Chapter 2: At the Smith Ranch

Now that I’ve laid out the pre-history, the stage is set for the true heart of my story. The background was crucial to understand my past relationship with Danica, and the reasons as I understood them, behind our eventual estrangement. The real journey begins when I was fourteen, standing on the threshold of two significant milestones: my freshman year in high school and the start of my first job. This job, which would become part-time once school started, was something my dad helped me secure at the start of the summer break between 8th and 9th grades.

Week 1, Day 1, Wednesday

My dad and I visited Thomas Smith’s ranch, a unique place where Mr. Smith managed both real horses and ponygirls. His main business was training ponygirls for competitions, a venture that attracted clients from across the globe willing to pay handsomely for his expertise. This aspect of his operation was far more lucrative than the income he earned from stabling real horses. My role on the ranch was modest but essential: I was hired as a stable hand. My duties were straightforward yet physically demanding, involving raking and shoveling horse manure. Since I wasn’t strong enough to lift the heavy bags of horse feed, my responsibilities were limited to using the garden hose to ensure the animals always had access to fresh water and clean stalls.

I quickly learned the finer points of grooming the horses, particularly focusing on brushing their bellies and legs, tasks well-suited to my height and strength. While I could reach up to a horse’s back, I couldn’t cover the entire area, so I often needed a bit of help with the higher spots. Despite this, I found a great deal of joy in being able to care for and brush the horses, reveling in the simple pleasure of connecting with these magnificent animals.

By the time I started mhy job at the ranch, just a week after school let out, I was only a couple of months into my fourteenth year. Back then, I was quite petite, standing at 5’0” with a slender build. Over the last four years since the story began, I had grown four inches taller and my body began to change, with my chest developing to a 28B size. My red hair and emerald eyes were distinctive features, yet I still retained my rather slender, almost stick-like figure. Despite the muscle gained from cycling, my waist showed little curve and my hips remained narrow. Personality-wise, I wasn’t exactly shy, but I did take my time warming up to people I wasn’t familiar with.

On my first day at the ranch, my attire was practical yet simple: short cut-off shorts, a T-shirt, along with the usual undergarments. However, by the end of the day, the intense heat had taken its toll. My T-shirt, old and thin, clung to my body, becoming almost see-through from the sweat, revealing my bra and skin underneath. It hadn’t crossed my mind that the shirt might turn transparent; I had chosen it because I wasn’t concerned about it getting dirty. Anticipating another sweltering day ahead, I decided to opt for a short skirt and a bikini for the following day. The bikini top, although small and barely covering my 28B breasts, was secure enough that I didn’t worry about any wardrobe mishaps.

Following that first day at the ranch, I realized the practicality of having shorter hair in the heat and physical work environment. So, I received permission from my parents to drastically change my hairstyle. Until then, my hair had been quite long, reaching down to my waist. But this weekend, I was set to have it transformed into a pixie cut.

As my first shift drew to a close, Mr. Smith, with Danica in tow, beckoned me to follow them. We headed towards the ponygirl barn, where he introduced me to the shower area used for washing the ponies. Standing there, I became acutely aware of my sweaty clothes and the unpleasant odor emanating from my armpits. Glancing down at my feet, I noticed my tennis shoes were encrusted with a mix of mud and horse manure. Cleaning them thoroughly enough to wear again would be quite a task. It dawned on me that investing in a pair of cowboy boots, or should I say cowgirl boots, with my first paycheck might be a wise decision.

“Lisa, you’re currently the only female working in the stables, so I’ve arranged for you to use the ponygirls’ shower before heading home,” Mr. Smith explained. “Given the circumstances, it wouldn’t be appropriate for you to share the same shower facilities as the men. And Danica has offered this t-shirt dress for you to wear home each day,” he added.

I examined the t-shirt dress Mr. Smith handed me as he left, leaving Danica still standing there. Though the dress was old, with its front image and lettering faded and barely legible, it was in good condition. Holding it up to myself, careful not to let it touch my skin, I estimated its fit. It seemed suitable in the shoulders and fell just short of mid-thigh. It wasn’t ideal, but it was certainly a better option than venturing home either naked or in my sweat-soaked clothes.

