From Warrior to Goblin's Ponygirl
by Rose362436
Copyright© 2026 by Rose362436
Fantasy Story: Two unlikely friends. A proud female warrior. A clever goblin wizard. One month of survival. To cross the absolute border into Gobbyland, Rikka must surrender her humanity and become Drak’s pony girl. To navigate goblin territory, they must play a deadly game of make-believe. Drak the master, and Rikka his pony girl—a reluctant animal in tack and bit. As they prepare to cross the border, both must face the terrifying truth that pretending to be a master and beast might change them forever.
Caution: This Fantasy Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Coercion Consensual NonConsensual Reluctant Slavery Fiction GameLit High Fantasy BDSM DomSub Humiliation PonyGirl Petting ENF .
The road stretches before you, winding through scraggly hills toward the distant border of Gobbyland. You’ve been traveling for three weeks since the party dissolved - that bitter night when Gareth accused Mira of keeping treasure for herself, when Thornblade drew his sword, when everything fell apart.
Now it’s just you and Rikka. The human warrior towers over you, as all humans do, her muscular frame a stark contrast to your wiry goblin build. You’ve grown comfortable together on the road. She no longer flinches when you practice your spellwork, and you’ve learned to read her moods - the set of her jaw when she’s spoiling for a fight, the rare laugh that escapes when you tell stories of your apprenticeship.
And you, a male goblin wizard, standing about four feet tall with greenish skin and sharp. You were apprenticed young to a hedge wizard and learned both practical magic and how to navigate between cultures. Unlike other goblins, you’ve traveled wildly and adopted human manners. You are still lustful and smooth talking You do not oppose the ponygirl system but, earnestly believe it would be immoral to manipulate or abuse your friends.
You’ve never been physically dominant in any relationship. One reason is that goblins are small, and humans tower over you. Luckily you have a quick wit and a talent for getting what you need through persuasion rather than force. The prospect of having power over Rikka unsettles you, but also excites you. You’re rusty when it comes to dealing with your own kind, but as a goblin you’re still fluent in the bartering, cajoling, casual trickery, and shameless lewdness that is common in goblin interactions.
But ahead lies Gobbyland, your homeland’s neighboring kingdom. A month’s journey through it versus six months around it. The choice should be obvious, except for one problem: Gobbyland’s laws are absolute. Humans are not people there. They’re animals, property, forbidden from entering except as livestock. Pony-girls specifically - combination mounts and pleasure slaves, ridden by their goblin masters, kept in degrading tack and treated as beasts.
You suggested going around. Rikka’s response was immediate and sharp: ‘I don’t run from anything.’
Now you sit by the campfire, the border just two days away, and she’s laid out her plan. She’ll pose as your pony-girl. You’ll cross as master and mount. It’s temporary, she insists. Just until you reach the far border.
But you both know what that means. The harness. The bit. The reins in your hands. You, riding on her back, guiding her, controlling her. You, legally her owner, able to do anything you wish with her. The dynamic between wizard and warrior, between the small clever one and the large strong one, completely inverted.
“Hmph” she snorts. There’s a pause ... and then she starts to laugh in her usual, boisterous way.
“You think I can’t take it?” She laughed, “You watched me kill a vampire in single combat, you little green nerd. A month in one of your people’s dumb little outfits? Ha. It’s nothing to me!” She thumbed her chest with her fist.
The laughter dies in her throat. Rikka’s expression shifts, her brow furrowing as the weight of your words settles over the campfire like a cold wind.
“The entire time,” she repeats, her voice losing its earlier swagger. She sits forward, elbows on her knees, and you can see her working through the implications. “You mean ... even when we’re alone. Even when there’s no one around for miles.”
You nod slowly. “Especially then. We can’t afford to slip up, Rikka. If we let ourselves fall back into old habits when we’re alone, we’ll make a mistake when it matters. Someone will see me treat you like an equal, hear me speak to you like a person, and then we’re both dead. Or worse - you end up sold to someone who won’t let you go at the far border.”
She opens her mouth, then closes it. Her jaw works silently for a moment, and when she speaks again, her voice has lost its easy confidence. “A month. You’re saying for an entire month, I can’t ... I have to be...”
“My pony-girl. My property. Every moment of every day.” The words feel strange in your mouth, carrying a weight you hadn’t anticipated. “When we wake up, when we travel, when we make camp. You’ll wear the tack. You’ll sleep in it. I’ll feed you, water you, decide when you rest. You won’t speak unless I permit it - and in Gobbyland, I won’t be able to permit it often.”
Rikka stands abruptly, pacing to the edge of the firelight. Her hand instinctively goes to her sword hilt, but she catches herself, drops it. When she turns back to you, there’s something in her eyes you’ve never seen before - not quite fear, but a cousin to it. Uncertainty.
“I’ve fought dragons, Drak. I’ve bled in a dozen battles. I don’t run from anything.” But her voice wavers just slightly. “But this ... this isn’t a fight I can win with a blade, is it?”
“No,” you say quietly. “This is a fight you win by surrendering. Completely.”
She’s silent for a long moment, staring into the flames. Finally, she draws herself up to her full height, and you see her trying to reclaim that confidence, though it sits less easily on her shoulders now.
“Fine. I can do it. I’m strong enough.” She meets your eyes. “When do we start?”
You let the silence stretch for a moment, watching the play of emotions across Rikka’s face. Then you speak, keeping your voice steady and matter-of-fact.
“We should start now. Tonight.”
Her head snaps toward you. “What? Now? We’re still two days from the border.”
“Exactly.” You lean forward, meeting her eyes. “Two days to get used to it before it matters. Two days to work out the mistakes when no one’s watching. If we wait until we cross, and you hesitate when I give you a command, or I fumble with the reins, or we can’t maintain the act - that’s when we die.”
