Best Friend's Pony

INTRO

My name is Lisa Parker, and this is my story of my best friend's treachery, my kidnapping, and ultimately me being trained as a pony girl.

I met Danica in my freshman year of high school. I was kind of introverted, and she was the exact opposite. I came from a modest home, where her family was extremely wealthy. Why we were friends is kind of a mystery, especially when thinking back about it now. We were both very active in school, involved in both track and field and cheerleading. I was known in cheerleading as a flyer because I was only 5 feet tall and weighed under 100 pounds. Danica has an amazing body and showed it off as often as she could; mine is not too shabby either, but I was more modest. Danica had always been possessive of me; many times, she would pull me into her lap and grope me. She would make me try on clothes, very slutty clothes, then she would take pictures of me. She also demanded that we only wear panties when I would sleep in her bed with her in her room. When we were younger, we would play superheroes. I would always be the hero, and she would be the villain. She had many skimpy superhero and supervillain costumes. I would ultimately end up tied up with her teasing and tormenting me; sometimes I would be bound the entire day, and sometimes all night. I always thought it was all in fun. I did what she asked, as she could be very bossy and overprotective of me. She even made me attend our junior prom with her as her date because she said there weren't any boys at the school worthy of us. I felt obligated because she bought my dress, a dress I could never afford, and I have to admit we had a really good time. Danica was used to getting her way.

Things changed in our senior year. Danica became more and more possessive, telling me what to do, when to do it, and getting unusually outraged when I didn't follow her commands to the letter. We spent all the past summer vacations together, but I thought this summer it would be better if I did my own thing.

At first, Danica was very angry that I wouldn't be hanging out with her over the summer, but after a day or so, she apologized, saying, "I probably wouldn't enjoy what you're gonna be doing this summer anyway," with a broad smile. Little did I know she was prophetic in her statement.

I'd been penpalling with a girl in Iceland for a couple of months, and she had convinced me to go backpacking across her country after school was over. So, I figured I would do two things: break Danica's hold on me and her dictating what I do, and see some of the world, so I gladly accepted her offer. Danica was uncharacteristically happy about my decision, even offering to take me to dinner, then to the airport for my trip.

While packing, I noticed a photograph tucked into the pages of her yearbook. The girl in the photograph had wide, startled eyes—as she’d just been caught mid-thought. Lisa traced the glossy edge of the picture with her thumb, slipped there like a secret. Danica’s handwriting looped across the bottom: For when you forget your mine.

Lisa exhaled through her nose. That was Danica all over—possessive even in absence. The photo was from last summer, taken after track practice when their skin was still slick with sweat. Danica’s arm hooked around Lisa’s neck in a half-hug, half-headlock, her smile sharp enough to cut glass. Lisa had protested, swatting at her, but Danica only tightened her grip. You’re mine, she’d whispered against Lisa’s temple, her breath hot. Say it.

FIRST NIGHT

We had an enjoyable dinner. Danica was in very high spirits. We talked, laughed, and enjoyed the evening, and when it was time, she began the two-hour drive to the airport. I became very sleepy during the ride and closed my eyes and passed out.

When I awoke, I knew something was wrong. I couldn't move my arms or my legs. I started to cry out, but realized I had something in my mouth. I was lying on my stomach in a strict hog tie. My wrists and ankles were tied together and then tied to a rope coming down from the ceiling, placing my body into a painful bow. I was on a thin mat, naked, and the room was pitch black. Trying to remember what happened, my last thought was of Danica looking down at me and asking if there was something wrong.

I heard footsteps approaching the room I was in, and then the door opened. Light flooded in, and standing in the doorway was Danica in knee-high boots and black leather pants. She was smiling at me and said, "Welcome to your new home, Lisa." As she approached me, I started to wiggle and try to scream, but she just laughed at me. She grabbed my hair and pulled my head up so I was looking at her. She leaned in close and whispered, " I told you you're mine."

I was terrified as Danica walked around me, inspecting me like I was livestock. She grabbed my chin and forced me to look at her again and said, "You're going to be trained to be a proper ponygirl, Lisa. You're going to learn to obey every command without question. "Starting now, you are my slave, my sex slave."

Pony girl? I don't even know what that is—what is she talking about? My mind raced with confusion and fear. The term sounded ridiculous, like some fetish nonsense. Danica had picked up from her privileged world of expensive hobbies and dark desires. She called me her sex slave. What the hell? But the way she said it—with that possessive gleam in her eye—made my stomach twist.

As if reading my mind, Danica leaned in, her fingers tracing the curve of my collarbone. "Oh, Lisa," she murmured, her breath hot against my ear. "You really don’t know, do you?" She laughed, low and delighted, as if my ignorance only made this sweeter for her. "A pony girl isn’t just some fantasy—it’s a discipline, elegance, control." Her nails dug into my skin just enough to sting. "You’ll wear harnesses, bridles, special boots, and even a tail, everything tailored just for you. You'll be naked and bound, your sexy body on display. You will be mine to control, you will learn to move beautifully, to respond to every little command without hesitation. This will take constant correction and discipline, and when you’re perfect…" Her thumb brushed my bottom lip. "Then you’ll be fit to be shown off or sold at auction to the highest bidder."

