WARNING!!! The following story contains bondage, domination, and extremely adult sexual situations. If this isn't the kind of thing you're interested in, for heavens sake DON'T READ IT!!! You should be OVER 21 YEARS OF AGE to read this, as it is intended for adults only.
This story is written as satirical fiction for entertainment purposes only, and is not intended to gather monetary recompense in ANY WAY, SHAPE, or FORM...it is freely offered for interested readers only.
The original creations of Jean Grey (Marvel Girl), Susan Storm (Invisible Woman), Wanda Maximoff (Scarlet Witch), Reed Richards, the X-men and Fantastic Four are copyrighted by Marvel Comics.
Author's Note: Feedback at arcahicbangles@gmail is appreciated. Trying to decide how long to make this story, especially when juggling it with the Wonder Woman: Slave of Gorilla City tale I'm writing simultaneously.
UnStable - A Marvelous Ponygirl Story
**Chapter 3: Breaking The Invisible Girl **
After pushing the young heroines into the stable stall, Robert slamed the door shut, plunging Susan Richards, the Invisible Girl, and Wanda Maximoff, the Scarlet Witch, into dank darkness. What little light there was, Susan quickly noted, was just moonlight shining through thin cracks in the heavy boarding. The womens' pony harnesses creaked as they stumbled against each other, attempting to adjust to the cramped blackness.
"Susan," Wanda whispered, her voice cracking. She moved in close once she got a bearing on Sue's presence, and pressed her forehead against Susan's collarbone, seeking comfort in a friendly touch. "Did you see Jean's face when she—"
Susan swallowed hard. The image of Jean's flushed cheeks, her parted lips as she came under Robert's touch, sent an unwelcome flutter through her chest. "I can't...I can't think about it," she breathed. Wanda was trembling against her, her breath hitching in uneven bursts.
"Well, I can't stop seeing it," Wanda whispered. "The way she moved for him—like she wanted—"
As the women shifted, they felt the straw under their feet; despite it's bdsm leanings now, the stable was clearly used for real horses as well. This impression was reinforced when, outside, the occasional whinny of an actual horse cut through the night. Wanda cursed as she bumped into a piece of the heavy iron rail framing the stalls as she shifted.
Susan shivered, her breath misting before her. Despite her exhaustion, near nudity (the sheer pantyhose Robert had left her after stripping her of her gown were little barrier to the cold), and the drug he'd pumped into her system, she tried to get her bearings.
She shifted in place, still grappling with the fact that she'd been stripped and harnessed by this powerful man, let alone imprisoned. The stall's dimensions—eight by eight feet, she estimated—were cramped even for a single horse, let alone two captives. A shadow of a bucket that Sue hoped to god she wouldn't have to use rested in one corner.
Wanda sighed, and in their closeness, Sue saw her ample chest rise and fall. As impacted by Robert's dominating presence as Susan was, Wanda seemed even more so. "How did he break Jean so fast?" she murmured, her fingers twitching against the leather straps binding her friend, ostensibly looking for a way to undo her pony harness. "She's the strongest of us—her mind, so powerful—and yet..." Her voice trailed off, the unspoken question hanging between them like a noose.
Susan, despite her own discomfort, put an arm around Wanda, pulling her close and stopping her futile fumbling; the harness was held on with small locks, and Susan didn't have the energy for anymore failure tonight. "I don't know," she admitted, her voice soft. "But we have to be strong, Wanda. We can't let him do to us what he did to her." Her voice shuddered as she remembered how he had touched her, had made her thigh prickle as he stroked it under her dowdy beige pantyhose. "And we have to do what we can for her, not judge," she added quickly. "We have no idea what kind of power this...Lord Robert...had over her."
Wanda broke from the hug, comforted but still trembling. "I have never felt so helpless," she whispered. She she sank to her knees in the straw, then seated herself, hugging her own body against the chill.
Susan regarded her, naked save for the semi-sheer pink stockings clinging to Wanda’s legs—now ridiculous remnants of the Scarlet Witch’s former evening wear, and clearly left on her as a play to Robert’s fetishes. Like the Invisible Girl, the pony tackle fitted on Wanda seemed unremovable, with thick straps around her torso and iron buckles along her spine, the leather framing her large nude breasts and wrapping her body like a present. Wanda’s bridle hung loose around her neck, the bit dangling—not in place for now, but a promise of future compulsion.
Even in the shadows, she could see as Wanda shivered visibly, lacking even the coverage of Sue's pantyhose, her upper thighs and pelvis bare. The thigh highs must have seemed such a stylishly daring choice just 24 hours ago, when Wanda had assumed she was being celebrated at a gala. Now, the thin hose just left her more exposed as the cold seeped between cracks in the barn wall.
Sue sank down beside her, straw pricking the backs of her thighs through the sheer nylon. The stable smelled of wood and leather. "Come here," she said, drawing Wanda close for warmth.
Their shoulders touched first, then their arms. Wanda tucked her head under Sue's chin like a nesting bird, her pink-clad legs curling against Sue's beige ones. The onset of their cuddling, two women comforting each other before bed, reminded Sue of her sorority sleepovers, a more innocent time of hushed nights whispering under shared blankets, before cosmic rays and supervillains. Before kidnappings and bondage.
Against the chill, a warmth built between them, a calm in their proximity. Wanda's head rested on Susan, her auburn hair spilling over Susan's naked chest, and Susan could feel the press of Wanda's breasts against her ribs, their nipples hard and erect in the absence of the gown and brassiere which had been stripped from her.
