Forced Ponygirl

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Forced Ponygirl


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This work is copyright 2000-2008 by Xaltatun of Acheron (A Pseudonym). It may be posted on the Internet to any free forum. It may be reformatted to match the forum's look and feel, and the forum editor may make minor spelling and grammer corrections. Otherwise it must be posted in its entirety, including these notices. It may not be sold, or included in any compilation that is sold, or posted on any forum that requires a fee for access, without my written permission. My permission will require payment, terms to be negotiated. For purposes of this notice, sites guarded by Adult Check or similar packages are considered pay sites. Posting on any site must include this copyright notice.
Adult Content Warning - this story contains adult themes, including non-consensual bondage/slavery and forced sexual acts. If you are under the lawful age for such materials (18 in most jurisdictions) or if you would find such material offensive, please go elsewhere.
Safety Warning. This story may contain descriptions of practices that are decidedly unsafe, either in general, or if performed by someone without adequate training. There are a number of good books available on safety in the BDSM scene. Most large cities, and some not so large ones, have organized BDSM groups that will usually welcome a newcomer. I'm not going to point out which practices are safe, and which aren't. Any practice is unsafe if performed by someone with inadequate training and experience, or if performed when not paying attention. Please think before you act. Don't make yourself a candidate for a Darwin award.
This story is part of the Scatterbrain series; it takes place part way through the Plague Decades. After the first plague, the government barely managed to dig out while holding onto essential services. The prison system, with its multi-year sentences, was way to expensive to survive. In the new system, a first offense gets community service; a second offense gets a year in prison. For a third offense, the felon is trained as a slave and sold to the highest bidder.
It's not quite as draconian as it appears to be on the surface; a single conviction is erased after then years, a second conviction likewise after ten years leaving another ten to get rid of the first conviction. The third convictiion is, however, permanent.
The new system has a number of interesting features. The first time convict is “chipped.” That is, a computer chip (actually a complicated system of chips) is implanted in their brain. It allows real time tracking, and also allows the controller to shut down or turn on specific brain functions on command. The chips are based on the brain maps developed by the secret project described in LabRat, but otherwise they are a separate development.
Community service isn’t a bed of roses; the convicts are arranged in labor platoons, and the platoon leaders are required to do their best to make their charges’ lives miserable, in the hope that they’ll wise up and not repeat the offense.
A third time felon loses most rights. The steady stream of three time losers is routed to various training facilities depending on current market demand. Much of the demand is, of course, for personal servants, although there is a surprisingly large demand for more specialized categories. And the demand for females is always higher than the demand for males, so sex change surgery has become better, simpler, cheaper and safer.
There are restrictions on what condemned criminals can be used for. Those restrictions pretty much eliminate their use for business or industrial workers, except in a few categories. Sex workers and ponygirls are among the exceptions.
One would think that the draconian penalties would deter all but the most desperate from criminal behavior. However, it doesn’t seem to work that way. This is the story of a slow learner.
“The prisoner will rise and face the bench,” the bailiff intoned.
Chuck got to his feet. Chuck was around six feet tall with the wiry yet powerful build of a long distance runner. He was dressed, as tradition demanded, in a conservative suit that would not excite any undue comment. This was so that there could be no complaint that the way the prison authorities presented him during trial had influenced the jury.
“Mr. Wayner,” the judge said as soon as he was standing. “The jury has found you guilty of third degree murder, driving under the influence and leaving the scene of the accident. Since this is your third offense within ten years, and since there appear to be no mitigating circumstances, I have no choice but to sentence you to permanent enslavement.”
The prisoner swayed slightly as the blood drained out of his face. Not that he hadn’t expected the sentence, but hearing his doom made it that much more final.
The judge picked up the paper his clerk handed him, looked it over, signed it and handed it back to the clerk.
“Take him away,” he told the bailiff.
A guard shackled the prisoner’s arms behind his back. Then the guard clamped a beefy hand on Chuck’s arm and half shoved, half dragged the unresisting young man out of the room.
“Oh daddy! Thank you!” Sally exclaimed as she threw her arms around her father’s neck in a hug. “I thought I’d never get approved!”
“You may not thank me afterwards,” Stan told her seriously. “I had to pull a lot of strings to get you that internship, and from some of the things that were said, and even more that weren’t being said, I wonder if it was the best thing to do. Most of the people I dealt with weren’t real happy with your training certificate.”
“But I graduated at the top of the class!”
“So you did. They still weren’t happy about it. There’s something going on that they’re not talking about – at least to me.”
He shrugged. “Well, that’s done, and your assignment starts a week from Monday. If you manage to survive it, I’ll get you your own ponygirl.”
The orange prison bus pulled up outside of a fenced-in facility whose sign proclaimed it to be a Medical Facility of the Bureau of Prisons. The prisoners in their black and white striped prison uniforms came off the bus and lined up single file. It was immediately obvious that there were two groups of prisoners. One group wore conventional hand shackles that kept their wrists pinned to a chain circling their waists; they were also shackled together by a chain that connected their right legs. The other group didn’t wear any kind of restraint.