The shower area, designated for the ponygirls, was well-organized. There were six shower stalls, designed to accommodate the twelve ponies housed in this barn. Upon entering the barn, the tack room was immediately to the left, spanning about 10-12 feet in length. Following that were six stalls lining the rest of the left wall, extending to the barn’s far end. The center of the barn was occupied by the shower stalls, open on both ends with dividing walls standing about a foot taller than me. On the right side of the barn, opposite the tack room, was a white metal room with a heavy-looking door operated by a horizontal pull lever. This room was smaller than the tack room, allowing space for an additional seventh stall along that wall.

The shower stalls, each roughly 36 square feet or about 6’x6’, were equipped with handheld showerheads attached to long hoses. Noticing a treated 4”x4” beam with a pulley and hook system above each stall, my gaze followed the cable down to a winch controller mounted on the half-wall. The hook dangled just out of my reach.

I hesitated briefly before shedding my sweat-drenched clothes, leaving them by the wall just outside the stall. It didn’t really matter if they got wetter. Turning on the water, I began my shower with what I presumed was the same soap used for the ponies. To my surprise, I found the shampoo, conditioner, and body wash to be familiar name brands with a lavender scent – my favorite. Then I noticed my name written on the bottles with a sharpie. It seemed this arrangement had been thoughtfully planned.

I had just started washing my hair, my eyes covered in shampoo, when suddenly I felt two sets of hands on my naked body. A quick scream escaped me as panic set in, blinded and unable to see who was touching me.

As my confusion and fear escalated, I suddenly felt something being wrapped around my wrists, swiftly fastened together. My panic surged, and I began to thrash wildly, desperately trying to fend off my unseen assailants. Then, I felt the restraints being attached together, and abruptly, my hands were hoisted above my head. I realized with horror that I had been bound and connected to the winch hook I had observed earlier.

Suspended, my feet lost contact with the ground. I felt hands gripping my flailing legs, and soon, additional restraints were secured around my ankles. A short chain was then linked between my ankles and fastened to another hook on the floor. With the winch pulled taut, my movements were severely restricted, leaving me helplessly immobilized in the grip of my unseen captors.

After what felt like several long minutes of my captors washing my waist-length hair, I finally felt the handheld showerhead rinsing out the shampoo, followed by the application of conditioner. When the suds cleared from my eyes, I was startled to see that two of the ponygirls were the ones attending to me. My pleas for release were abruptly silenced when one of them inserted a bit into my mouth and secured it behind my head. Despite my continued struggles, I was swiftly met with a swat from a flogger on my buttocks. My muffled scream under the bit only led to five more lashes, each one a sharp reminder of my helpless situation. I flinched at the evil grin on Danica’s face as she twirled the flogger in her hand.

Realizing that resistance was futile, I reluctantly ceased my efforts to fight off the ponygirls. Internally seething with anger, I questioned their audacity to treat a free woman in such a manner. Once they had thoroughly rinsed my hair and body, I was finally lowered to the ground. My restraints were removed, but any attempt to leave the stall was promptly thwarted. The girls held me steady, extending my arms to the sides, and began to methodically apply a pink cream over my entire body, from my toes up to my neck. One of them twisted my long hair into a tight bun before securing a shower cap over it, effectively covering my hair. This time, I offered no resistance; it seemed pointless.

Throughout this ordeal, I noticed Danica standing just outside the shower stall, her presence chilling. She idly ran the straps of the flogger through her hand, a disturbingly satisfied smirk on her face as she observed the scene unfolding before her.

My head whipped around, a mix of shock and embarrassment flooding through me, as I heard Mr. Smith’s voice. Danica, standing beside him, offered no solace after her sadistic display. His words pierced through my scream of protest.

“I forgot to mention, Lisa, that bathing yourself isn’t permitted in this shower,” he explained. “I sent a couple of ponygirls with specific instructions on how to bathe you. You might have noticed the shampoo, conditioner, body wash, and loofah – all your usual products. Your mother informed us what you use, so I made sure they were available for you. The cost will be deducted from your first paycheck. They are for your exclusive use. This will be your routine every workday; I can’t have you returning to your father smelling like a horse barn.”

