A Drive in the Country

A hundred years ago, the house would have been considered a mansion. It sprawled over the side of the hill, surrounded by formal gardens where an auto-mower moved slowly along, pulling weeds and applying fertilizer to the beds of brightly colored flowers. Beyond the mower, steps led down past a stable to a gravel road that wound through green pastures dotted with stands of trees.

In the other direction, a flagstone path led up to the house’s main entrance. Double doors opened to an entry hall as huge as cave: A fairyland of crystal glass and carved wood rising over the patterned-tile floor. Halls and stairways led to other rooms of equal opulence, through which ‘botlers moved quietly, in their eternal round of housekeeping.

The ‘botlers and the mower kept the place from being a mansion, at least in the mind of the very few who cared about such things. Proper mansions had human staff. This was just the modest home of the Professors John and Martha Stewart, and while they might (barely) be able to afford staff, they preferred to budget for ponies. Normally they kept four: Two women and two men, usually students who needed help with their tuition.

Maria came out of the shower as the ‘botler brought in breakfast. She was one of those students, which explained why she was living in one of the not-mansion’s smaller two-room suites. It did at least have its own bath and its own net-node, though.

Sitting at the table, dressed only in a terrycloth robe, Maria brought up the node as she ate. The food was good, as always: Bacon and scrambled eggs and toast, and she enjoyed it without worrying about her weight. Prof John usually took a drive in the morning, and the workout kept her muscular-slim.

Breakfast finished, she continued browsing the net as the ‘botler braided her hair. It was long and blond, with its blondness (along with her hazel eyes) being a concession to her father’s side of the family. Her mostly-Latina mother had given her the dark complexion that tanned to a shade darker than her hair, as well as a pair of showgirl legs. In all, she made for a striking picture, especially with her long hair put in snail braids down her back, making it resemble a mane.

The feminists, counter-feminists, and religious traditionalists were still protesting in the Mall, she saw, still keeping up their annual three-ring circus. She switched to a fashion site, and a jumpsuit caught her eye. It was in the style of the month, unilluminated, but shimmering from the GE spider silk from which it was made. The price was in M-money too, which made it affordable. She decided to treat herself. Placing the order, she picked the ‘slow’ delivery-option since she wouldn’t have a chance to wear it until after the morning drive, and tapped into her accounts. She had plenty of M-money, and her ‘trivial spending’ account would cover it, but glancing at her Hollar balance she made her usual face. That balance could be worse, but it could also be lots better.

M-money was funny-money, used for material goods that could be produced by automation. Hollars, or Hollywood Dollars, were used for handcrafted goods, personal services, ... and tuition. Material goods were cheap, these days, and M-money could be spent like water. Hollars, however, were dear, and Maria counted every one that she received. Since Maria didn’t have a degree yet, she could only earn Hollars by providing personal services. Like hiring on as a pony-girl to a pseudo-horsy pair of professors.

Speaking of which: A message popped up from Prof John. Addressed to Maria and Susan, it informed the two that the Prof was definitely going to drive that morning, and that Molly and Sally should be in the stables by nine. Maria glanced at the time. Fifteen more minutes, and then she’d go earn a few more Hollars.

Maria took the inside route to the stables, walking barefoot through the carpeted tunnels, still dressed in her bathrobe and nothing else. At the door, she sat on the bench and pulled on her hoof-boots. These made her point her toes prettily, like high heels, but were oddly shaped, more like platform shoes than anything else. They extended up her calves, almost to her knees, and when she closed the final fastening they locked in place. And the Professors Stewart had the only keys. To make things even more interesting, they were connected with a chain, hobbling the wearer. The chain could be removed, of course, but again the Professors Stewart had the only keys.

Standing up, Maria balanced with the ease of familiarity. She wiggled her toes. Despite her feet being buried in the hoof-boots’ bulk, the lining was so sensuous as to make her feel almost as if she were still barefoot.

But she wasn’t, and wouldn’t be until after the drive ended. Pushing the door open, and taking the mincing steps demanded by her hobble, she entered the stable. The boots made a hoof-noise - ‘clip clop’ - as she walked, a noise produced by the hard material of the sole and amplified by the widgets concealed in the boots.

Clip clop clip clop. Susan was already in the stable. She was blond, like Maria, and similarly slim-muscled, but blue-eyed instead of hazel. She was also completely nude, except for her hoof-boots, not even wearing the immodest concealment of a bathrobe. “Hi, Maria! How’s tricks?”

“I should ask you that,” Maria answered. “Have you decided yet which of the two studs you prefer?”

“I like them both,” complacently. Then guileless wide blue eyes: “But if you ask nicely, I’m willing to share...”