The word "shown" slithered through me like ice water. I knew Danica’s idea of showing off—her parties where rich friends circled like sharks, their eyes hungry for novelty. The way they’d stare at me during cheer routines, like they wanted to devour me, whispering and watching. My throat tightened. But "sold," She couldn’t mean— "Nuuu," I choked out through my gag."

Danica's laughter was a blade. "Oh, you'll be the star of my collection." She trailed a finger down my ribcage, pausing to pinch the skin just above my hip. " You will be traveling as you've always wanted, not so fun bound in a shipping container than in an airplane seat.

But first, lessons." She tapped the steel bars surrounding us. "Your stall, darling. Custom-designed—see the padded floor? The reinforced tie rings?" Her voice dripped with mock concern. "You will be in strict bondage day and night. Wouldn't want my prize pony bruising herself during training tantrums. The only bruises you'll be getting will be from me," Danica stated with an evil smile on her face.

Danica taunted me with vivid descriptions of her intended transformation of me into a ponygirl. I would be harnessed, bridled, and trained to be put on public display among Danica’s elite social circle. I panicked at the implication, but Danica dismisses my protests, unveiling custom-designed tack or equipment for my "training" with chilling enthusiasm.

The word "pony" was still lodged in my throat. My eyes darted around, hay bales stacked neatly in one corner, a trough with an ominous leather strap dangling beside it. No windows. Just one heavy door with a bolted latch at eye level. Danica followed my gaze and grinned. "Breakfast at dawn. Oats, of course." She leaned closer, her Chanel No. 5 clashing with the antiseptic smell of the stall. "You'll lick them from a bucket like a proper filly." Danica grinned a wolfish grin, that's not the only thing you'll be licking." To my horror, her hand reached down and rubbed her crotch. The implication was clear.

She traced my collarbone with her riding crop, giving my exposed breast a quick slap. The sting shocked me into silence. "First rule," she said, tapping my lips with the tip. "You are property. You will refer to me as Mistress when permitted to speak." Her grip tightened on my chin. "Say it."

I tried—god, I tried—but the gag muffled my throat into a strangled whimper. Danica's sigh was theatrical. She flicked her wrist. The crop cracked across my inner thigh. My scream tore through the stable, bouncing off the wooden beams. Tears burned my cheeks before I even registered the pain blossoming in hot stripes.

Danica clapped, delighted. "Louder, Lisa! The wolf's need entertainment!" Her boot pressed down on my crotch—slow, deliberate. The pain was so sudden, so grotesquely intimate, that my next scream shattered into ragged sobs. She leaned in, her breath sticky with mint gum. "Thirty miles," she whispered. "That's how far we are from any other person, and that's ten minutes by helicopter for my friends who enjoy... distressed acoustics. They will be visiting you quite frequently."

The gag's buckle clicked behind my head. Cold air rushed into my mouth—my first taste of freedom in hours—but Danica's riding crop tapped my teeth before I could form words. "Ah-ah." Her boot lifted, presenting the polished toe inches from my lips. "Prove you understand your place." The leather gleamed under the stable lights, smelling of cedar oil and something darker—her family's stables, maybe, where I'd watched her break yearlings with that same casual cruelty.

I hesitated. The crop landed between my shoulder blades, sharp as a hornet sting. "The slower you are," Danica mused, "the more interesting this gets." Her boot flexed, the sole's tread scraping my chin. Saliva pooled under my tongue. I leaned forward—just an inch—and the crop's tip traced my spine approvingly. My lips brushed leather. The taste flooded my mouth: bitter polish, road salt, the faint metallic tang of my own blood from where I'd bitten my lip earlier.

My phone buzzed; it was lying on the tack table. Danica flipped it open one-handed, her other hand twisting in my hair to keep me kneeling. I saw the screen upside down: Mom's contact photo, the selfie we'd taken at graduation. A green text bubble beneath it: Made it! Cell service is spotty, but we're heading into the backcountry tomorrow. Love you! She snapped the phone shut with a satisfied click. "Guess what?" Her boot pressed harder. "Your mom sent your message. Be careful, there are a lot of bad people out there. I don't want you kidnapped or something worse Danica laughed, while I cried.

ONE MONTH LATER.

Danica's riding crop tapped the hollow behind my knee—not a warning, but a promise. "Keep those knees up, Spirit," she murmured, using the pony name that coiled like barbed wire in my stomach. The metal feed trough's edge bit into my shins, the pain radiating upward through my thighs as I balanced precariously. My reflection in the polished tack mirror showed blotchy bruises blooming across my ass from last Thursday's "posture correction"—purple streaks that matched the stable's violets choking the fence outside.