Susan stroked Wanda's hair, her fingers moving slowly through the silken strands. It was meant to soothe—to distract them both from the horror of Jean's fate—but even in this simplest of touches, there was a quiet intimacy that set on unexpectedly. "We're...we're going to be okay, Sue," Wanda whispered, as much to herself as to Sue. Susan felt the rise and fall of Wanda's bosom, her breaths shallow at first, then deeper, steadier, as she leaned into the contact.
Then, without thinking, Wanda shifted—just slightly—her knee pressing forward, sliding slowly, unbidden, between Sue's stocking-clad thighs. The friction was soft but unmistakable. Susan froze, her breath catching. What am I doing? The thought came sharp and sudden, cutting through the haze of sought-after warmth.
"Susan?" Wanda murmured, her voice thick with something Sue couldn’t name—something warm and wet and trembling at the edges. Her fingers tightened reflexively around the straps of Sue’s harness, pulling her closer still. The leather creaked. The straw beneath them shifted.
"Wanda..." Susan whispered, her voice unsteady. "L-let's just rest. I don't know what he put into us, but we'll need our strength tomorrow."
Wanda didn't reply—only nodded against Susan's collarbone, her breath hitching as she pressed closer, thigh still lodged between Susan's legs like an unspoken question. Neither moved it. Neither acknowledged it. The cold night air crept through the stable boards, curling around their half-naked bodies, making every point of contact burn hotter by contrast. Susan's fingers rested against Wanda's back, a steady presence through the sweat-slick leather straps of her harness—a comfort, nothing more. A way to fill the silence.
Sleep came in fits and starts, dragging them under only to spit them back out moments later. Susan jolted awake twice—once to Wanda's muffled whimper, fingers twisting in the straw, once to the phantom sensation of hands around her neck that faded before she could place it. The third time, it was the sound of a cry -Jean?- that Sue wondered if she'd imagined. She looked down and saw moonlight painting Wanda's face in fractured silver through the stable slats, her lashes fluttering against Susan's skin like moth wings. She settled down again, and when sleep took her that last time, it lasted until morning.
The scream of the stable door being wrenched open tore through Susan's sleep like a blade. Hands—rough, calloused, smelling of saddle soap—clamped around her biceps before she could blink the straw from her lashes. She barely had time to register Wanda's startled gasp before she was hauled upright, her stockinged feet scraping across wooden floor as they dragged her toward the daylight.
"Wait—stop! You can't just—" Wanda's voice cracked like a whip, her fingers clutching at Susan's harness straps as if she could anchor her. One of the stablemen gave her a shove to her midsection without breaking stride, and Wanda reeled, pink stockings flashing ridiculously as fell to her bottom on the dirty floor, her bridle's loose bit flapping against her cheek.
Susan thrashed against the strong young men. "Wanda!" The name tore from her throat raw as they were separated. The stable door then slammed shut with finality, severing her last glimpse of Wanda's outstretched hand. A steel locking bar dropped with a metallic clang.
The henchmen, hooded and wearing rugged clothes, dragged Susan down a narrow corridor of the stable lined with iron hooks holding polished bridles and bits of tackle. The scent of hay and ammonia burned her nose. One stablehand—broad-shouldered, smelling of linseed oil—grabbed her harness straps and hauled her upright while another knelt to wrench her pantyhose down her legs. The nylon resisted at first, clinging to her sweat-damp skin with pathetic desperation before surrendering with a whisper against her thighs. Cool air licked her bare flesh.
Susan’s breath hitched. The pantyhose had been flimsy armor at best, but their removal left her more naked than she'd been since arriving. Without them, she felt peeled. But the stablehands didn’t leer; they worked with the brisk indifference of men stripping a saddle from a mare. That almost made her more frightened. Her nakedness wasn’t a spectacle—just a prerequisite for whatever degradation came next.
Next, surprisingly, off came the harness. The buckles at her hips popped free, the leather parting from her sweat-slicked skin with little thwips. Goosebumps rippled down her thighs. She squeezed her legs together instinctively, as if that could undo the exposure.
But quickly the pony harness was replaced with new restraints: supple black leather wrist restraints buckled tight enough to indent her skin, followed by matching anklets. Susan twisted, testing the give—only for the stablehand to yank her arms upward in one brutal motion, snapping a chain between her wrists to a rusted iron hook dangling from the rafters. Her ankle chain gave her perhaps 8 inches of slack, her bare toes barely brushing the concrete floor.
"Time for a bath, filly." The stablehand's voice was amused. He dragged a pressure washer hose from the wall, its nozzle glinting under the stable's flickering fluorescents.
Susan barely had time to register the threat before icy water slammed into her ribs. The force punched the air from her lungs—a thousand needle-sharp droplets stinging her skin pink. She gasped, twisting against the chains as the jet traced her collarbones, her heaving breasts, the concave dip of her belly. The water was glacial, ruthless in its exploration, sluicing between her thighs with invasive precision. Her nipples pebbled instantly, tight as rosebuds against the onslaught.
“Stop—please—” The plea tore from her throat unbidden, raw as a fresh wound. The stablehand only adjusted the setting on the nozzle, hosing down the backs of her knees with a narrower stream until they nearly buckled. Susan’s wrists jerked against the cuffs, the metal biting into bone. She hadn’t meant to beg. Hadn’t wanted to. She was Susan Richards, after all, the crime-fighting Invisible Girl. But her voice betrayed her in that moment of shock, shuddering under the dual assault of cold and humiliation, gooseflesh rising in waves across her skin.
Shortly, the water pressure slowed to a sudsy rinse, the nozzle coating her skin in a delicate white foam.
It was as they were wrapping up that he arrived.
