The scent of freshly turned earth and damp jasmine clung to the air, a heavy, sweet perfume that always preceded her. My knees pressed into the cool, rough concrete of the patio, my head bowed low, the polished leather bridle a familiar weight across my face. Blindered, I could only perceive the world as a shifting mosaic of light and shadow, the peripheral vision restricted, forcing my focus inward, on the rhythm of my own breathing, the thrum of anticipation in my veins. My hands, encased in soft, white pony gloves, rested on the ground, ready to push off. The bit, a cool metal bar, pressed against my tongue, a constant reminder of my purpose, my place. The saddle, custom-fitted, sat snug against the nape of my neck, its smooth leather a promise of her weight.
A soft click, then another, high-heeled steps approaching. Each tap resonated through the ground, vibrating up my forearms, a primal signal. She was on the platform, I knew, elevated above me, a goddess on her pedestal. The image, though unseen, was burned into my mind: her silhouette against the distant green hills, the crisp white of her skirt, the sharp lines of her black jacket. She was a vision of severe elegance, a queen surveying her domain.
“My little beast,” her voice, a low purr, drifted down to me. It was a sound that always made the hairs on my neck prickle, a mix of command and indulgence. “Have you prepared yourself for your Mistress?”
I whickered, a low, guttural sound that scratched at my throat, the only answer I could offer with the bit in place. My body tensed, muscles coiling.
“Good boy,” she chuckled, a melodic sound that twisted a knot in my stomach. “Such eagerness. Do you long for my touch, little pony?”
Another whicker, more urgent this time, a plea. My tail, a long, braided rope attached to my harness, twitched behind me.
“Patience,” she admonished, though her tone softened, a hint of amusement lacing her words. “A good pony knows its place. It waits. It anticipates. It worships.”
A faint metallic clink. I imagined her hand, long and slender, reaching for the whip, the riding crop, or perhaps just adjusting her gloves. The anticipation stretched, a thin, taut wire.
“Today, we shall perform a dressage,” she announced, her voice gaining a sharper edge, the amusement replaced by a steely resolve. “A display of perfect control. Of absolute obedience. You will carry me, my faithful steed, to the very doors of my sanctuary. Every step will be precise. Every movement, graceful.”
My head lifted slightly, the blinders shifting, allowing a narrow sliver of the world to enter my vision—the bottom edge of her white skirt, the gleaming tip of a white pump.
“Are you ready to be ridden, my pony?”
I pushed off the ground, rising onto all fours, my gloved hands spreading wide for balance. My knees bent, ready to absorb the shock of her ascent. The saddle on my nape felt suddenly alive, a receptacle for her power.
I froze, every muscle locked, trembling slightly with the effort. A shadow fell over me, then a delicate pressure on my back. Her weight settled onto the saddle, not heavy, but firm, grounding. Her thighs, I imagined, pressed against my sides, her calves brushing my flanks. The scent of her perfume intensified, enveloping me.
“Excellent,” she murmured, a breath against my ear, sending shivers through me. “Such a sturdy mount. Now, forward, my pony. Slowly. Delicately.”
I took a step, then another, the rhythm of my movement dictated by her subtle shifts, her commands. My hooves, custom-made pony boots, clicked softly on the concrete. The ground sloped gently upward, a path leading to the back door of the house. Each step was an act of devotion, a physical manifestation of my surrender.
“A little faster, my dear,” she instructed, a light tap of her heel against my side. “Show me your spirit. Show me your willingness to please.”
I quickened my pace, a slow trot, the saddle shifting slightly with each bound. Her body moved with mine, a seamless extension. I felt the sway of her hips, the gentle bounce of her breasts against my back. The rhythmic pressure of her inner thighs against my shoulders was a constant, intoxicating caress.
“Perfect,” she praised, her fingers tangling in the braided mane that flowed down my back. “Such a strong back. Such powerful legs.”
I whickered again, a triumphant sound. My breath came in short, sharp gasps, my muscles burning, but the pain was a sweet ache, a testament to my service. We reached a patch of soft grass, the texture a welcome change beneath my hooves. The garden hummed around us, a symphony of buzzing insects and rustling leaves.
“Stop, little pony,” she commanded, her voice soft, yet absolute.
I halted immediately, my body rigid, awaiting her next instruction. The air around us seemed to thicken, charged with unspoken desires.
“You have performed admirably,” she said, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “But we are not yet done, are we?”
A shiver ran down my spine, my tail twitching involuntarily. I knew what came next. The riding was merely the prelude. The worship, the true communion, awaited.
“Look at me, my obedient beast,” she ordered, her voice a silken whip.
