Aunt Ann’s Pony Life Ch. 04

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I told you that to set the scene. We were two adults, Aunt Ann in her 40s, and me in my 20s, who enjoyed sex and, okay, kinky sex at that.

So I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised when she said she wanted me to join her one weekend after I had been living with her for almost six months, so I could see what she called the “other her.”

“It’s important Davey,” she said, propped up on an elbow and smiling at me.

“Okay, I get it,” I said, smiling up at her, “but what exactly is it that we’re talking about?”

She blushed prettily, as she does.

“I can’t really tell you without seeming to be crazy,” she said, leaning down to kiss me lightly, “but I’ll take you this weekend.”

“Not even a hint?” I asked, my fingers rolling her nipples, liking the way they hardened under my attention.

She smiled and shook her head.

“I could torture it out of you,” I said, increasing the pressure of my thumb and forefinger on her nipple.

She giggled.

“You know that wouldn’t work,” she said, “I’d hold out just so you’d keep it up.”

I chuckled and played with her tits some more.

“I knew I should have never bound the girls up,” I said.

We made love that night, gently, tenderly. I brought her to orgasm with my mouth, drinking her pleasure, with my fingers, capturing her release in my hand and rubbing it into the skin of her belly like a skin conditioner, and then with my cock, using a slow rhythm to take her over the top a half dozen times before letting my control go.

Thursday night I tied her to the bed, on her back, spread eagle, and spanked her pussy until she came so hard it looked like she had wet the bed the sheet was so sodden. When she finally got her breathing back to normal I held her breasts together and titty fucked her until I came on her face. I left her tied that night until she woke me, yelling, “CRAMP!” When I untied her she sat up, trying to ease the cramp but it took my fingers, to find the tight knot of pain just below her shoulder blade to give her some relief.

Friday, we went to dinner, and then dancing at a club she knew. The clothes she wore would have done a streetwalker proud. The white blouse was so sheer that her breasts were, effectively, on display and her lack of a bra could not have been more obvious. The skirt was short and the buttfloss thong she wore left her beautiful ass on display. When we got home, though, she surprised me.

“Tonight is all you, honey,” she said, “I can’t have any release tonight. It’s important for tomorrow.”

That’s all she would say, but the blowjob was spectacular.

She woke me at four the next morning. She yanked the covers off suddenly, yelling, “GET UP, GET UP, GET UP, DAYLIGHT’S BURNING!”

Well, maybe she wasn’t actually yelling, but she damn sure wasn’t being quiet about it.

She had obviously already showered. But rather than the carefully coiffed and made up Aunt Ann I was used to, her hair hung still damp, her face was scrubbed, and she was wearing a shapeless sack dress of what looked to be a coarse material, the word “burlap” came to mind.

When I tried to bury my face in the pillow she grabbed my ankle and started pulling.

I caught a glimpse of the clock on the headboard.

“It’s four in the goddam morning,” I groaned, getting a foot on the floor before she pulled me completely off of the bed.

“Yes,” she said, “and you have ten minutes to shower and be ready or you’re missing the bus.”

“Aunt Annnnnnnnn,” I said, but I was talking to her back.

To anyone who has been through basic training, ten minutes is plenty to get up, get ready, and get moving. So I got up, stepped into the shower still wet and warm from, apparently, her earlier shower, dried, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, and was ready in nine minutes.

She was smiling when I went into the kitchen. She handed me the stainless steel travel mug I used for water or coffee when we went somewhere in her Yukon, and said, “Let’s go.”

She drove while I nursed the strong coffee, breathing a silent prayer of thanks to Mr. Keurig or whoever had invented the machine of that name.

We headed west of town and soon the lights of the city were behind us, not that there were all that many lights at this hour. Off the numbered U.S. Highway she turned onto a State Highway and then Maltepe Escort onto a County Road. Another turn put us on a narrow dirt lane.

It was dirt, but it was very well-maintained and clearly well-used. A woods, hell, a forest, grew right to the edge of the lane leaving no shoulder at all. The woods were so thick I couldn’t see more than a few dozen feet into it. The canopy was thick enough that it was almost dark even though the sun was up, if barely.

She drove with concentration, and in silence. Usually, she was chatty, and, especially in the morning, I was silent as I went through my hour wake up. When I reached for the radio she said, simply, “No.”

So we drove. I’m not sure how long the lane was but eventually, it gave onto an open area, a paved parking lot with a few trucks, I didn’t notice any cars. There was one chrome-laden horse trailer.

A high hedge spread left and right from a building, appropriate to this foothills terrain. The building was big, easily 40 feet across the front, made in the horizontal log cabin style although these “logs” were obviously machine-turned. Nature never produces that kind of symmetry.

When she parked the Yukon she took a deep breath, slowly inhaling and then slowly exhaling with a soft hissing sound.

Then she turned to me, her face somber.

“David,” she said, holding my eyes with hers, “I need this. If it’s too much, I’ll understand and help you find a place to live.”