Rikka’s mouth opens, then closes. You can see her warrior’s mind working through the logic, recognizing the tactical sense even as something in her rebels against it.
“Besides,” you continue, softer now, “it won’t be easier later. Starting now means we’re choosing this, on our terms. The moment we cross that border, we won’t have a choice anymore.”
She turns away, arms crossed over her chest. The firelight throws her shadow long against the hillside. When she speaks, her voice is quieter than you’ve ever heard it.
“I’ve never knelt to anyone, Drak. Not once. Not even to the chieftain who trained me.” There’s no boast in it now, just a statement of fact. “And you’re asking me to kneel to you. To let you ... to let you own me.”
“I’m asking you to trust me,” you say. “And to let me keep you alive.”
The silence stretches. You can hear the crackling of the fire, the distant call of a night bird. Finally, Rikka turns back to you. Her jaw is set, her shoulders squared - the way she looks before a battle.
“Fine. But if we’re doing this, we do it properly.” She gestures to your pack. “You brought the gear, didn’t you? The ... the tack.”
You nod slowly. You’d purchased it in the last human town, from a merchant who’d traded in Gobbyland. The harness, the bit, the reins. The pony boots. The tail plug. Everything needed to transform a proud warrior into a goblin’s mount.
“Then get it out,” Rikka says, and her voice only shakes a little. “If I’m going to be your pony-girl, let’s see what that actually means.”
You rise to your feet, and something in your posture shifts. The hesitation, the careful consideration of your friend’s feelings - you let it drain away. When you speak again, your voice carries a different timbre. Harder. The casual cruelty that goblins use with their property.
“Stop talking,” you say flatly. “Ponies don’t speak. They don’t have opinions. They certainly don’t get to decide when we start their training.”
Rikka blinks, taken aback. “Drak, what are you--”
“I said stop.” You move toward your pack, not looking at her. “You want to know what this means? Fine. Strip. Everything. Ponies don’t wear armor or weapons. They wear tack.”
The silence that follows is profound. When you glance back, Rikka’s face has gone pale, then flushed. Her jaw works soundlessly.
“That’s an order, beast,” you continue, forcing yourself to meet her eyes with cold assessment rather than sympathy. “Or maybe you’re not strong enough after all? Maybe the great warrior needs to run back to safe human lands where she can pretend she’s special?”
That does it. Pride flares in her eyes - anger, indignation, but also something else. Something that looks almost like hurt. But her hands move to her armor straps. Her fingers tremble slightly as she works the buckles.
“Faster,” you snap. “A goblin trader won’t give you all night to prepare yourself. He’ll strip you down and put you in tack while you’re still trying to figure out what’s happening.”
The armor falls away. Then the leather tunic beneath. Her breasts bare to the cool night air, nipples hardening in the chill. She hesitates at her breeches.
“Everything,” you repeat. “Or are you too modest? Too human? In Gobbyland, ponies have no modesty. They’re animals. They’re fuckmeat with legs. If you can’t even stand naked in front of me, how will you handle being inspected by border guards? Fondled by stable hands? Mounted by me in front of a crowd?”
Rikka’s breath comes faster now. But she strips the breeches off, then her underclothes, until she stands completely bare before you. Her warrior’s body magnificent in the firelight - all hard muscle and bronzed skin, the copper-red hair of her braid falling over one shoulder.
You force yourself to look at her clinically, the way a goblin merchant would appraise livestock. “Turn around. Slowly. Let me see what I’ve purchased.”
She does, and you can see the tension in every line of her body. The shame. The fury. But she turns.
You circle her slowly, and with each step you force yourself deeper into the role. Not Drak the friend. Not Drak the cautious wizard who worries about consent. A goblin merchant. A trainer. Someone who sees only livestock.
“Breeding stock,” you say, and the words come easier now, falling into the crude patterns of goblin appraisal. “That’s what they’ll assess first. Wide hips - good. Strong thighs. They’ll want to know if you can carry a foal to term, even if they never intend to breed you. It increases your value.”
You stop behind her, and you can see her shoulders tense. “They’ll check your teats, of course. Grab them, squeeze them, see if you might be suitable for milking. Human cows fetch premium prices in some markets. They’ll pinch your nipples to see how responsive you are.”
Rikka’s breathing has quickened. You can see it in the rise and fall of her ribcage.
“Spread your legs,” you command.
She doesn’t move immediately. You wait, letting the silence stretch, letting her feel the weight of disobedience.
“Now, beast. Or do you need encouragement? In Gobbyland, a pony who doesn’t obey gets the crop. Or worse - they get sold to the breaking stables, where trainers specialize in crushing stubborn mares.”
Slowly, trembling with what might be rage or might be something else entirely, Rikka spreads her legs.
“Wider. They’ll want to inspect your cunt. See if you’re tight enough to be worth fucking. See if you’re wet - and you’d better hope you’re not, because if you are, they’ll know you’re a slut who enjoys being used. That drives the price up for pleasure ponies, but it also means they’ll use you harder, more often.”
You move to stand in front of her, looking up at her face. Her green eyes are bright with unshed tears - tears of humiliation, of fury. But she’s not breaking. Not yet.
“They’ll open your mouth, check your teeth like a horse. Run their fingers over your tongue. Some will stick their cocks in just to see how you handle it - if you’ve got a gag reflex, if you’re trainable.”
You reach out and tap her thigh, just above the knee. “They’ll examine every inch. Bend you over. Spread your ass cheeks. Check if you’ve been used there before, or if you’re virgin territory. And through all of it, you won’t speak. You won’t protest. You’ll stand there and let strange goblins violate you with their eyes and hands, because that’s what ponies do.”
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