Mr. Smith continued, “The pink cream being applied to your skin serves as a hair growth inhibitor. It’s designed to burn off existing hairs and then penetrate the pores, targeting the hair roots. The chemicals effectively destroy the blood vessels and nerve endings, preventing new follicles from growing back. With consistent use over a period of about a year, you’ll find that hair growth below your neck will cease entirely. As you’ve probably noticed, they are meticulously applying it to your pubic and anal areas as well

“Anal hair tends to trap feces, while pubic and vaginal hair can accumulate sweat and vaginal secretions. This can lead to unsanitary conditions and unpleasant odors, which are unacceptable not only for ponygirls but also for young ladies like yourself,” Mr. Smith explained to me.

Ten minutes had passed when the girls began rinsing the cream from my body. Afterward, they gently used their hands to sluice away the remaining water. I then felt a fine mist being sprayed over my entire body, face included. The mist was softly massaged into my skin, leaving me feeling somewhat refreshed despite the ordeal. Once I was somewhat dry, they assisted me in slipping on the t-shirt dress. I noticed then that I was barefoot, and a quick glance around revealed that all my dirty clothes – the T-shirt, bra, panties, shorts, shoes, and socks – had vanished without a trace.

Mr. Smith had stayed to oversee the entire process, and I noticed him standing just outside the stall, near the winch controls, as I was being helped into the t-shirt dress he told me, “The mist we used on you contains 30 percent lanolin, an excellent moisturizer to prevent skin dryness after washing away natural oils and sweat,” he informed me. “It also includes SPF-30 to protect your skin from sunburn. From now on, I want you to wear a bikini until the weather turns cold. For additional protection during the summer, use an SPF-50 sunscreen. I’ll have a bottle of the lanolin spray labeled for your personal use later this week. The ponygirls use an oil version with SPF-30 since they’re outdoors and mostly unclothed throughout the day. You’ve probably noticed the distinct tan lines the harnesses leave on their skin.

Mr. Smith continued, “Danica has taken your clothes to be laundered; they’ll be returned to you tomorrow. As for footwear, there’s no need to worry. In the meantime, you’ll wear a pair of Danica’s old shoes. They’re easy to clean and will also help acclimate your feet to the work boots I’ll be ordering for you.” With these final instructions, he turned and left the barn, leaving me to process everything that had just transpired.

I noticed a long T-shirt draped over a stall wall, accompanied by a pair of patent leather strappy sandals with 5-inch heels. Barefoot and naked, I noticed Mr. Smith and Danica watching as I was assisted into the T-shirt dress and heels. Naked under the dress, I headed to the main house to meet my father for the ride home. As a young teen, there are certain limitations I face, like not being able to drive. My youthful and slender appearance along with my small breasts meant that my unconventional dress didn’t draw much attention. The dress itself was a comfortable fit showing my small breasts, not too snug so it didn’t accentuate them too much, and of a length that maintained modesty, just above the knees. Internally, I joked about the importance of dressing appropriately to avoid attracting undue attention. ’I wouldn’t want the nudity police to arrest me for showing too much thigh,” I thought sarcastically.

After I climbed into the car, Dad didn’t mention anything about the different attire I wore home, though it was obvious I had taken a shower recently. I wondered if he and Mr. Smith had talked while I was getting ready to leave. Following the thorough shower, one of the ponygirls helped untangle my hair. My t-shirt had gotten wet from my hair. I tried to manage my hair in the car to keep the seat dry, but it resulted in my shirt clinging to me, now my breasts were on display. Dad, noticing my discomfort and respectfully kept his gaze averted during the ride. Once we got home, he went inside quickly. From then on, Mom was tasked with picking me up from work.

At home, I kept some hair in front of me to cover my breasts before getting out of the car. Mom greeted me when I entered while still in my wet clothes, I was immediately tasked with helping Mom with dinner. Given my parents’ usual modesty about such matters, it was surprising they didn’t suggest I change first. Since I was helping with dinner, Mom pulled my hair behind my head and twisted it into a bun. Now I couldn’t cover any part of my body. Both the front and back of my t-shirt were soaked from my shoulders to my waist. Not dripping wet but enough to be transparent and show my breasts and nipples. My father, maintaining his distance and avoiding eye contact, seemed to acknowledge the awkwardness of the situation. The whole experience left me feeling a mix of confusion and discomfort, my parents are very prudish concerning nudity, why is she forcing me to prepare dinner like this rather than making me change into more appropriate attire.