The stable doors groaned open before I heard footsteps. High heels clicked across concrete—three pairs, maybe four—their rhythm punctuated by giggles that raised the hairs on my neck. "Oh my god, Dani," came a voice I recognized from cheerleading tryouts—Megan, who'd always smirked when Danica "accidentally" groped me during routines. "You weren't kidding about the upgrades."

Danica's crop snapped against my inner thigh. Not hard enough to bruise—just enough to make my legs jolt apart on instinct. "Standard stance, Spirit." Her polished boot nudged my left foot wider until the tendons behind my knees burned. The crop's tip skated upward, tracing the strap that ran between my legs, holding the large dildo and but plug in place, before tapping twice—pause—once against my mound. A command I'd learned through blistered skin: present. I quickly thrust her crotch out as far as I could, feeling the harness straps dig into her hips, driving the two plastic monsters in my pussy and ass home.

Megan's manicured fingers pinched my right nipple before I even saw her move. "They're perkier than mine," she marveled, rolling the bud between thumb and forefinger until it throbbed. "When are you going to pierce them?" Someone—Courtney, maybe—snorted and grabbed a handful of my ass, kneading the bruised flesh with deliberate pressure. "Jesus, little Lisa's ass is as hard as a rock. Dani, how much does she squat?" The laughter that followed prickled across my skin like fire ants.

Danica's crop tapped against her thigh—three slow beats. The signal. My mouth flooded with saliva even as my stomach clenched. I knew the drill: drop to my knees, crawl to the first girl, press my lips to the inside of her ankle like I was kissing a fucking relic. Then up the thigh, nose brushing cotton or lace or whatever fabric that shielded the girl's pussies. Never linger too long at the waistband, drag it down, and lick it as if my life depended on it. Because with these psychos, it just might. That was Danica's rule—just enough hesitation to make them squirm before diving in, any lack of enthusiasm, well, my mistress can be quite creative with her punishments.

Courtney's Converse sneakers smelled of grass and cheap vodka when I reached her. Same as yesterday. Same as the day before that. My lips trembled against the canvas, tasting salt and the ghost of spilled cocktails from some party I wasn't invited to. Someone—Emily?—giggled when I nuzzled the gap between Courtney's sock and her calf. "She's gotten good at this," Courtney mused, grinding her heel into my collarbone. The pain sparked bright behind my eyelids. Danica's laughter curled around me like smoke. "Practice makes perfect."

Megan was next. Always Megan next. Her patent leather Mary Janes gleamed under the stable lights, the toe tapping impatiently against the concrete. I knew what she wanted. What they all wanted. My tongue dragged along the stiff leather, tracing the seams until I reached the buckle. Teeth. Always teeth with Megan. The metal clicked against my incisors as I worked it loose with my mouth alone, the way she'd taught me after three failed attempts left my gums bleeding. "Slower," she murmured, twisting a handful of my hair until my scalp burned. "Make it pretty." The buckle came free with a muffled snap, the strap slithering down her calf. Now I slowly start kissing her leg all the way up to her lace-covered pussy. I didn't need to look up to see her smirk.

If I didn't please them, or just for the fun of it, they would torture me later. Each of them was a true sadist and loved to inflict pain in different ways. Megan preferred the slow, methodical cruelty—her fingers twisting my nipples just shy of unbearable while whispering how disappointed she was in my "lazy tongue." Courtney liked sharpness: the bite of her riding cane against my inner thighs, the way she'd count the seconds between the strikes so the sting built in waves. But Danica? Danica was inventive. She'd weave my punishments into training, like the time she'd forced me to balance with my legs spread in 2 rings suspended in the air, my legs were pulled into the split, while she dangled a vibrator just out of reach between my legs. Making me painfully thrust my crotch down, "Focus, pony," she'd crooned, tapping my trembling calves with her boot. "Or you'll spend the night stake out in the paddock again."

Now, as Megan's fingers tightened in my hair—forcing my face deeper between her thighs—I could hear Danica unbuckling her belt behind me. The metallic clink sent a fresh wave of dread down my spine. They'd left marks before—bruises shaped like teeth, welts from the crop—but nothing permanent. Nothing that couldn't be hidden under a cheerleading uniform if—when—I escaped. My breath hitched against Megan's latex thong.

I move to the next. "Focus," Danica murmured, her boot nudging my spread knees wider apart. The concrete bit into my skin. "Unless you want Courtney to hold the branding iron while I pierce you, maybe your clit?" Courtney's delighted giggle skittered across my nerves. I redoubled my efforts, my tongue tracing frantic circles around her clit until Megan's thighs trembled.

So, this is my life as a pony girl. My mistress, Danica, informed the group that she plans to start training me for the races in two months. One questioned, "I thought you were going to keep her as a show pony?" "She's just too fast, I think she can do both," Danica responded.

Later that day, while beginning round 2 of satisfying these bitches, Danica whispers to me that after the girls leave, she has a surprise for me. She's planning to pierce my nipples and tongue and then brand me. She says that will make my transformation into a pony girl complete.

It's only been two weeks of this living hell. I don't know how long I can make it.