“Huh. No thanks. Too much brawn, not enough brains.”

“Maybe, but you have to ta-” Susan broke off as Prof John entered the stables, dressed from cap to boots in an antique-styled equestrian outfit. From now on the two women would have to be the ponygirls “Molly” and “Sally.” And that meant no talking.

“Morning girls,” he greeted them. “Beautiful day for a drive.” The two ponygirls nodded and whinnied, and he beamed at them. He was of average height, gray-haired, and skinny in a way that spoke of having taken a bod-mod years back when bod-mods were still expensive. His face was narrow but cheerful, and his eyes twinkled. “Lets harness up you first, Molly,” he told Maria - “Molly” in her ponygirl guise.

He removed her bathrobe. “Start by taking this horse-blanket off.” Setting it aside, he began to apply harness.

First came the chest harness, of heavily tooled leather with lots of bells attached. Mostly ornamental, it served the purpose of lifting and accentuating Molly’s breasts.

Then the hip harness. This was sturdier and more ‘practical,’ since the chariot attached to it. But it included a showy horsetail at the rear, and the strap that went between the legs produced some subtly interesting stimulation of Molly’s private parts. “Easy, Molly, easy,” Prof John soothed as he tightened the harness and settled it into place.

Then the arm-bindings. These held Molly’s arms at her sides, elbows bent, with her hands facing each other over her stomach. The hands themselves were contained in a silken tube, leaving them completely helpless. At this point, escape became impossible, until Prof John choose to release her. Molly stirred uneasily again, and glanced over to where Sally stood smirking at her. You’ll get yours she thought.

“Easy there, girl,” Prof John repeated. He stroked Molly’s hair, eyes bright, smiling, having a wonderful time. Molly shrugged and relaxed. Her situation wasn’t boring, whatever else it might be.

Now came the final piece of harness: The bit and bridle. The bit was made of a high-quality synthetic rubber, tasteless and pleasantly chewy. The bridle was leather with a soft inner lining, matching the other pieces of harness, and studded with gems. It cost quite a bit of M-money, but not because of the gems (which were synthetics). What raised the price was the control system. Under the leather and rubber were induction circuits that linked into the motor centers of Molly’s brain. This meant that her body was no longer under her own control. Not completely, anyway. She could move under her own will if she wanted, but whoever held her reins could override that. Could make her run when she wanted to stand, or make her stand when she wanted to move. A familiar thrill tingled through her at the idea that now she truly belonged to Prof John.

She pranced with the excitement of it, bells jingling, hooves clopping, and Prof John had to spend more time soothing her. It didn’t help that he was obviously excited himself.

Once Molly allowed herself to be quieted, she got to watch Prof John apply harness to Sally. Molly couldn’t smirk, with the bit-gag in her mouth, but her eyes lit with appreciation as Sally was progressively put under Prof John’s power. Chest harness, hip harness, arm bindings, and bridle and bit. Watching was almost like being harnessed again herself, and Molly felt a pleasant stirring inside her, felt her breasts perk up within her own chest harness. She grinned, chewing her bit.

At last the two ponygirls were harnessed to the chariot. Prof John unlocked and removed the hobbles, and climbed into his seat. The stable doors opened. “Gee up!” Prof John cried happily from the chariot, and shook the reins. From those reins, through the bridle she wore, Molly felt a compulsion to step forward. She knew her harness-mate Sally must be feeling the same thing. She gave in, and the two ponygirls began to pull the chariot out onto the road.

At a walk, at first, clop clop clop. Then faster, as Prof John shook the reins again, calling for a trot. Clip-clop clip-clop clip-clop. The chariot was light, with magnetic bearings on its wheels that reduced friction to almost nothing. The ponygirls were strong and healthy, and pulled it easily along at a trot. Clip-clop clip-clop clip-clop clip-clop their hooves went against the road. Prof John cracked the whip (well above their heads) and shouted “Gee up!” again, out of sheer exuberance. Clip-clop clip-clop clip-clop clip-clop, past pasture and a stand of trees, and the bells on their chest harness jingled merrily.

“Whoa!” Prof John called at last. Molly felt the compulsion to slow to a walk, and obeyed. Beside her, Sally did the same. The two ponygirls walked for a time, catching their breath, and then Prof John called for a trot again.

Molly neighed out of sheer animal spirits. She was an animal, at that moment. With her arms bound, she had no hands. The bit-gag between her teeth left her without the power of speech. Her harness left her feeling nakeder than nude, and the hooves massaged her feet, making her feel as if she were running barefoot over a cloudbank. And yet, no matter how hard or fast she ran, she could not escape. Prof John sat behind her, the reins in his hand and the bridle on her head putting her under his command and control. And making him happy. In the bright morning sunshine, the Hollars she was earning were only a sweet afterthought. For now, there was the road before her, her harness-mate beside her, and her master riding behind.