Week 1, Day 2, Thursday

As 8 a.m. approached, I arrived at work to find the ponies already in their morning training session. With a routine motion, I hung my T-shirt dress over the wall where it rested the day before, and immediately set to work. My tasks were straightforward but vital: cleaning the stalls meticulously and ensuring a fresh supply of hay for the ponies’ comfort.

Today’s attire was a crisp, white bikini, carefully chosen. Though it featured a liner in the bottoms, the top was altered - a personal touch I had insisted on the day Mom and I picked it out. I had removed the liner, a subtle rebellion driven by a burgeoning awareness of my own femininity. It was a silent hope that the slight hint of my nipple beneath the fabric might catch a fleeting glance from a boy. At that tender juncture of life, where youth teeters on the brink of young adulthood, thoughts of boys and dates began to occupy my mind more and more.

My mother arched an eyebrow skeptically at my choice of high-heeled shoes for work. Anticipating her concern, I quickly explained the situation with my usual work shoes. They were still at Mr. Smith’s ranch, having fallen victim to an unfortunate encounter with horse poo and mud. Mr. Smith, ever the considerate employer, had kindly asked his daughter to wash them for me. In the meantime, he suggested I borrow a pair of Danica’s shoes. He even mentioned getting me a proper pair of boots for my ranch duties. Reassured by this explanation, Mom seemed to understand and relaxed.

As Mom’s car pulled away, I made my way around the sprawling main house towards the horse barn. There, I was greeted by Mr. Smith and a stranger. “Lisa, this gentleman is Jonathon Marshall, one of our esteemed pony trainers,” Mr. Smith introduced. “I thought it’s time you two meet, especially since you’ll now be working in the pony barn.” He glanced at my feet, clad in Danica’s shoes, and added with a note of caution, “In these shoes, I’d rather you steer clear of the larger horses. The risk of a serious injury – like losing a toe or even a foot – is something we must avoid at all costs.” His words carried a weight of responsibility and concern, emphasizing the importance of safety in this new role.

Mr. Smith continued, “The ponies, equipped with hoof boots, are quite mindful of their steps. They’re trained to avoid stepping on your feet.” He then glanced at the unique shoes I was wearing. “Until you receive your work boots, you’ll be wearing these – a pair of fetish shoes Danica wore for last year’s Halloween. They’re practically new, and she’s happy for you to keep them. The locks, connected by a small chain, ensure they stay secure.” He paused, a hint of realization in his voice, “I believe Danica has the key, though she never handed it to me.”

At this revelation, I struggled to maintain my composure. ‘Now he tells me, ’ I thought with a hint of frustration, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. ‘If only I had known about the lock and key before securing the shoes.’

Mr. Smith then added, “These shoes are waterproof. So, you can shower in them or walk in the rain without any worry. I’d like you to keep wearing them until your work boots arrive. They’ll help strengthen your ankles and tone your calf muscles. Just remember to adjust your stride: take shorter steps and slow your pace. We wouldn’t want an ankle injury, especially so early in your employment.

Mr. Smith shared an interesting piece of news as we talked. “There was quite a stir among the ponies regarding your shower yesterday. To keep things fair and avoid any discontent, the ponies decided to earn their chance to help in your shower through competitions, rather than relying on a lottery system. However, those facing disciplinary actions won’t be eligible to compete for this privilege,” he explained. His words brought a flush of embarrassment to my cheeks as I recalled the events of the previous day’s shower.

As we conversed, we reached Pony Barn ‘A’. This barn, I learned, was designated for the locally owned ponies. Mr. Smith elaborated that Barns ‘B’ and ‘C’ catered to ponies from other parts of the country and those from abroad, respectively. This organizational structure highlighted the diverse origins of the ponies in our care.

