Author’s Note
I once came across a lady writer whose fascinating stories once graced the internet. D. would bury herself in her work, writing furiously for several days before emerging to present her newly-completed story to her male companion for his comments. One day, in the grip of the muse, D found herself writing about a naked girl who is made to pull a wheeled cart. Her companion read the piece and looked at her.
“D, he asked, “did you know you just wrote a ponygirl story?”
“What’s a Pony-girl story?” she replied with perfect innocence.
Every writer of erotic fiction should try at least once to do a ponygirl story or two. Here are a few of mine.
Don Winslow, Copenhagen
Ponygirls Tales One How to Turn on a Ponygirl Claudine’s eyes flew wide open. Throwing back the covers, she bolted upright in the bed, and sat looking around her at the unfamiliar room, staring in wide-eyed confusion. Somewhat dazed, it took the girl a moment to realize: she was sitting in a strange bedroom -- completely naked! Her growing fears escalated wildly when she also realized that the room’s sole window was barred! The panic-stricken girl jumped out of bed, bounded to the small high window, clasped the iron bars, and hauled herself up on straining bare toes to try to see what she could. Across the wide courtyard stood the stables she remembered from when they drove up the night before (was it only the night before?). Then she looked down to see beneath her window an incredible sight! Only a few feet below her, one of the fabled ponygirls stood at the ready: a tall girl with a lean, whippet-like body, and tawny hair that had been gathered up into a long pony tail that hung down past her shoulders. The girl had already been collared, her neck banded with a wide strap of soft black leather; now she waited patiently between the traces that attached her to a delicately-made sulky. Claudine was struck by the way the young woman seemed to have accepted her fate -- stoically, it seemed to her, or at least with resigned indifference. Awe-struck, she studied the slightly-built solitary figure standing at rigid attention in the early morning mist. Claudine wondered what thoughts were going through the girl’s proudly-held head. Surely she felt the cold. Perhaps she was shivering a bit, for the morning sun had not yet broken through to warm the day and the girl was totally naked of course, except for the shiny boots she wore. Sleek and tightly fitted to her calves, with stacked high heels that were thick and serviceable. Yet there was no sign of discomfort on that set, expressionless face. The extended shafts of the light-weight buggy were attached at her hips, chained to the wide cincher belt that constricted her waist. Her arms were secured behind her, bound together above the elbows but with just enough slack left so that she could bring her gloved hands forward to clasp the crossbar that rested in front of her hips. The effect was to pull the shoulders back while forcing the thin chest out. Naked breasts, small and gently sloped, formed thickened disks that were prominently lifted in proud display; nipples small, but sturdy. As Claudine watched, a bearded overseer came out to complete the preparations for the ride. In one hand he held a tangle of straps – a set of reins and headgear. In the other was a long horsetail made of fine hair of the same russet color as the girl’s own hair. The naked girl kept her proud head held high and remained absolutely still as the man closed in on her. And she never flinched when he tossed the headgear over her head. A long strap lay over the top of her head to hang down on either side of her face, while another circled the head from front to back. This second strap crossed her brow forming a headband that imprisoned a soft fringe of reddish brown bangs. When pulled into place one could see that the headband was joined to the vertical pieces with metal rings that rested just in front
I once came across a lady writer whose fascinating stories once graced the internet. D. would bury herself in her work, writing furiously for several days before emerging to present her newly-completed story to her male companion for his comments. One day, in the grip of the muse, D found herself writing about a naked girl who is made to pull a wheeled cart. Her companion read the piece and looked at her.
“D, he asked, “did you know you just wrote a ponygirl story?”
“What’s a Pony-girl story?” she replied with perfect innocence.
Every writer of erotic fiction should try at least once to do a ponygirl story or two. Here are a few of mine.
Don Winslow, Copenhagen
Ponygirls Tales One How to Turn on a Ponygirl Claudine’s eyes flew wide open. Throwing back the covers, she bolted upright in the bed, and sat looking around her at the unfamiliar room, staring in wide-eyed confusion. Somewhat dazed, it took the girl a moment to realize: she was sitting in a strange bedroom -- completely naked! Her growing fears escalated wildly when she also realized that the room’s sole window was barred! The panic-stricken girl jumped out of bed, bounded to the small high window, clasped the iron bars, and hauled herself up on straining bare toes to try to see what she could. Across the wide courtyard stood the stables she remembered from when they drove up the night before (was it only the night before?). Then she looked down to see beneath her window an incredible sight! Only a few feet below her, one of the fabled ponygirls stood at the ready: a tall girl with a lean, whippet-like body, and tawny hair that had been gathered up into a long pony tail that hung down past her shoulders. The girl had already been collared, her neck banded with a wide strap of soft black leather; now she waited patiently between the traces that attached her to a delicately-made sulky. Claudine was struck by the way the young woman seemed to have accepted her fate -- stoically, it seemed to her, or at least with resigned indifference. Awe-struck, she studied the slightly-built solitary figure standing at rigid attention in the early morning mist. Claudine wondered what thoughts were going through the girl’s proudly-held head. Surely she felt the cold. Perhaps she was shivering a bit, for the morning sun had not yet broken through to warm the day and the girl was totally naked of course, except for the shiny boots she wore. Sleek and tightly fitted to her calves, with stacked high heels that were thick and serviceable. Yet there was no sign of discomfort on that set, expressionless face. The extended shafts of the light-weight buggy were attached at her hips, chained to the wide cincher belt that constricted her waist. Her arms were secured behind her, bound together above the elbows but with just enough slack left so that she could bring her gloved hands forward to clasp the crossbar that rested in front of her hips. The effect was to pull the shoulders back while forcing the thin chest out. Naked breasts, small and gently sloped, formed thickened disks that were prominently lifted in proud display; nipples small, but sturdy. As Claudine watched, a bearded overseer came out to complete the preparations for the ride. In one hand he held a tangle of straps – a set of reins and headgear. In the other was a long horsetail made of fine hair of the same russet color as the girl’s own hair. The naked girl kept her proud head held high and remained absolutely still as the man closed in on her. And she never flinched when he tossed the headgear over her head. A long strap lay over the top of her head to hang down on either side of her face, while another circled the head from front to back. This second strap crossed her brow forming a headband that imprisoned a soft fringe of reddish brown bangs. When pulled into place one could see that the headband was joined to the vertical pieces with metal rings that rested just in front
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