With immense effort, I raised my head, the blinders allowing me to glimpse her form. She sat tall, regal, her legs spread wide across my shoulders, her skirt hiked up slightly, revealing the pale curve of her inner thighs. Her hands, still gripping my mane, brought my head closer, until my face was pressed against the soft fabric of her skirt, just above her knees. The scent of her, intimate and potent, filled my nostrils.
“Breathe me in,” she commanded. “Know your Mistress. Worship her.”
I inhaled deeply, the rich aroma of her skin, her perfume, her very essence, flooding my senses. My tongue, restricted by the bit, longed to taste her.
“Good boy,” she purred, her fingers stroking my mane. “You crave my touch, don’t you? You live for my pleasure.”
I whickered, a low moan of assent. My body trembled, a tremor starting deep in my core and spreading outward.
“Yes,” she whispered, her voice a dark promise. “I know you do.”
She shifted, and I felt the gentle pressure of her weight against my head. Her legs parted wider, and her knees pressed against my temples. The fabric of her skirt brushed against my face, then lifted. A gasp escaped me, muffled by the bit. The blinders, though restricting, allowed me a tantalizing view of the creamy white lace of her panties, stretched taut across the mound between her legs.
“Look, my pony,” she instructed, her voice thick with desire. “See what you serve. See what you earn.”
My eyes, wide and desperate, fixated on the sight. The delicate lace, the hint of darker hair beneath, the faint line of her labia pressed against the fabric. My cock, already hard, throbbed against my belly, straining against the confines of my pony suit.
“Now, worship,” she commanded, her voice a low growl.
She lowered herself further, until the soft, warm fabric of her crotch pressed against my blindered face. The heat radiated through the thin material, a searing brand. I could smell her now, the musky, intoxicating scent of her arousal, mingling with the perfume. My breath hitched.
“Lick,” she ordered, her voice firm.
The bit prevented me from using my tongue fully, but I pressed my mouth, my lips, against the fabric, moving my head, trying to convey my desperate obedience. A low whimper escaped my throat.
“Yes, just like that,” she praised, her hips beginning to undulate slightly against my face. The friction was maddening, the thin barrier of lace a cruel torment. “Such a good pony. So eager to please.”
Her fingers, still tangled in my mane, began to massage the back of my neck, sending waves of pure sensation through me. Her hips moved faster now, a slow, deliberate grind against my face. I felt the wetness seeping through the lace, the warm, slick texture of her desire. The scent of her clit, ripe and electric, filled my nostrils, driving me wild.
“You’re getting wet, my Mistress,” I tried to say, but it came out as a choked whimper, the bit digging into my tongue.
“Am I?” she purred, her voice laced with mock surprise. “Perhaps your efforts are… effective.”
She pressed down harder, her weight shifting, grinding her pussy against my blindered face. I could feel the distinct shape of her clit, swollen and pulsing, through the lace. My own cock was a rigid rod, aching for release. The pressure, the scent, the sound of her soft moans above me, threatened to shatter my control.
“Don’t stop,” she whispered, her breath hot against my ear. “Keep worshipping. Earn your reward.”
I continued to press my face, my mouth, against her, moving my head, trying to encompass as much of her as I could. The wetness spread, soaking the lace, making the friction even more intense. The shlicking sound of her wetness against the fabric was intoxicating. My blinders were damp, smeared with her essence.
Her hips bucked, a sudden, powerful thrust that drove her fully against my face. A sharp gasp escaped her lips. I felt the sudden gush of her release, a hot, sticky wave against my face, soaking through the lace, filling my mouth with the salty, musky taste of her cum. My body convulsed, a wave of pleasure washing over me, almost sending me over the edge.
She trembled above me, her breathing ragged. Her hands tightened in my mane, pulling my head back slightly. I could feel her quivering as her orgasm subsided.
“Oh, my pony,” she gasped, her voice raw with pleasure. “You are truly the best.”
She slowly lifted herself, her wet panties peeling away from my face with a soft squelch. The air, cool against my cum-soaked face, felt like a shock. I whickered, a needy, desperate sound.
“We are not done, my beast,” she said, her voice regaining its composure, though a tremor of satisfaction still lingered. “But we have reached our destination.”
She dismounted, her weight lifting, leaving me feeling strangely light, yet utterly spent. The saddle felt empty, a hollow ache where her presence had been. I remained on all fours, my head bowed, my body trembling.
“You have served me well, my little pony,” she said, her voice now filled with a triumphant authority. “You have carried me. You have worshipped me. And you have earned your rest.”
I heard her footsteps click away, receding towards the back door, leaving me alone in the garden, bathed in the lingering scent of her, my face still wet with her essence. My muscles ached, my heart pounded, and my cock throbbed, a dull, persistent ache of unfulfilled desire. But beneath it all was a profound sense of peace, of utter fulfillment. I had served my Mistress. I had been her pony. And I would wait, patiently, for her next command.
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