The other obvious difference was that the first group wasn’t quite sure what to do: the line they formed straggled. The second group’s line lay ruler straight with almost military precision, the immobile prisoners staring straight ahead, eyes unfocused and hands clasped behind their backs.
The prisoners in the first group stared openly at the second line as a guard walked down it, pointing a handheld device at each of the prisoners as he checked them off of a list. Finally, he reached the end and closed his list with a snap. He fingered his device briefly, and then pushed a button. The prisoners in the line turned as one, and then walked toward the building, eventually vanishing from sight.
One of the guards with the first group broke the silence. “Wasn’t that a pretty sight, guys?” There were a few mutters in answer.
“Guess how they did it?” he asked rhetorically. Nobody answered him.
“They’ve been chipped!” he said. “Start marching, and we’ll just get you all outfitted with your very own chips.”
They stood there, stunned. “Come on guys. Move it.” He pulled a club off of his belt and began counting. “On the count. One. Right. Two. Left.” The coffle of convicts began to march toward the medical facility.
Chuck Wayner was the third prisoner in the first line to enter the building. He marched in with the rest of the prisoners, keeping perfect step. The line arrived at a largish room with a long desk dominating one side. The prisoners in the line walked into the room and stopped facing the desk, feet precisely positioned with the toes of their prison shoes touching a black line that ran the length of the room parallel with the desk.
A guard walked in and led the first prisoner in line out of the room via a door at the far end. Then he came back and led the next prisoner out, as the remainder of the prisoners simply stood there, eyes unfocused and staring ahead.
When he came back, Chuck walked after him through the door. They went down a corridor, and then another corridor into a third corridor that had a row of cells lined on either side. The guard swung one of the cell doors open, and Chuck marched inside. The guard closed the door with a clang, and the lock snapped shut with a final sounding thunk.
The chip finally released. Chuck took a deep breath and looked at his surroundings. It seemed to be a standard single prisoner jail cell: a cot next to one wall and a television set with an unbreakable plastic face set into the back wall. There was a slot in the floor in back with a roll of toilet paper next to it. That completed the arrangements.
The two side walls were solid concrete for about a meter and a half, with bars up to the ceiling. The wall itself seemed to be most of a meter thick. Chuck looked at the arrangement, and sighed. It let him talk to the prisoners in the cells next to him, while it kept them from doing anything more physical than holding hands. At least, the designers probably thought that’s what it did.
His lips quirked as he remembered climbing up on the wall so he could have sex with the inmate in the next cell. Far from prohibiting it, the guards thought it was amusing. They kept shuffling inmates around and had betting pools on just about every aspect of the inmate’s sex lives.
It was too early for there to be anything interesting, besides the next cell had a guy. He shrugged. For some reason, all of the convicts in his line were guys. He watched as the guards continued to bring in convicts and stick them in the cells, filling them up one by one.
Eventually the cells filled up and the guards quit coming. Then the door on the other end opened, and two people dressed in the pale green of hospital attendants wheeled in a gurney. They opened the first cell door, and pointed one of the control boxes at it. The inmate walked out and lay down on the platform. Then they wheeled the gurney out.
After a while, they came back in with a gurney, and took the guy in the next cell. After another while, they took the next guy. And then the next. Time passed as the two hospital attendants slowly unloaded the cell block.
Eventually, they wheeled the gurney up to the door of Chuck’s cell. The door unlocked with a quiet snick, and creaked open. One of the attendants pushed his button, and Chuck felt his body get up and walk himself out to lie on the gurney.
He watched the cell bars go by as the gurney creaked its way down the corridor. Then he was in something that clearly seemed to be a hospital. The two attendants parked the gurney by the wall and walked away. A nurse came up and took his blood pressure and drew some blood. Then she walked away.
Every once in a while, the attendants wheeled the gurney on the end with its unresisting cargo further down the corridor into an operating room. In between, they added a new gurney to the end of the line.
The two attendants wheeled his gurney into the operating room. They pressed a button, and Chuck lost consciousness. The surgeons promptly got to work.
Several hours later, Chuck woke up back in his cell. He was lying on his back on the cot, naked and facing the ceiling. As he came awake, he realized that various parts of his anatomy seemed to be anesthetized. In particular, he couldn’t feel anything in the area of his crotch. His breasts, however, seemed to be itching. He swung himself to his feet, and noticed that his cell had acquired some new furniture. There was now a table and chair placed under the television set, and a tall cabinet next to it.
When he looked down to check himself, he saw his entire groin area covered by a white plastic shield with a small hole. He looked at it a moment, and then went pale. A quick check confirmed the worst: he no longer had any body hair.
He took a deep breath and sat down at the table. Then he reached out to press the control on the television that turned it into a mirror. He grimaced as he saw that he didn’t seem to have any beard, either.
He held his head in his hands for a moment, and then sighed. He opened the cabinet at the back of the table, and confirmed his suspicions. Makeup.
He got up slowly and looked at the cabinet. Then he reached out to open it as if he was afraid what he would find. He nodded with a grimace of distaste as he saw the contents. A sleeveless dress, or rather a tunic, a very flat bra, and a pair of very high heeled sandals.