Robert's shadow stretched across the stall floor first—long and lean as a stallion's flank. When he stepped into the light, he was every inch a stablemaster: the riding breeches, polished boots and worst: the crop dangling loose between his fingers, its tip a hard rubber triangle. His shirt clung to his shoulders, the top buttons undone just enough to reveal his barrel chest. Susan knew that he would be very handsome if he weren't such a monster, and cursed herself for the admission.
"Enough," he murmured—not to her, but to the stablehands. His voice was butter-soft, incongruous with the cruelty of the moment. The pressure washer sputtered to silence. "Leave us."
The stablehands obeyed without hesitation, their boots scuffing straw as they retreated. Susan shuddered, water dripping from her lashes, her nipples tight as pebbles as they peeked through the foam coating her breasts. Robert moved closer—slow, deliberate—and draped a thick horse blanket over her shoulders. The wool scratched her wet skin, but the warmth was immediate, undeniable. His fingers followed the fabric, smoothing it down her spine with the same care one might use on a skittish mare.
"Hush, pretty thing," he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. His palm slid down her flank, squeezing the water from her skin like he was wringing out a sponge. The touch was possessive, practiced—as if he'd done this a thousand times before. Susan tensed, but the heat of his hands seeped into her muscles, loosening them against her will. He reached for a towel next, its rough fibers scraping her thighs as he knelt to dry her legs, his thumbs pressing into the hollows behind her knees. "You're such a good girl; stand still for me."
The praise curled hot in Susan's belly, and that—more than the touch—made her jerk back. Good girl. She should be spitting in his face, should be twisting free, should be acting like a heroine, not a little pony girl.
In the realization, her foot lashed out on instinct, aiming for his ribs. But the ankle cuff yanked taut, chain snapping her leg back midair like a dog reaching the end of its leash. The motion only succeeded in making her wobble pathetically, water and foam sluicing off her body. Robert didn't even flinch. His fingers tightened around her calf, kneading the muscle there with infuriating calm.
"Tsk. Still so spirited." He exhaled through his nose, the sound almost fond as he dragged the towel up her shivering leg. The fabric seemed to smooth out her tension, his thumbs pressing into the hollow behind her knee until her muscles unlocked.
Susan swallowed hard—his touch was methodical, almost clinical, like a groomer tending to a skittish thoroughbred. Her husband Reed hadn't touched her possessively in years, not since they were courting. Not with this slow, deliberate attention, certainly. No, Reed's hands were always distracted, hurried—pulling her hips against his in the dark before rolling away to scribble equations before she had finished.
Now, Robert's fingers traced the dip of her waist with proprietorial patience, the towel rasping over her gooseflesh as if memorizing every contour. Her skin betrayed her, warming under his palms despite the icy water still dripping from her hair.
"Oh!" The blanket slipped, baring one shoulder, and when his thumb brushed the hollow above her collarbone, Susan gave a little gasp, immediately embarassed at her vocalization.
Robert smiled. "It's only natural, girl. How long since someone has really worked your body, after all?" His voice was velvet wrapped around a blade—too soft for the way his fingers dug into the knots along her spine. Susan clenched her teeth, but her hips jerked forward involuntarily when he found the spot where tension coiled tightest. "Years, I’d wager. That husband of yours too busy to really split you open properly, and it couldn't be more obvious."
Robert tugged the blanket all the way off of her suddenly, tossing it aside with a wet slap. The stable air prickled against Susan's exposed skin, tightening her nipples further. She wanted to cover herself—should have—but the chains held her arms aloft, wrists angled just enough to emphasize the lift of her breasts. His boots crunched in the straw as he circled her, slow, predatory. Each step was a metronome counting down her dignity.
"Mm. Even better than I imagined," he mused, pausing behind her. His riding crop traced the indentation of her spine, the tip skating lower, lower—stopping just short of the cleft between her cheeks. Susan shuddered, her toes curling against the concrete. "All those press conferences in your prim little skirts and matronly blazers," he continued, voice thick with amusement. "Who knew the Invisible Girl had such a ripe body?" The crop smacked her left butt cheek lightly, not enough to sting, just enough to make her gasp.
Then his hands were on her waist, sliding forward—palms flat against her hollowed stomach. Susan inhaled sharply. "And such a fine belly. I'll bet I have a line out the door the day I choose to breed you, girl."
His fingers stroked her belly, and she groaned. "But I'm getting ahead of myself, he whipered. "I'm the master of this estate, and never let it be said that Master Robert is one to mistreat his animals." His hand continued to caress her stomach. "I don't believe I've fed you ladies yet, have I?"
At the mention of food, a traitorous growl tore from Sue's gut, loud in the sudden stillness of the stable. She hadn't even been aware of her hunger before now, but suddenly realized she'd consumed nothing but Robert's drugged champagne in the past 48 hours.
Robert chuckled, fingers splaying wider against her bare stomach. "There it is," he murmured, pressing just hard enough to make her muscles jump. "That pretty belly singing for me." His thumb traced the divot of her navel, circling slowly. "You're starving, aren't you? A proper mare needs her grain."
Susan's cheeks burned. She tried to twist away, but his grip tightened—not painful, just insistent—anchoring her in place. The chains at her wrists jingled pathetically. His other hand slid lower, fingers skimming the sharp crest of her hipbone.
"I can hear your stomach protesting from here," Robert murmured, his lips brushing her ear. The warmth of his breath made her shiver. "And your fellow filly, that poor Wanda, must be ravenous as well." His palm settled heavy on her belly, pressing inward until her empty gut ached. "Would you like breakfast, filly?"