“I,” I started to say something like, “I’ll be okay,” or something but she stopped me with a finger to my lips.

“Don’t say anything,” she said, “this is serious.”

Another of those big deep breaths and she said, “Come on,” and opened the door, got out of the truck, and started toward the big entrance door in the middle of the log building.

Inside the building, the motif was pure Western. There was a large open room, and the word “lobby” sprung to mind. There were a half dozen wide chairs and one long couch all done in the same style, bentwood frames very highly polished but with knots and bumps showing, supporting leather cushions in the black and white leather I associated from my brief foray into small town living in the summers with Holstein cows. On one wall was a huge, easily three feet by six feet, picture depicting cowboys herding a bunch of wild horses. On the opposite wall was the Battle Flag of the Army of Northern Virginia, the Stars and Bars often mistakenly called the Confederate flag, with a display of the “guns that won the West.” I could pick out a Colt Single Action Army and Henry and Winchester lever action rifles among others I didn’t have time to identify as Aunt Ann led me to a big desk at the other end of the room.

“Dakota,” the striking woman behind the desk said, “it’s been a while.”

She was made up to go dancing at the local cowboy bar with a checkered pattern, very form-fitting, shirt, the material I later learned is called Gingham, with pearl snaps rather than buttons, and two breast pockets with little pointed flaps. A white cowboy hat completed the image. She was seated behind the desk and although I couldn’t see, I made a bet with myself that when she stood she would have on skin-tight jeans over cowboy boots.

“It’s been too long,” Aunt Ann said.

“And who is this,” the receptionist asked, nodding at me.

“This is David,” Aunt Ann said, “please check him in as my mentor.”

I found that turn of phrase odd, but said nothing. This was clearly her show.

“David,” the receptionist said, “I am Diane. I’ll need to see your identification, please. We are careful to keep The Pink Pony,” and the way she said that made the capitalization clear, “adults only.”

I handed over my driver’s license and she used a professional-looking scanner to scan the bar code on the back, something I had not noticed before.

“One moment, dear,” she said and then got busy on her computer. I won the bet. The jeans were skin-tight and had obviously been designed by someone who knew that men and women had different body shapes. The boots were white with two-inch heels and very pointed toes.

She got up and moved to the end of the counter. “Over here, David,” she said, “feet on the footprints.”

I went and stood where she indicated.

“Up here,” she said and when I looked at her hand Anadolu Yakası Escort there was a sudden flash and I realized my picture had just been taken.

“Okay,” she said.

I went back to stand by Aunt Ann who was standing very still, her shoulders back and her head high.

She was looking straight ahead and didn’t even acknowledge my presence.

Diane was busy with her computer, doing something I couldn’t see. She smiled up at me, hit “Enter,” and walked over to a machine that was clicking and whirring busily. She reached into the little cabinet under the machine and when she stood there was an ID lanyard in her hand.

“Please wear this at all times when you are on the Pink Pony premises, David,” she said, handing me the lanyard. I read it – “David Morgan – Affiliation: Dakota.”

Diane picked up her phone, the one with about 20 buttons on it, punched a button, and said, “Andi, Dakota needs to be tacked up.”

In a couple of minutes the most butch woman I ever saw walked into the room through a door I hadn’t noticed before. She had a well-worn straw hat on with a distinct dark band of sweat at the brim. Her leather vest was open, small breasts peeking out from time to time with her movements, and the tufts of hair at her armpits were on display as she worked the leather harness over Aunt Ann’s head. Aunt Ann twisted her head away as Andi worked the metal rod, the “bit” I thought, making the harness a bridle, into her mouth.

“Come along, Dakota,” Andi said, giving a tug on the short lead attached to the bit.

She followed along and as I watched Andi took a braided leather rod a couple of feet long, the word “quirt” sprung to mind, and I heard a sharp slap.

“STEPS, Dakota,” Andi said.

Aunt Ann moved ahead, each step raising her knee very high before putting her foot back down.

“Good girl,” Andi said, “I know it’s been a while, but we do have standards.”

Aunt Ann tossed her head and the sound she made can only be described as a whinny followed by a snort.

I was standing, watching. I could feel my mouth open and realized I probably looked like an idiot. Well, an idiot with a hard-on.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a striking woman approaching so I tore my eyes away from the door through which Andi and Aunt Ann had left and looked at her.

And she was worth looking at.

She was tall for a woman. I guessed her at 5’11” or maybe 6′. In the ridiculous stiletto heels she wore she was at least three inches taller than my 5’10”. The most striking feature was her hair. It was platinum blonde in a shade that would have made Marilyn Monroe or Jayne Mansfield proud. It was very long, pulled straight back from her face, and bound in a leather clip. From the clip, it hung straight down to the small of her back.

Given what I had just watched between Andi and Aunt Ann I couldn’t help but think of the word “mane.”

“It can be overwhelming the first time,” she said by way of greeting.

