Tami stood at obedient attention in front of the buggy to which she was harnessed, sweating in the hot late August sun after a long run, aware that everyone passing by her in the main square gave a good hard look at her sweating nakedness. She tried not to think of her new name -- “Naked” -- engraved on the little necklace, probably the most expensive necklace she had ever worn, from the looks of it. In fact everything about this place was expensive, and well thought out. The harness around her shoulders and waist was of the softest leather and fit perfectly. The food was excellent, Tami had eaten supper and today breakfast and lunch in the little dining area at the end of the stable, next to her two stable-mates, Carrie and Katie, though it was a silent meal. Pony girls were not supposed to talk to each other, something she found out quickly when she settled into her straw bed last night and tried to tell Carrie that her name was really Tami Smithers and due to some mistaken identity she had gotten captured here against her will. Burt quickly appeared on the scene and flayed her with a little multiple whip thing that didn’t leave marks but stung like hell.
He had heard Tami over the microphone attached to the video camera in their cell. Every aspect of the ponies’ lives was monitored. It was like being a goldfish in a bowl, a total lack of privacy. There were no showers; instead the ponies were hosed down in front of Burt and the other keepers, then shampooed and given toothbrushes, all in full view. Even relieving themselves was done into a bucket in the bathing area, not in an enclosed bathroom. Yet the ponies were well tended and well taken care of. The food was excellent; they certainly were being exercised.
Tami looked down at her toenails -- she had been given an expert manicure and pedicure this morning. She could still make out the little suns she had carved in her nails a few weeks ago, and doing Britney songs in the sandstone desert. That seemed so long ago now.
She leaned onto one foot to scratch the back of her calf with her toenails, realizing how pony-like this motion was. And she felt the huge, long plug shift deep within her. It was indeed possible to run and work with this thing up into her colon, and she was aware of it every second. It rubbed her intestines with each movement, her stretched sphincter feeling every little motion. Her tail was by far the biggest and longest on the farm, she could feel it tickle her heels as she trotted.
At least the others had leathers and boots they put on after showering. Tami had nothing, not a scrap, and went around in total nakedness except for “wearing” this monster inside her. She overheard the instructions often -- “Keep Naked away from any clothes or shoes, not a stitch, ever” -- and really hated that name, Naked. Worse, she had found herself answering to it. It was childish, like in grade school when someone said “Hey stupid!” and laughed when you turned. Yet she had to concede that of all possible names, it was the most descriptive.
She wondered about these pony girls, and as she continued to sweat under the hot sun, waiting for someone to either unhitch her or get into the buggy for another ride, she looked out at the fields, the pony girls tending to the crops, and then looked back at the mansion. This whole scene was so creepy. She saw the cornerstone of the mansion -- MDCCCXLIV. She shook her head and looked at the fields again, thinking of her boyfriend’s great-great-grandparents toiling in the hot sun like that, in fields very much like these -- not pampered and well fed, but cruelly abused and enslaved. Playing slavery seemed to her like a sick idea. A couple of the pony girls were black -- how could they live with themselves? How did they sleep at night?
“You can’t control what turns you on.” Rebecca said that once, after being asked in a teasing way by Mandy as to whether Moses would have tried to free any Hebrews from Egypt who just happened to like being submissives. She also remembered what Rod said at a Black Students Association meeting once, during one of his disagreements with Lenny Jones. “We can't be slaves to the past.” Well . . .
She had to admit a brute business logic to the whole pony girl enterprise. These women had signed a contract in which both sides found benefit. The men, or whoever would “buy” them at the auction, got a pony girl for five years, something which turned the girls on too. The farm got the auction proceeds. And at the end of five years, a big nest egg awaited the pony girl. Too bad there was no nest egg for Tami. It belonged to this girl Corky -- had she escaped and bilked these folks out of half a million dollars? Yet Corky could hardly have counted on them finding a naked girl at the same time.
A naked girl who, Tami realized, seemed very much like one of those rare, legendary, almost-extinct naked pony girls. She could understand why Figvee didn’t believe her story. And her endurance was obviously unusual, in drawing the biggest buggy around, and then pulling a plow, her bare feet pressing deep into the rich black earth while a group of handlers watched. She knew herself a special prize, and she was viewed and discussed wherever she pulled the buggy. Her firm muscles were felt up, her legs stretched out and apart on command, her feet pulled up and pressed as everyone commented on her tough soles. That everyone was impressed with her only seemed to make it worse. Alone of all the ponies, she didn’t want to be looked at. She was the most modest of the them, and the only one who didn’t want to be here. And the only one who had to be naked!
She decided not to cower. When she first drew the buggy she had covered her breasts and her pussy, but she felt silly and she needed the pumping action of her arms to get traction and speed. Cowering just made the feelings of shame worse. And there was something else which allowed her to keep her sanity and keep her going and alert and watchful. She was Princess Tami the Nude -- a proud, beautiful naked princess, whose country had been invaded and who had been captured by the enemy kingdom across the sea. Her enemies had exploited her imprisonment, forcing her to draw buggies and work in the fields, and probably thought her nakedness a special bonus, as her exertions were photographed and videotaped for the amusement of the local populace and for distribution throughout the world as a symbol of her country’s humiliation. “Princess Tami -- now a naked work horse,” the captions read.