Susan's throat worked. The chains creaked as she flexed her wrists—she was so helpless—but the thought of Wanda suffering twisted tighter than any restraint. She nodded once, sharp. "Wanda...and Jean, too?" she asked.
Robert's smile was slow, rich as warm honey dripping from a spoon. His fingers trailed up her sternum, softly feeling her musculature. "All my fillies eat," he promised, stepping back to retrieve a package from a nearby shelf.
"But first—a deal. Before any of you are fed, you will wear clothes befitting your new station." The plastic rustled obscenely as he shook out the garment: a white bodystocking so sheer it shimmered like mist under the stable lights.
Susan blinked. The nylon pooled in Robert's hands like liquid moonlight—translucent, clinging. He wanted her to wear that?
Inwardly, her first instinct was to balk. During her heroic career, various villains had dressed her in garb of their choosing when they'd kidnapped her, and it hardly ever led anywhere good.
And yet...she was so hungry. And Wanda and Jean, too. They'd need their strength.
And realistically, compared to the unstable molecules of her Fantastic Four uniform? Hardly scandalous. She'd fought Dr. Doom in skintight spandex, for heaven's sake. I can do this, she thought. If all it took was agreeing to "Master Robert" thought dressing her up in full-body pantyhose to keep her going, then so be it.
She nodded.
Robert’s fingers moved with practiced efficiency, unbuckling the wrist cuffs with a series of soft clicks that made Susan’s pulse stutter. Her arms dropped—heavy, tingling with pins and needles—but before she could even flex her fingers, he was already threading the bridle’s straps through her damp hair. That he would replace the headpiece was unexpected, and Susan tried to flinch away as he fitted it over her skull.
"Be still," he murmured, thumb brushing the seam of her lips. When she hesitated, he tutted softly. "Unless you'd prefer I feed Wanda nothing but manure today?"
The lead rope slithered through the ceiling hook with a whisper before he knelt to unbuckle her ankle cuffs, effectively using her bridle to tie her in place instead of her wrists now.
The ankle cuffs were next, and Susan swayed as circulation rushed back into her limbs—her toes curling against cold concrete, her fingers twitching at her sides—but the moment she gathered herself to consider flight, Robert yanked the overhead rope taut. The bridle jerked her head back at an angle that made her gasp, her spine arching in involuntary presentation.
"Shh, pony." His fingers traced the straining tendons of her throat, skating down to the hollow between her collarbones where her pulse fluttered like a caged bird. "Time to make you pretty before breakfast." The words dripped honey-slow from his lips, his breath hot against her ear as he gathered the bodystocking's delicate fabric in his palms. "Leg up."
Susan lifted one foot on instinct—the obedience startled her more than the command—and Robert guided her toes through the garment's opening with infuriating patience. The nylon slithered up her calf like a second skin, whispering over gooseflesh as he tugged it higher. Then she saw it: not plain white, but printed with irregular brown splotches mimicking a pinto's hide, the pattern becoming clearer as the fabric stretched across her thighs. He's dressing me in animal print, Susan thought. One more wrinkle in this sick pony play.
"Hold still, filly," Robert murmured, his knuckles brushing her inner knee as he worked the stocking upward. The spots shifted with every pull—blotches blooming over her hipbones, sprawling across her belly like spilled coffee. Susan shuddered when the material tightened over her breasts, the brown patches encircling her nipples like targets. Worse: The bodystocking's crotch was conspicuously open, a yawning absence of fabric that made her clench her thighs together reflexively.
"What's the matter, filly?" he asked as he wrenched her legs apart roughly as he worked the crotch-hole precisely around her labia. "This was our arrangement." After working the garment up over her breasts and tugging it precipitously up her lean shoulders, Robert stepped away a moment. When he returned, he was whistling, carrying a large-ish floor mirror, which he leaned against the wooden wall in front of Susan.
Susan's jaw dropped as she saw herself - her whole body wrapped tight in the spotted nylon, her breasts pressing against the fabric, nipples visible through the thin material, the bridle tight around her head, her golden pubic hair showing like a tuft through the garment's crotchless design. The bodystocking clung to every curve, the brown patches strategically placed to highlight her femininity while simultaneously mocking it, reducing her to livestock aesthetics.
"I-I didn't know it would look like this," she whispered to herself, her breasts heaving in the sheer nylon as she gazed, transfixed by what he had done to her. The transformation was complete - no longer Susan Richards, the Invisible Girl, but a prized pony, a bdsm wet dream...her superheroic identity erased beneath the equine patterning.
Robert's riding crop tapped against his thigh as he circled her, watching with predatory satisfaction the way her breathing hitched whenever he passed behind her. "You take to this sort of thing nicely , don't you, filly?" His voice was deceptively light, almost conversational. "You've put up almost no fight since I first brought you into my stable." He rubbed his chin. "Though I suppose we shouldn't be surprised."
The crop's tip trailed up the back of her thigh, making the spotted nylon quiver against her skin. "You were once the Sub-Mariner's little pet, weren't you? Early in your career?" he continued, pausing to press the rubber tip into the dimple just above her stockinged buttocks. "Oh yes, we've all heard the stories, everyone in my..."community"—how easily you let him stuff his cock into your hole when you were first his captive? How you'd moan for him in your cell at night when he wasn't attending to his human toy directly."
Susan's breath hitched at the words. She hadn't spoken of Namor in years, had hoped those rumors were behind her. But the memories rushed back now: the sent of saltwater caking her assailant's form as he'd pinned her to his ornate, billowing bed, her thighs spreading before the command left his lips, the way he'd had her ask him to slide his wet cock between her legs before he would do it. She'd told herself it was Stockholm syndrome. The press had called it kidnapping. The tabloids had whispered affair.
