Self bondage at the park
Chapter Four - The prancing pony
Emma stared at the distant figure, then down at the gleaming chains dangling uselessly against her skin. The harness bit deeper with each labored breath. The bit tasted like defeat. Miss Vera’s ‘escort’ meant walking—no, parading—through waking public paths: harnessed, bridled, booted, ears perched, keys gleaming. Humiliation beyond imagining. Yet... the alternative was worse. Discovery meant photos, headlines, societal death. A choked whimper slipped past the leather gag. Miss Vera’s offer wasn’t freedom; it was captivity exchanged for annihilation. Her shoulders slumped, the harness forcing her posture painfully upright even in surrender. Slowly, leadenly, Emma lowered her gaze, pressing her forehead against Miss Vera’s thigh in mute supplication. Not pride. Pure, distilled terror. "Good girl," Miss Vera purred, her fingers tangling possessively in Emma’s sweat-dampened hair beneath the pony ears. The praise felt colder than the dawn air. Emma had broken.
Miss Vera crouched smoothly. With deliberate care, she unfastened the tiny silver chain holding the bridle’s throatlatch key. Its brass gleamed briefly in her palm before she selected another, larger brass key from the twin chains hanging uselessly around Emma’s neck. Emma held impossibly still, only her frantic pulse betraying her terror. Miss Vera inserted the key into the sturdy padlock securing the heavy collar itself. The mechanism groaned, then gave way with a metallic clunk. Miss Vera slid the collar free with surprising tenderness, dropping it onto the wet grass like discarded trash. Relief flooded Emma’s throat—until Miss Vera’s fingers moved lower, finding the lock securing the deep, throbbing anal hook buried within her. Another turn, another groan, another clunk. Emma gasped as the cruel metal slid free, leaving a void filled only by aching soreness. But Miss Vera wasn’t done. From her coat pocket, she produced a new device: a gleaming black silicone pony tail butt plug, its flanged base thick and designed for security. A short, braided faux-tail hung from its end. Before Emma could react, Miss Vera coated the plug liberally with clear lube from a small vial and pressed it firmly home with practiced efficiency. Emma cried out behind the bit, arching involuntarily as the thick intrusion seated itself deep inside her, the silicone stretching her uncomfortably. Miss Vera snapped a small padlock through its sturdy base ring with a final, definitive click. The faux tail brushed Emma’s inner thighs.
Now, Miss Vera turned her attention to the bridle and harness. With swift, sure motions, she unbuckled the harness’s throat strap that had overlapped Emma’s collar. She then adjusted the bridle’s intricate cheek straps and bit position, ensuring it sat perfectly centered. Finally, she brought the harness’s thick throat strap up high and snug against Emma’s bare neck, buckling it tightly beneath the bridle’s chin strap. The effect was immediate and devastating. The harness framed Emma’s exposed throat like a collar of leather and buckles, perfectly integrated with the bridle’s straps and bit. Her jaw was firmly held, her posture permanently thrust forward by the harness chest straps and the demanding lift of the patent boots. The pony ears sat proudly atop her head. The faux tail teased her legs. Miss Vera stepped back, surveying her masterpiece. Emma knelt, transformed: a sleek, humiliated creature sculpted from leather, sweat, and utter submission. Every strap, every buckle, every gleaming surface screamed ownership. The dew glittered on the black patent boots. Miss Vera’s smile was triumphant. "Perfect," she declared. She produced a long, coiled lead rope from her coat. With a soft snap, she clipped it firmly to the brass ring on Emma’s harness, directly above her sternum, between the swinging keys. "Rise, my pony," Miss Vera commanded softly. "It’s time to walk." Miss Vera turned towards the park paths below, the leash held taut. Emma took one shuddering breath around the bit, forced herself onto her trembling legs, the new plug shifting deep inside her, and followed. The city shimmered below.
As they approached the park entrance archway, Miss Vera halted Emma beneath a towering oak. Her fingers deftly unfastened the silver chain holding one of the brass keys around Emma’s neck. Miss Vera selected the key – cold against Emma’s skin – and inserted it into the padlocks securing the thick wrist cuffs. The locks clicked open instantly. Miss Vera slid the heavy cuffs away, dropping them onto dead leaves. Relief surged through Emma’s aching arms… until Miss Vera produced her next surprise. From her pocket, she withdrew two gleaming black leather mitts. They weren’t gloves; they resembled stiff pony hooves – solid, rounded shapes with a hard, molded exterior and internal padding. Miss Vera slid the first one onto Emma’s right hand, forcing her fingers together into a useless, curled fist inside the unyielding leather shell. She secured it tightly at the wrist with sturdy buckles. Then came the left, encasing Emma’s hand completely. Miss Vera snapped small padlocks onto both wrist buckles with metallic finality. Emma stared at her transformed hands: smooth, black, hoof-like appendages utterly incapable of grasping anything. Miss Vera patted the hard leather. "No more fiddling with locks, pet. Just trot."