It wasn’t like this was totally unfamiliar. His labor battalion had been assigned to a very rough neighborhood on prostitution suppression. The battalion supervisor had decided the easiest way to suppress the prostitutes was to undercut their prices. So she had dressed the battalion members up in skimpy tunics, enormous falsies and spike heels, and had chained them to the lampposts.
It had definitely worked. By the time he was three weeks in, he quit counting the number of cocks he’d sucked off and the number of times he’d been taken up the ass on any given day.
They’d lost a few initially as the whores and their pimps had attempted to eradicate the new competition. A couple of times he’d almost bought it before the undercover cops had tackled the guy who was trying to eliminate him.
By the end, though, the battalion had simply faded into the background of the neighborhood; one more thing that the inhabitants simply took for granted. He had a fair number of regular clients, and knew quite a few of the neighborhood people enough to exchange greetings by name.
At least, he thought as he took out the bra and examined it, they weren’t making him wear falsies. If he had it scoped, he’d be a reasonably decent substitute for a she by the end of the week. He slid his arms into the straps and fumbled a minute until he got the hooks fastened. At least the garment protected his suddenly tender breasts.
Then he slid the tunic on over his head and let it slither down his body. He noticed it was fairly tight around his hips. He slid his feet into the sandals and took a few trial steps around his cell. He shook his head in resignation as he noticed his hips sway in time to the movement. It was all coming back, and he had devoutly hoped it wouldn’t.
Well, he was a realist, but he did wonder what they were going to do with a fake female that was taller than most men, even standing barefoot.
Two weeks later, an orange prison bus pulled up outside of the facility gate, under a large sign that declared the installation to be a restricted area. A smaller sign proclaimed that Ponygirl Training Facility 6 was part of the Bureau of Prisons. The four nude women in the back of the bus looked out the windows curiously, but didn’t seem to see anything to excite their interest.
A few minutes later, the bus started up again and drove through the gate. It stopped in front of a guard shack. One of the guards came out and stuck his head in the open door. “End of the line, girls. Come on out and line up.”
None of the four women moved. The guard frowned. Then told the driver: “You’ve got them turned off,” in an slightly accusing tone.
“Of course,” the driver said. “It’s easier that way.”
The guard got back in and waved his arm toward the door. This time, after looking at each other and then back at the guard, the four women got out of their seats and walked out, single file. They walked to a red line painted on the concrete and stood there, toes touching the line, hands at their sides, eyes gazing blankly down the road they had just traveled.
The guard looked at the list on top of his clipboard. He had one blonde and three brunettes. Check.
He looked further at the first entry. Brunette one was six feet tall, B cup breasts, 34 – 25 – 38. He looked admiringly at the picture. This one was named Chuck Wayner. The technicians at the transformation facility had done their usual excellent job. There were only a few traces of the male he had been. As the guard knew from long experience, those would vanish in the next few weeks. By the time she was ready for shipment to the auction facility, nothing short of a DNA scan would show that she had ever been male.
He pointed his reader at the patiently standing woman and looked at the display. The chip seemed to be in working order, and it agreed with the paper on his clipboard.
He swiftly checked the other three women standing in the hot sun. One of the brunettes had been born female. That was mildly unusual. They had standards for ponygirls, and most women simply weren’t tall enough. Besides, it didn’t matter how well they trained them, it seemed that a born female was usually better in the sex and housekeeping department than the ersatz females the transformation facility turned out. Part of the game was filling market demand, and ex-males made very acceptable ponygirls.
He signed the driver’s delivery book, and watched as the orange bus made its way back out of the facility. His four charges still stood looking at nothing.
He picked up the phone on the wall, and punched in a code.
“Tom,” he told the man who answered. “I’ve got your delivery. Three brunettes and a blonde, as described.”
“Right on time,” Tom answered. “I’ll be out shortly.”
“Take your time,” the guard said. “I’m going to play with them a bit.”
“The driver turned off speech and hearing; they can’t understand a word I say. And it looks like at least two of them need to go real bad.”
“Have fun. It’ll take a few minutes to get ready to receive them anyway.”
The guard hung up the phone and looked at the line of feminine charms. The first brunette really did need to go. He caught her eye and pointed at her, then moved his arm to a spot on the dirt that surrounded the guard station. The woman looked at him, until he gestured again, this time more forcefully. Then she walked over and stood there.
He gestured her to the side until she stood with one foot on either side of a small depression. Then he made a patting motion with his hands. She looked at him blankly. After a couple of tries, he shrugged his shoulders and got out the little controller he’d used to check their chips.
He frowned a moment and then pushed a few buttons. Then he pushed the red “execute command” button.
A moment later, her face contorted and then reddened in embarrassment as the stream of yellow liquid spurted out. Then she relaxed in relief as the relentless pressure vanished.
When she was done, he waved her back to her place in line and pointed to the next woman. This one swayed over to the designated spot, giving him a nice wiggle of her hips, squatted and let loose as if it was the most natural thing in
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