Robert's fingers dug into her torso, pinching and then smoothing the sheer bodytight until it clung to her body upper body unwrinkled, an aesthetic that pleased him. "Admit it," he purred, as he reached around and palmed her breasts as though they were things that he owned, eliciting a surprised "Oh!" from her lips.
"You've been waiting for someone to put you back in your rightful place ever since." His right hand then slid between her thighs, fingers skimming the exposed folds beneath the crotchless nylon. To her horror, when he swept her slit with a finger, he laughed and held it before her eyes. Wet She closed her eyes. Just like with Namor. It was all happening again.
"See? Moist already, filly." He gave her a little pat on her flank. "And we've barely begun."
As Susan despaired, her stomach had other concerns, growling again—loud, undeniable—and Robert chuckled darkly. "Hungry everywhere, aren't we?" He stepped back. "I have not forgotten your care. Follow." He unhooked her bridle from the ceiling clasp and stepped toward one of the stable's as yet unseen hallways, tugging abruptly, snapping the lead rope taut.
Susan stumbled forward, her stockinged feet whispering against straw-strewn concrete. The bodystocking clung, its bizarre spots stretching obscenely across her thighs.
As she was led through the threshold into another chamber -how big was this facility?- Susan saw their destination. Braced against the opposite wall, was not a table, but long, wooden trough. "Robert, no..." she whispered. Not like this.
He answered her with a sharp crop to the thigh, and she yelped before being tugged almost off-balance by his jerk on her lead. "Never tell me 'no,' filly," he said, his voice dark.
As they neared, the troughs contents were unmistakable: a wet mash of oats and grain, golden-brown and glistening with molasses and tiny bits of what looked like hay. Fit for a horse, perhaps, but in no way appetizing for a human. Her stomach clenched—part hunger, part revulsion—but Robert didn't slow.
"Breakfast awaits, girl," he murmured, giving the lead rope another tug. The scent of dusty grain flooded Susan's senses—sickly sweet, nauseatingly animal. She recoiled instinctively, her heels digging in. "You'll eat, girl," Robert chided. His fingers wove through her bridle straps like a puppeteer threading strings. "You'll eat like the pretty pony you are. I like my pony's to have shiny coats." He tussled her hair with one hand...then used the one holding the lead to jerk her neck downward towards the trough's rim, which was placed about two feet off the ground.
"Oh!" Susan gasped as she couldn't stop her chin being positioned perfectly before the humiliating feeding station.
Then he was crouching behind her, his fist pressing gently into the backs of her stockinged knees. "Down," he commanded, and when she resisted, he applied more pressure, until her knees began to buckle. His strength was immense, her legs ultimately bending like a sapling in a storm until her knees sank to the wooden floor. He hooked the lead to a rusted ring bolted low on the trough's edge and reduced the slack, forcing her face inches from the mash.
Susan recoiled. The scent—cloying, thick—clogged her nostrils. She twisted her head away, lips pressed tight.
Robert sighed. "Filly, filly." A switch materialized in his hand as if conjured—thin, whippy, its tip already kissing the air with promise. He knelt behind her, moving his free hand from a possessive caress across the small of her back and down her silken leg, until he lifted her right foot. The nylon of her stocking stretched cutely over her arched sole, all sheer and creamy white. "Last chance," he murmured, thumb stroking the nylon-domed ball of her foot.
When she didn't respond, the first strike cracked against her sole. Susan jerked in shock, her toes curling reflexively. The second lash landed lower, biting the tender pad beneath her toes. "Ugh!" A gasp tore from her throat, half-pain, half-outrage. The third strike found the hollow of her arch, and that burned, a bright line of fire licking through sheer nylon.
Robert tutted, his fingers splaying across the sole he'd just tormented. "Such dainty hooves," he mused, thumb pressing into the welt rising beneath the silky fabric. "Shame to mark them." The switch tapped her instep—light, teasing—before whipping sideways to stripe her other foot. Susan yelped. She had taken pain from villain's before, but the crop against her silken feet felt so savage, so domineering. She whimpered in humiliation as she instinctively tried to tuck her feet under her. Impossible—Robert's boot hooked around her ankle, dragging it back into position.
"Eat," he commanded, punctuating the word with twin lashes that made the nylon look as though it was going to tear. Susan's toes curled tight—not just from pain, but from the perverse intimidation she felt at being handled like this.
The switch cracked again, this time catching the tender flesh behind her heel. "Oh! Robert! P-please stop!" Her cry bounced off the stable walls, raw and unfiltered.
You pulled the switch back for another strike. "You know how to stop me, pony. Be a good girl and obey."
Slowly, and with a shuddering breath, the Invisible Girl complied. She literally didn't know what else to do.
Not gracefully, but with quivering inevitability, she lowered her head towards the piles of sodden mash. Susan's lips parted first, her breath hot against the molasses-slicked oats. Then her tongue darted out—pink and hesitant—to lap at the nearest clump. The texture was alien, grittier than expected, sticking to her palate like wet sand. She gagged instinctively, oats tumbling from her lips in a messy cascade, but Robert’s switch kissed the back of her thigh in warning, and -"No more, p-please, I'm eating!"- she forced herself forward again.
Tangy sweetness cloyed at the back of her throat. Susan chewed mechanically, her jaw working like a poorly oiled machine. Each swallow was an indulgence that burned hotter than the strikes against on her stocking feet—but beneath it, coiled tight in her gut, was something worse: relief. As her will gave in, her body thanked her. The gnawing emptiness in her stomach eased with every mouthful, her traitorous body singing its gratitude even as her pride fractured. As she lowered her face to the bottom of the trough for another mouthful, she knew that her posture pushed her ass in the air for him to see, but Sue couldn't do anything about that right now.