But she was not defeated. She was Princess Tami, and as for nakedness, that did not faze her in the least, for she had been naked since birth. She would hold her head up and be a proud example for her countrymen. They would see the photos and see that she was not cowering, an inspiration that would prop up their hopes to eventually win the war and get her back.
She stayed sane, and stayed alert. “Use your head. Think. Wait for the right time and then act.” This was not a crazy place, she told herself, it was a logical place. Even Figvee’s cruelty to her was logical, he didn’t want pony girls being unruly while being processed for prospective buyers. As she thought about it, she realized that everything that had been done to her during her year of nakedness was somehow logical and easy to explain. The Dean wanted her to confess because streakers were supposed to be expelled. Dr. Harridance was doing serious research. McMasters wanted to make money on his sex toys. Jackson Dyle was playing games that he thought she had consented to. Only her original tormentors, Henry Ross and Wanda, were being sadistic just for the hell of it.
She wondered briefly about Wanda. Not that she cared anything for Wandabitch, who had abused her so much, but she remembered when Wanda and McMasters had said good-bye to her at Brian Cook’s place. Wanda looked like she had seen a ghost. Strange for her. . .
Another impeccably dressed person walked down the mansion steps and right past Tami. This one was a woman, maybe 30 years old. Tami looked down and saw the nice shoes and nylons and black skirt pass in front of her bare feet and legs, stained with sweat and dirt. Again Tami gulped and suppressed her feelings of longing and shame. She couldn’t be distracted by these feelings. She had to watch and pick her time to act. She stayed still, hands down at her side in spite of her intense urge to cover herself, and tried to listen to snatches of conversation from people going in and out of the big antebellum mansion.
Though Figvee did not believe her, she got the feeling he was not the big boss. She had to get to the higher-ups. If they began to doubt that she was here willingly, they would certainly let her go -- and with a change of clothes. She knew there was powerful evidence against her but she had to keep trying. And Princess Tami had dedicated her life to her people -- she wasn’t going to let them down now.
Of course, she had already made attempts.
There were the gynecological and rectal exams this morning, a routine processing task but a special attraction with a pony girl who was naked. An impersonal but thoroughly humiliating experience on a table surrounded by Burt and the other keepers while a doctor inserted a speculum into her pussy and opened it up for everyone’s view, then did the same with another speculum into her anus. Being well-opened by the tail, she provided a good show for everyone. She shut her eyes and tried not to hear the comments as her innermost cavities were discussed and prodded. Instead she kept telling them over and over. “My name is Tami Smithers. My -- uhh! -- name is T - tami Smithers. I was captured. Th - there’s -- oooff -- been a mistake.”
But her pleas were to no effect; evidently Figvee had notified everyone of this pony girl’s little “act”.
Then there was the big review after lunch, when all the ponies stood at attention in their leathers (except for the naked one) in front of their cells as Figvee walked past them with Hans and a stern-looking woman in a man’s suit, evidently Figvee’s boss. The ponies all had their “tails” on. “On auction day I want all the ponies on the stand in their best leathers,” Figvee said to Hans, evidently as a way of impressing the stern woman. He stopped in front of Tami and with his little baton flicked at one nipple and then the other. “All except this one, not a stitch on her,” he said, then he used the baton to stir around in the motionless girl’s public hair. Finally he looked down. “Nothing on her feet either.”
As they passed to the next pony Tami, still holding her pose, said, “My name is Tami Smithers. I don’t want to be here. There’s been a mistake.”
A quick cut to her left butt cheek with the whip-like baton. The naked girl gritted her teeth and gasped but successfully suppressed a scream. As she flinched she felt the huge plug move in her rectum, but then she stood up straight and recovered her composure. The three reviewers went on, Tami hoping that her declaration had had some effect on the stern woman, at least.
After waiting in the hot sun the naked, sweating pony was called into service again and gave another ride, to three people this time. When her tasks were finished she was hosed and toweled. Then dinner with the other ponies.
And now there was the stroke of luck, the pencil and little pad of post-its on the table in the stable hallway. She made sure that she was last in line as the ponies were led back to the stable after dinner. A quick press down and the pencil snapped in two. She threw the rest of the pencil under the table, where it got lost in straw, and grabbed a few post-its off the pad. The pencil stub in one hand, the post-its in the other, unseen because her hands were casually closed.
She pretended to sleep, then when all was still and the lights were out except the nightlights in the hallway, she wrote quickly and, bracing her cuffed hand against the wall, stretched her legs out as far as she could, so that her dexterous toes could wrap around and press against the outer moulding of the door.
It was there for anyone to see, the keepers who made the rounds at midnight and then again at 3 a.m. and 6 a.m.
HELP!
MY NAME IS TAMI SMITHERS
Date of Birth: 7/27/82
SS No. 555-2-7899
167 Donelson St.
Providence, RI 02908
I'm a student at Campbell-Frank College
South Lowell, VT
HELP! I DON'’ WANT TO BE HERE!
When she woke up in the morning and the ponies were taken out for hosing, she saw that the post-it was gone.
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