Mr. Marshall turned to me with a serious tone. ‘Lisa, I have no issue with you interacting with the ponies, and it’s fine for you to work in your bikini. However, there’s one strict rule: never, under any circumstances, remove it to work nude. If you do, there’s a risk of being mistaken for one of the ponies by those who aren’t familiar with you. To prevent such confusion, I’ll devise a way to make you more distinguishable. It’s crucial for your safety. Being mistaken could lead to unintended consequences like branding, and once that happens, regrettably, not even your family could reverse it due to legal bindings. The only exception for nudity is when you’re showering. Do you understand the importance of this?

I acknowledged Mr. Marshall’s warning with a respectful “Yes, sir,” while quietly swallowing the knot of fear his words had induced. In my mind, I made a firm promise to heed his warning. My aspirations lay in a different direction – I had plans to pursue college and eventually join my father’s accounting firm. The idea of becoming a ponygirl was completely off the table for me, not even a blip on my career radar.

Mr. Marshall guided me to the tack room, where I was introduced to an array of grooming tools. Though they bore familiar names like curry comb and curry brush, these were specifically designed for human use. Mr. Smith then grabbed the curry brush and started to brush the hair flowing down my back to demonstrate its use. I closed my eyes and allowed myself to enjoy the attention and the feel of the brush as it flowed through my hair and its bristles scraped down my back. I felt the knot of my bikin come loose as he brushed my hair. I let it hang free until Mr. Smith was done; we were safely in the tack room so no one could see me. When he had finished his ‘demonstration,’ I retied my top and followed him out of the tack room. I looked at my hair and saw that it was shinier than the top half.

He then showed me a room unique to this barn – the one I’d noticed earlier, painted white. It served as a storage for a special kind of feed, resembling hay but made from extruded vegetable matter, requiring refrigeration.

I learned the procedure for cleaning the shallow feeding troughs. A stainless steel utility sink, located at the barn’s rear, was part of my daily cleaning duties. I would scrub and rinse these troughs each day towards the end of my shift. The feed, stored in a cool locker, would then be portioned onto a cart for distribution to each stall. My small hands were perfect for measuring the feed: two handfuls for breakfast and lunch, and three for dinner. Unlike actual horses, these ponies received meals three times a day.

Another important task involved the water troughs, each fitted with a removable liner. These liners required frequent cleaning to prevent debris accumulation and mold growth. Any liner showing signs of mold was to be immediately discarded and replaced. To ensure the water was fresh and palatable, I used a watering can for refilling, avoiding the taste of water from a garden hose.

After that day, Barn ‘A’ became my designated responsibility. My routine starts after breakfast, which I usually have at home. The first task is to inspect and clean the troughs, noting any hay that the ponies might have left uneaten. After washing and drying the troughs, I neatly stack them upside down on the cart used for transporting the full ones. Then, I simply have to place the refilled troughs back in their holders and replenish the water troughs.

In between meal times, my duties shift to general upkeep: sweeping, raking, spraying, and scrubbing things. Essentially, I fulfill the role of a housekeeper, but for ponies. Perhaps that’s why I’ve come to appreciate the daily grooming and care I receive before heading home each day.

My tasks at the barn include using a garden hose with a high-pressure nozzle to meticulously clean the stalls. Additionally, I’m tasked with maintaining the showers. The walls are clad in glossy white ceramic tiles, while the floors boast a dark grey, slate finish with a sandpaper-like texture that ensures a non-slip surface even when wet. Cleaning these areas requires different approaches; I use a sponge and rubber squeegee for the walls, but the floors demand a more vigorous scrubbing with a brush. Afterward, I rinse everything using the showerhead.

Mr. Marshall has instructed me on a monthly deep-cleaning routine for the showers, involving a toothbrush and bleach water specifically for scrubbing the grout. He advised that I should undertake this task naked and barefoot, considering the showers are the only place where nudity is safe and practical. The reasoning is practical: bleach could harm my clothing and damage my new boots—when I get them.

The same brush I use for scrubbing the shower floors is also used for the stall floors, albeit on a weekly basis. Fortunately, I can remain fully clothed for this task. Each pony stall is equipped with a grate in one corner to cater to their bathroom needs. My job includes spraying this grate to keep it clean and also clearing out the underlying hole, which leads outside. This makes it easier for me to clean the entire waste collection system. My days soon settled into a routine of maintaining barn cleanliness and feeding the ponies.

