me in tack under the condition that I am released when I say.”

“Of course!” Gwenn said, taken aback by the suddenness of Cynthia’s change of mind, hands raised as if in defense.  “To be honest, I hope you find it to your liking, being a trainer, I mean.  There are precious few of us.”

“So, how do we do this?”

“First,” Gwenn said, a finger held aloft, “help me with Natasha.”

It was a sensual act, first stripping Natasha of her clothes and winding the harness around her, buckling it in the back.  With each successive buckle, Natasha shivered with delight.  Once the harness was secured, leaving just enough room to breathe and not chafe her skin, Gwenn slipped her feet into the boots, one at a time, lacing them tight to her calves.  Natasha stood unsteadily at first, then gained her balance, her body thrust slightly forward by the angle of the boots.

“With the hooves on her hands, she becomes helpless,” Gwenn said, fitting one hoof-shaped leather mitten over each hand and lacing it, similarly tight to the boots she wore.

Natasha moved restlessly on her feet, leaving hoofprints in the dirt floor of the stall.  Though she still could, she made no effort to talk, her lips just parted as she breathed steadily, eyes flitting up to Gwenn.

“There’s a helplessness, yes,” Gwenn went on, “but it’s about reliance on the trainer and not just dominance.  It’s a relationship.  Open up.”

Natasha opened her mouth wider and Gwenn fit the head harness over her hair (Mane, Cynthia thought), the bit settling between her upper and lower rows of teeth to keep them spread.  With a practiced motion, Gwenn buckled this, too.  Natasha grunted in pleasure, an animal sound that sent a spark firing through Cynthia’s sex.

“We’ll do the tail later, after we have you settled.”

“I don’t know,” Cynthia said, but her voice sounded weak and distant in her ears.  Seeing Natasha bound, but somehow more gorgeous because of it, because of the control she had given up, because of the primitive look in her eyes…  it made Cynthia feel out of place and time.

“Come on, now,” Gwenn said, patting Cynthia’s ass like the owner of pet shooing it away.  “Let’s get you to your stall.”

Cynthia allowed herself to be herded, unable to stop the hands that undressed her and exposed her.  Gwenn’s touch was sure, not sexual in nature, but firmly affectionate.  When the harness wrapped around her, the first buckle between her shoulder blades fastened, she thought to resist, but didn’t, the flush of heat in her pussy enough to keep her quiet, to allow this to continue.  Then her foot was being lifted, and placed into a boot that jutted her hips back and her belly out, and then the other.  If she didn’t stop it now, she wouldn’t be able to, but she didn’t want it to stop.

“Good girl,” Gwenn said, fitting a heavy mitten over Cynthia’s hand, lacing it at her mid-forearm.  “Very good.  You’re going to be so pretty, aren’t you?”  It was the cooing one used on a simple animal, and when she tugged at Cynthia’s lip, the former dominant opened her mouth wide to take the bit that settled into it.  As her teeth clamped down on the rubber cylinder, she felt a rush of peace and elation, her control given up in a matter of moments.

When done, Gwenn took a step back to admire the women in the stalls.  Shuffling, clomping steps announced the pair of ponies were ready to train.

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