They were heading back to the stable and the not-a-mansion when the fat man stepped out from behind a tree. Brandishing a tanglegun, he shouted, “Stop in the name of God!” Molly felt the pressure to halt, transmitted through the reins, and complied unwillingly. She didn’t like the looks of the fat man, and she especially didn’t like the looks of his gun. Tangleguns were supposed to be non-lethal, but... She stepped from foot to foot, and traded a nervous glance with Sally.

She tried to remember where she had seen the fat man before. He looked smarmy and self-righteous, and his appearance nudged a memory in the back of her mind.

“What do you want?” Prof John asked, his voice tight with anger.

“Righteousness!” the fat man declaimed. “Foul sinner, pervert! The Son of Wrath will descend upon you, and cast you into His Mother’s hell for your despicable acts! Descend from your chariot of inequity and pray on your knees for the redemption of your soul!”

Molly recognized the fat man then, and felt herself shivering with fear. He was Tom Phillips, ‘Preacher Tom,’ founder of the Church of God’s Mother, self proclaimed protector of women, the sort of religious nut that even the traditionalists looked askance on. This must be another one of his public stunts and, looking around, Molly could see the vidcams focused on the scene. As long as those cameras were running, Preacher Tom wouldn’t dare do anything too outrageous. But when they stopped, and the “deprogramming” began... Molly didn’t want to be in his hands when that happened.

Prof John snorted, magnificently contemptuous, and shook the reins. Obedient to their command, Molly began to walk forward, in step with Sally beside her. Clop clop. Suddenly Preacher Tom raised his gun to his shoulder. Molly felt her heart in her throat. It’s only a tangle gun she told herself.

The reins commanded that she continue walking forward. She could not disobey them to stop. But the reins and bridle did leave her with some control over her own body, and she used it. She broke into a run, and Sally did the same beside her. Clip-clop-clip-clop, their hoof-boots went, and their harness bells sounded panicked now, rather than merry.

The chariot surged forward, past where Preacher Tom stood openmouthed. They were well beyond him when a BANG sounded from the tangle gun, and the two ponygirls ran even faster. Clipclopclipclopclipclop. Behind them fat Tom ran, shoes crunching heavily on the gravel road. “Wait!” he called. “Stop! I’m here to rescue you! Stop!”

Molly ran as fast as she could. Even if the bridle hadn’t been commanding her, she still would have run. Nothing frightened her more at that moment than the thought of being ‘rescued’ by Preacher Tom.

Clipclopclipclopclipclop. Molly’s heart was in her throat. Jinglejinglejinglejingle her harness bells chimed. The not-mansion and stable was in sight now. Behind the chariot, Molly could hear Tom running after them. “Wait...Stop...” he gasped. If she slowed down, he might stop and take another shot. If she kept running they might reach the stable and safety before Tom thought to shoot again. Clipclopclipclopclipclop. The chariot rolled into the stable at last. Prof Martha was there, hitching a pair of ponyboys to her chariot for her own morning drive. Seeing the excitement outside, she hit a switch, and the stable doors closed in Preacher Tom’s face.

The sheriff’s deputy was human, in deference to the Professors Stewart’s standing in the University community. He thanked them for their statement and Prof Martha escorted him from the stable, leaving behind Prof John and his two ponygirls. Preacher Tom had already been taken away, protesting loudly at being in the custody of a soulless robocop rather than a proper human officer.

Prof John was wearing an antiquely-styled “tie-dye” shirt that clashed horribly with his even more antique riding britches and boots. Tom’s one shot had glanced off his back, ruining his shirt and jacket and trapping one arm. Prof Martha, short and huge-breasted, had first started to fuss over freeing him from the tangle, until his one-armed protests had sent her to free Maria and Susan from their bits, bridles, and arm restraints.

“I think a small brandy is the traditional medicine for this sort of shock,” he now told his ponygirls. “If you’d like to join me in the library after unharnessing and changing, you’re more than welcome to do so.”

“Thank you, sir,” Maria said. Susan echoed her. The two still wore their harnesses under a pair of light robes.

“And I’ll need to unlock your hooves,” he added, pulling out the key and kneeling to that task. “After that... we’ll see.”

“You’re not planning to quit driving, are you Prof John?” Susan asked. “Just because of that kook?”

Prof John looked up, searching her face for a long moment, his own face unreadable. Then, suddenly, he broke into an impish grin. “No, I’m not going to quit driving. In fact, I expect to see Molly and Sally back here and ready to be hitched to the chariot at 6 o’clock this evening.”

END