Realizing that cleaning everything daily was too time-consuming, I devised a more efficient schedule. I spread out the cleaning tasks across the week, ensuring each stall received a thorough cleaning every seven days and the shower stalls every 30 days. When I presented this schedule to Mr. Marshall, he shared it with Mr. Smith, who expressed his approval of my initiative and creativity. While the grooms took care of the ponies’ grooming and tack, my responsibilities were distinctly separate. As each shift neared its end, I found myself increasingly looking forward to my daily shower, a moment of respite in my busy routine.

Once again, the routine at the end of my shift involved being stripped, with my bikini tossed aside. The process began with my long hair being thoroughly cleaned and then tucked under a shower cap with the conditioner left in. The two girls attending to me took turns - one gently scrubbing my body with the only loofah available while the other playfully testing to see how many orgasms I could achieve. By the time they washed away the pink cream from my skin, I was just regaining my composure. Since my shoes were still locked on, they merely assisted me into my dress after the shower. Before dressing me, though, one girl combed my hair while the other meticulously dried my body and applied a fine mist of moisturizing oil, massaging it gently into my skin.

On the drive home, Mom inquired about my day, and I shared the events with her. I noticed that my clothes from the previous day, including shoes and socks, were waiting in the back seat. Upon arriving home I collected them and took them to my room. During our conversation, Mom mentioned that Mr. Smith had requested to meet me in town the following morning, showing me the address he had provided. With a sense of resignation, I acknowledged, “Sure, I don’t really have a choice if I want to keep my job.”

Week 1, Day 3, Friday

It became a routine for me to arrive at work dressed in the simple dress over my bikini, only to take it off upon arrival and hang it in the shower stall. Today, we reached the destination that Danica had provided to Mom the day before. It was a shop specializing in equipment and supplies for ponygirls. A wave of fear washed over me as I tried to imagine what Mr. Smith had planned. The thought of becoming a ponygirl was far from what I wanted.

‘Go on in, Lisa,’ Mom encouraged, gently nudging me towards the door with a reassuring hand on my back. ‘Thomas is waiting for you inside.’

I protested, my voice tinged with apprehension, “But, Mom, I don’t want to be a ponygirl. I have plans to go to college.”

Mom, attempting to soothe my worries, replied, “You can’t be sure that’s his intention. He simply requested you to meet him here. Let’s find out what he has in mind.”

As we entered, I immediately noticed Mr. Smith engaged in conversation with a middle-aged man, who I presumed to be the shop owner. My guess was confirmed shortly. “Lisa, Jessica, good to see both of you,” Mr. Smith greeted us warmly. “Thank you for coming, Lisa. You’re on the clock now. Since your current footwear isn’t suitable for work, I’ve decided to have you fitted for a pair of hoof boots. They offer better toe protection than regular cowboy boots, are easy to clean, and come with replaceable shoes.’

Mr. Smith gestured towards the other man and introduced him, saying, “This is Darren Harrison, the owner of this shop. He’s going to take care of your fitting.” He then directed his attention to where my mother was seated, “I’ll stay out here and keep your mother company while you’re getting fitted.” With that, Mr. Smith walked over to join my mother on the bench, and I was guided towards the back room for the fitting.”

I was instructed to sit on a bench so that Mr. Harrison could remove my heels, using a key presumably provided by Mr. Smith. He then used a traditional shoe store scale to measure my feet, carefully noting the dimensions. Next, he asked me to step into a tub equipped with clear acrylic ramps at the bottom. Standing on them gave me the sensation of wearing heels, albeit not as high as before. I soon understood their purpose – these ramps were interchangeable, each designed to match the unique contours of a foot’s sole. Mr. Harrison tried several pairs until he found the right fit, perfectly aligning with the curve of my arch from heel to toe.

Once the fitting ramps were selected, he secured restraints around my wrists and locked them together. This was similar to the process I underwent during my showerss at work, as I was gently lifted off the floor, suspended in preparation for the next steps of the fitting process