Robert leaned down, his breath hot against the shell of her ear. "That's a good girl," he murmured, his fingers combing through her hair, still damp from the spray bath. Casually, his other hand cupped her breast through the spotted nylon, thumbing the peaked nipple beneath. Susan stiffened—but didn’t pull away. She couldn’t, really.
At least, that was what she told herself as he began to gently massage and squeeze her long-neglected breasts: she couldn't escape, so she might as well take it. But the reality was that the contrast between his cruelty and this sudden, expert handling left her body confused...and Robert knew it.
Molasses clung to her chin, flecks of oats caught in the corners of her lips. Robert tutted, producing a damp cloth from somewhere and dabbed at her face with absurd tenderness. "Messy girl," he chided, wiping away the evidence of her degradation with the same care one might clean a foal’s muzzle. His thumb lingered at the swell of her lower lip, grazing the sensitive flesh back and forth as he held her bridle steady. "But we’ll train that out of you."
The cloth vanished, and his left hand joined the other in reaching around to massage her other tit. Susan tried so hard not to feel, but his palms were warm, rough—so unlike Reed’s absent-minded gropes in their marital bed. Robert stroked and squeezed her womanly mounds at just the right intervals, fingers working the pliant flesh beneath the fabric until Susan moaned audibly around the mouthful of oats she was now absentmindedly chewing.
"Shh, pony," he murmured, his breath hot against her temple as she . "Good girls stay quiet until they're spoken to." His grip on her breasts tightened—not painful, just inescapable—and something in Susan’s chest thumped at the way her body arched into the touch despite herself. "If you get good at this, Susan, you could become my prized pony...better than the others." Another gentle squeeze made Susan gasp, stopping her feeding. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
And she did. That was the shame of it—how her nipples suddenly ached under his palms, how her thighs pressed together at the praise like some damn teenager craving approval. Was it the drugs swimming in her veins that made every compliment glow hotter, brighter, until even the mocking pet name—filly—sent a shiver down her spine when he said it just right? Robert chuckled low in his throat, thumbs circling her nipples now with deliberate, rhythmic pressure. "See? You’re already better behaved than Jean," he mused, pinching just hard enough to make her yelp. "Such a pretty, obedient ponygirl."
Susan began panting shallowly, her skin prickling beneath the absurd spotted bodystocking. She loathed how her body responded—how her hips twitched forward when he praised her posture, how her thighs trembled when he murmured good girl against her earlobe. But it's not arousal, she told herself. It can't be. It's exhaustion. Hunger. The lingering effects of whatever he’s drugged us with.
But as he continued to massage her sizable breasts, Susan found herself wishing Reed would learn something from this experience, when she was inevitably rescued. In fact, she cursed his distracted, unsatisfying touches -the way he’d paw at her in bed like she was another equation to solve, his mind already halfway to the lab before he’d even finished- for making her so susceptible to Robert's capable manipulations.
The stablemaster's fingers began to knead her neck at the base of her skull, and Susan’s eyelids fluttered. His hands smoothed her tussled hair—a groomer’s touch, possessive and proprietary—and she hated the way her scalp tingled. "You’re doing so well," he murmured, lips grazing the nape of her neck. His other hand slid down her spine, pausing to trace each vertebra through the sheer nylon. "Such a quick learner." The praise settled over her like a weighted blanket, warm and suffocating. Susan swallowed hard. She hadn’t been taught anything. She’d been broken. And yet—
His palm flattened between her shoulder blades, pressing gently until her posture straightened. "There. Perfect." The approval in his voice sent an unwelcome spark down her spine.
Robert lifted the bridle bit—silver glinting cold in the stable's lantern light—and traced Susan's lower lip with the curved metal. It smelled of leather and something faintly medicinal. "Open." His thumb pressed against her lower lip, working the digit into her mouth.
Susan flinched, her tongue darting out instinctively to push against the intrusion—but Robert merely chuckled and pressed deeper, his calloused thumb pressing down on her tongue with deliberate, degrading pressure. "Suck," he murmured, watching her lashes flutter as she obeyed reflexively. Her tongue occupied, the bit slid in next, its smooth curve nestling against her molars with an audible click as the harness tightened.
Susan gagged—not from pain, but from the sheer power of him. As Robert fastened the straps behind her head with quick, efficient tugs, drool pooled under her tongue, threatening to spill, and she swallowed convulsively, her cheeks flushing at the wet sound. Robert noticed, of course.
"Tsk." He flicked her cheek with his finger correctively. "Ponies don’t swallow like that." His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth. "They drip. I want you to drool, pretty girl. Do you understand?"
The bridle straps creaked as Susan tried to shake her head—no, no she wouldn’t—but Robert merely sighed and lifted the riding crop. He didn’t strike her. Instead, he traced the curve of her shoulder with the tapered leather tip, skating down her spine until it tapped lightly against the small of her back. "Let’s try this again." His fingers tightened in her hair, angling her face upward. "Open."
This time, she obeyed instantly, lips parting around the bit with a shudder. Saliva pooled immediately, thick and unavoidable, and Susan squeezed her eyes shut as it began to escape her jaw, tracing a couple hot paths down her chin.
"Good girl!" Robert's praise was warm and condescending at once, but what followed was...
Pop.
From behind her, Robert’s forefinger breached pussy her without preamble, sinking knuckle-deep into Susan’s clenching heat while she was still processing his praise. The invasion was so sudden, so obscenely casual, that her entire body jerked—bridle straps biting into her cheeks as her moan warped around the bit into a wet, guttural grunt.