They walked towards the park gate. Emma shuffled awkwardly in the thigh-high boots, her hooved hands hanging uselessly at her sides. The lead rope tugged her forward. Mist clung to the laurel hedges flanking the exit archway. Beyond it, the city street glistened wetly, traffic sounds swelling. And there, propped casually against the stone wall beside the gate, sat Miss Vera’s final surprise: a small, elegant pony cart. Its polished dark wood gleamed under the overcast sky, its two slender wheels resting on cobblestones. Black leather harness straps hung draped across its low seat. And coiled neatly beside them lay the reins: long, supple strips of black leather ending in polished brass rings. Miss Vera unclipped the lead rope from Emma’s harness. She walked to the cart, picked up the reins, and turned back. Her eyes locked onto Emma’s, glinting with dark promise. She held the reins aloft. "Ready for your ride home, little pony?" Emma trembled, the silicone plug shifting deep within her, the hoof-hands a grotesque reminder of her helplessness. Beyond the archway, cars hissed past on the wet street. The cart awaited. Miss Vera smiled. "Or do you prefer the pavement?"
Emma stared at the cart, a symbol of utter domestication, then at the waking street beyond. The choice was no choice. With a choked sound muffled by the bit, she lowered her gaze, bowing her head towards Miss Vera. Submission flowed through her like cold water. Miss Vera stepped forward. Her hands moved with practiced efficiency. She lifted the cart’s heavier leather driving harness – thick straps ending in gleaming buckles and brass rings. She draped it over Emma’s shoulders, positioning it atop the existing pony harness. The weight settled firmly, pressing down. Miss Vera buckled straps snugly around Emma's torso, securing them to the rings on her chest harness, integrating the systems. The central strap passed between Emma’s breasts, emphasizing their exposure beneath the harnesses. Miss Vera fastened buckles tightly at Emma’s sides, locking the cart harness securely to her body. She picked up the reins. They weren’t held. Miss Vera clipped the brass rings directly onto the bit rings of Emma’s bridle with small, sturdy padlocks. Click. Click. Emma felt the leather pull taut against her jaw. Miss Vera then produced two thin straps ending in gleaming chrome clover-clamps. She fastened them onto the reins just behind the bit rings. With deliberate slowness, she pinched Emma’s nipples firmly, attaching the clamps. Emma gasped behind the gag, pain and sensation surging. Miss Vera gave the reins a small, testing tug. The clamps bit sharply, pulling her nipples taut. Emma jerked involuntarily. Miss Vera smiled. "Steering apparatus," she murmured. "Lean left? Pull left." She tugged the left rein experimentally. The clamps yanked Emma’s left nipple fiercely. She stumbled sideways, the patent boots scraping stone. Miss Vera chuckled softly. "Perfect."
The clock tower across the street chimed seven times. Its deep bong echoed against damp buildings. The park gate creaked open behind them as the first early jogger entered, footsteps muffled on wet gravel. Miss Vera lifted Emma's chin with a fingertip beneath the harness throat strap. "Chin high, pony. Show your beauty." She stepped into the cart, settling onto its low seat. She gathered the locked reins firmly in her gloved hands. Emma stood hitched before the cart, transformed: harnessed, bridled, booted, plugged, mitt-hooved, ears perked, tail dangling, nipples clamped to the reins. She was Miss Vera’s creature, a gleaming black silhouette against the gray morning. Miss Vera gave the reins a gentle flick. "Walk on." Emma strained against the straps and clamps, forcing one patent-leather-clad leg forward in its unnatural point. Her hoof-hand twitched uselessly. The boot heel clicked loudly on the wet cobblestone. Clack. Another step. Clack. Miss Vera guided her with infinitesimal tugs on the reins linked to her nipples and jaw. Clack. Clack. Clack. They moved slowly onto the street. The jogger stared, slack-jawed, barely out of the gate. A cyclist braked sharply. Car windows rolled down. Emma kept her chin high, tears blurring the waking city, her world reduced to the sting of the clamps and Miss Vera's soft command: "Trot." The clacks quickened. Clack-clack-clack-clack. The cart wheels rumbled softly behind her. The city watched its newest spectacle trot past.
End (?)