“It is that,” I said.

“I’m Gloria,” she said, extending her hand, “welcome to my place.”

“And what is this place?” I asked, taking her hand and receiving a strong, almost masculine handshake. I mean hell, I had lived for two years with a Japanese hooker turned live-in girlfriend. She was an accomplished professional and had shown me things, taught me things, and taken me to places my Midwestern sensibilities had never really imagined. But this was new.

“The Pink Pony,” she said, “is a place where successful women can shed their cares and never be judged.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, clearly not at my conversational best.

She glanced at the lanyard around my neck and said, “David, Dakota is a successful woman, but she’s alone, and David, that’s unnatural.”

She smiled at me, a well-tended product of expensive dental care and I suspected dental work.

“David,” she said, “women aren’t equipped to be alone, to make all of those little decisions needed to get along in the world. So I offer them a little break from all of that.”

“I’m still,” I started but she cut me off with a giggle.

“It’s easier to show than explain,” she said, taking my hand and leading me down a hall, through the opposite door from the one I had watched Andi and Aunt Ann use.

She led me through a door that opened onto İstanbul Escort a porch. Well, it was more of a viewing area and the view was pretty spectacular. It looked like something out of Kentucky horse country, a region through which I drove one time. There was a very well-tended dirt track, I guessed it at about three-quarters of a mile although I could have been off by a good bit. Very white, board fences assembled in a series of “Xs” between upright fence posts surrounded the inside of the track.

“Jesus, she must keep a painting crew running all the time,” I thought.

We were far enough away, probably 50 yards of well-tended lawn and some very professional-looking grandstands between us and the track, that it took a few seconds to sort out exactly what I was seeing.

When it all registered I caught my breath.

On the track there were two, well, what I came to understand are “Ponies” pulling little carts, something I later learned were called “sulkies.”

The Ponies were very similar, obviously variations on a theme. One was in black. Full headgear covered her head completely, a long mane hanging down her back from it, with blinders blocking her view to the side. The bit in her mouth was bright silver with leather straps back to the driver sitting on the seat of the sulky. A complex harness of black leather crisscrossed her breasts, lifting and separating them. The leather corset cinched her waist dramatically while another set of straps ran between her legs. A long flowing tail hung nearly to the ground. The driver handled the reins with one hand while with the other he flicked, almost constantly, with a long buggy whip.

The other Pony was in a similar tack, another word I would learn before the day was done, but in red.

I watched as the Ponies pulled their sulkies around the track, using an exaggerated, knees very high, movement with each step.

I managed to pull my eyes away from them and saw, in the infield, a pair of Ponies, these two big and blonde, their fat bodies interesting in that way of some fat women, harnessed side-by-side and hauling a wagon loaded with what looked to my city-bred eyes like hay bales. Their tack was the headgear and bit, with a wide heavy girdle that was hooked to the beam at the front of the trailer.

As I looked, Gloria touched my arm and said, “See. They don’t need to think or to worry about anything.”

She chuckled, a sound coming from deep in her throat.

“Well, as long as they keep their steps right,” she added.

I didn’t say anything, just kept looking, fascinated.

“Come along, David,” she said, “let’s see how Dakota is doing.”

So I followed.

“You’re listed as her handler,” she said, “I assume you haven’t done anything like this before.”

“No,” I said, simply.

“It’s a big responsibility, David,” she said, slowing so that we were side by side, “she’s putting herself in your hands.”

“What does a ‘handler’ do?” I asked, still overwhelmed.

“You need to understand that she won’t be the same woman you brought in,” she started. “As soon as Andi took her back to the tack room,” and I interrupted.

“Tack?” I asked.

“Yes, dear,” she said, and I was surprised that I didn’t find the condescending look on her face aggravating, “tack. The gear for a Pony,” and the way she said it made the capitalization obvious, “The headgear and harness, cinches, saddles, hooves, that stuff.”

“Hooves?” I asked.

She giggled and said, “It’s easier to see than explain, David, now shush while I tell you what to expect.”

“Okay,” I said, properly chastised.

“As soon as Andi took Dakota into the tack room she gave her a drink. The drink included a compound one of our Ponies who’s also a doctor worked up. It has some Ecstasy, some Librium, and a very light dose of LSD,” she said. “What I’m telling you is that as a Pony she is not the bright woman you brought here. We take away a couple of dozen IQ points and all inhibitions.”

I nodded, listening and processing.

“She IS a Pony while she’s here, David,” she said, “and she NEEDS handling.”

We were passing through another hallway. At the door, she said, “Are you ready for this?”

“I guess,” I said.

“NO!” she snapped, “if you have any doubts then we’ll just go back and watch from the stands.”

I thought for a minute, giving it serious thought for the first time. Until this point, I had been too overwhelmed to really think about what I was seeing and learning.

“Yes,” I said.

She looked me up and down.

“Well, then, come along,” she said, and opened the door.

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