"Ummmph! Umph!!" The sounds punched out of her in ragged bursts, pathetic objections that Robert casually ignored.
Susan jerked forward instinctively—an animal recoiling from pain—but he merely tightened his grip on her hip with his other hand and continued working his finger inside her with slow, clinical precision. The bodystocking's crotch gaped obscenely around his wrist, the nylon stretched taut where it framed his thrusting hand. She tried to crawl away, her stockinged knees slipping in the straw, but Robert clicked his tongue and hauled her back effortlessly by her hips, the nylon attire making her slide back to where he wanted her frictionlessly.
"Shhh, shhh, easy filly," he murmured against the shell of her ear. "You did such a good job just now taking your bit. This is your reward." The first finger was joined by another, which ran gently over the wall of her vagina while the first continued to pump rhythmically.
"Ohhhh...." Susan's head nearly hit the edge of the trough as her vision blurred. She was in disbelief that this could be happening to her. Just yesterday she had been a powerful superheroine, and now she was little play pony for a madman having his way with her pussy. And god, did he know how to touch her.
Robert's fingers slid through her slick folds with effortless precision, his thumb now flicking her swollen clit in alternating circles that made Susan's thighs quiver. Robert knew that Susan's austere marriage had made more susceptible even than Jean was, so he was taking it slowly. There was no rush. Breaking these three beautiful women in was the best part of the whole affair.
"Such a pretty pony," he murmured, withdrawing his fingers entirely to trace the outline of her puffy lips through the gaping crotch of her bodystocking. Susan had a sharp intake of breath—part relief, part emptiness—as he painted lazy patterns across her flushed labia. "You could be my house pony, you know." His fingertip dipped lower, skating along her stockinged inner thigh just to watch the goosebumps rise. "Sleep at the foot of my bed like a prized pet." The image coiled in Susan's gut—warm blankets, whispered praise, the weight of his hand resting possessively on her hip as she drowsed. It shouldn't have made her pulse jump.
"But for now...you're not ready." Robert straightened abruptly, snapping the lead rope taut against the bridle, "It is time for your trotting lesson." The sudden shift left her swaying—legs weak, pussy throbbing—but his grip on her bridle pulled her upright to her stockinged feet. The face straps dug into the corners of her mouth, forcing her lips into a permanent, humiliating pout as drool slicked her chin.
Susan blinked rapidly, trying to clear the remnants of her stupor as Robert suddenly moved with a purpose, tugging her along. He's leading me to the stable doors she suddenly realized. It would be her first time outside the stable since her capture.
Robert paused, his polished riding boots scuffing the hay-strewn concrete. "Listen closely, filly," he murmured, turning to stroke the sweat-dampened nylon stretched over her trembling flank. "If you can manage behave like a proper pony out in the yard," his fingers trailed up to pinch her spotted bodystocking where it clung to her nipple, "you'll get a reward." The doors opened suddenly, probably on a mechanical trigger; sunlight and a cool breeze greeted them through the the threshold.
Susan nodded—too fast, too eager—her eyes widening with frantic sincerity. The movement made the bit click against her teeth, sending a thin strand of drool swinging from her lower lip. Beneath the humiliation, a desperate calculation played out: if she convinced him she was trying, she could buy time. Time to study the fences, the gates, the stable hands' routines.
Robert grinned, as though reading her thoughts, and tightened the lead. "We'll start slowly. Prancing stance first," he commanded, tugging her forward into the yard's golden sunlight.
Susan hesitated—then lifted one stockinged foot, the white nylon straining over her toes as she curled them in her lift. She then lowered it as precisely as she could, and her other foot followed as the bent her knee, rising, wobbling precariously, the sheer fabric wrinkling at her ankle joint.
Robert’s riding crop tapped her thigh in warning. “Higher, filly. Show me your lift.” He snapped his fingers, and the stable hands—previously unnoticed—materialized at the edges of the yard, watching and waiting.
Susan’s legs trembled as she attempted another prance, her white-stockinged foot lifting awkwardly from the dirt. The nylon stretched taut over her toes, sheer enough to reveal the pink toenail polish beneath as she strained to balance on one leg. Then: her other foot's turn to hover in midair, her calf wobbling like a newborn colt’s. The horse-printed bodystocking clung to her flexing thighs, the spotted fabric shifting silkily in the way it gripped her legs as she made the unnatural stepping motions. As Robert watched the Invisible Girl, she spared as much of concentration as she dared to scan the yard. Green sprawled before her, pastoral serenity. But high wooden fences encircled the space, their posts sharpened to lethal points—no climbing those. Beyond them, rolling hills stretched toward a horizon that seemed impossibly far away, mocking her with their untouchable freedom. Closer, the ground was packed dirt, raked smooth for her training no doubt, and dotted with obstacles: low hurdles, a water trough, and worst of all—a raised platform with what looked like mounting blocks from which a rider could climb atop a mare. Susan’s stomach lurched at the implication.
"Canter," Robert commanded suddenly, snapping the lead rope to emphasize the word.
Susan's stockinged feet skidded in the dirt as she attempted the motion—sudden and graceless—her spotted bodystocking stretching tight across her thighs with each jerky movement. The nylon soles of her stockings offered no traction in the dust, her toes curling instinctively against the earth as she lurched forward. Despite the chill, sweat beaded beneath the confining fabric of her garb, trickling down the small of her back as she fought to maintain a rhythm.
Her eyes darted past Robert’s shoulder toward the tree line—maybe fifty yards of open ground. If she could break free, bolt before the stable hands reacted—but the lead rope tugged sharply, yanking her chin upward as Robert’s riding crop cracked against her flank. "Lift those knees, filly," he chided, the leather tip tracing the trembling muscles of her thigh. "You’re dragging like a plow horse."
Susan’s stockinged feet scrambled against the dirt, the nylon soles slipping with each forced step. The canter was all wrong—her hips jerking like a marionette with tangled strings—but she kept her gaze locked on that distant treeline. Just one good yank, one moment where his grip loosened—
Robert sighed. "Tsk. Filly’s got wandering hooves." He snapped his fingers, and a stable hand ran up with something sleek and cruel in his hands: high heels. Not shoes. Devices. Glossy black leather straps dangled like restraints, the soles tapered to near-points that would sink into soft earth, each with a thinner stiletto heel to match. Susan recoiled instinctively, but Robert’s grip on her bridle wrenched her head back. "Hold still," he murmured, as if soothing a skittish mare. "These will train your feet."
The first heel clamped around her right foot with a click of hidden buckles. The arch forced her toes into a painful, perpetual point. Susan gasped as the stable hand tightened the ankle strap—too tight—the leather biting into her flesh through the sheer fabric. Her balance pitched forward immediately, thighs trembling as her center of gravity shifted onto the balls of her feet. The left heel followed, its pointed tip driving into the dirt like a stake.
Robert yanked the lead rope taut, forcing her chin up. "Try prancing now, filly." His grin was all teeth.
Susan's first step nearly sent her sprawling—the heels forced her onto her toes, the pointed tips sinking into soft earth like anchors. Her thighs burned immediately, calf muscles twitching as she fought to stay upright. The second step was worse, her ankles wobbling violently beneath her. Drool slicked her chin as the bit muffled her whimper.
"Ummmph!" she strained. Susan had never worn shoes like these before, and her attempts to balance in them, to please Robert (at least for the while) were fully inhibited by the day's exhaustion.
Robert chuckled, releasing his grip on the lead rope just enough to make Susan stumble forward, her stockinged knees buckling as the pointed heels sank deeper into the dirt. "Poor filly," he murmured, his fingers trailing down her spine with mocking sympathy. "So eager to please, but those pretty legs just won't cooperate." His hand settled possessively on the curve of her ass, squeezing through the spotted nylon. "But don't worry. We have all day to practice."
The riding crop cracked against her thigh—not hard enough to bruise, but sharp enough to make her gasp. "Again."
Susan's stockinged feet scrambled against the dirt, the pointed heels sinking deeper with each failed attempt at the canter Robert demanded. After half an hour, sweat slicked beneath her spotted bodystocking, turning the nylon clammy where it clung to the small of her back. Her breath came in ragged bursts around the bit, drool dripping steadily now—she'd learned that lesson at least.
Robert's crop continued to crack against her flank, the sting blooming hot through the sheer fabric. "Lift. Those. Knees!" Susan kept trying to jerk upright, her back snapping straight as the pain registered. Finally, when next she lifted, she supposed that she had done it correctly, because he didn't hit her. Instead, Robert approached her slowly, his hand trailing up her stockinged thigh before putting another finger into her.
"Ummmph!" God, how could he just...do that, whenever he chose? He pumped it in and out of her a few times until he seemed pleased with her appreciative grunting.
Sunlight bled across the stable yard in long, golden strokes as Susan stumbled through one clumsy exercise after another, her hobbled feet scuffing the packed dirt until half the yard showed where she had been. Every misstep earned her the sharp kiss of Robert’s riding crop against her flank or thigh, the sting blooming hot through the sheer nylon of her bodystocking. But when she managed a passable canter, his hands were suddenly everywhere, stroking down her sweat-slick flanks, fingering her folds, massaging her breasts...and always, always murmuring praise into her ear as her traitorous body arched into the touch.
By sundown, Susan found herself anticipating his commands before he even spoke them—lifting her knees higher when he tapped her thigh with the crop, arching her back when his hand hovered near her bridle straps, parting her lips for the bit without protest when he practiced placing it in and out of her mouth. Even her breathing fell into rhythm with his expectations, shallow and obedient as he tightened the lead rope to guide her through another circuit of the yard. She repeatedly told herself it was the drugs in her system that made every murmured good filly spark like static across her skin, but as the day wore on, she grew less and less sure. And when Robert finally halted her training with a satisfied pat to her rump, Susan’s legs trembled—not from exhaustion, but from the terrifying realization that she had been so happy to please him.
Robert unclipped the lead from her bridle, letting it dangle between her breasts as he circled her slowly, inspecting every inch of her sweat-slicked bodystocking. “You’ve earned your reward,” he murmured. Susan’s breath hitched—half in dread, half in something far more damning. Robert casually reached down to her bodystocking's crotch to rearrange where the elastic around her hole had ridden up around her pussy. The adjustment felt better. She felt cared for. "There. That's better, pony." He turned and started walking up the path.
"Come," he said without looking back. "We'll give it to you inside."
Susan hesitated—just for a breath—as Robert turned his back and strode toward the stable doors. Her stockinged toes curled instinctively in the shoes. 3 minutes to the trees. Less, if she sprinted. Her eyes flicked to the stable hands loitering near the fences, their arms crossed, their postures relaxed. They weren't even watching her.
She could do it.
The realization hit Susan like a physical blow—she could bolt. Right now. Robert’s back was turned, his polished boots crunching carelessly through the dirt as he strode toward the stable doors. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the yard—perfect cover. And the heels, cruel as they were, had spikes designed for traction. She could run. She should run.
Her muscles tensed, thighs quivering with the urge to sprint—but then her gaze snagged on the fence line. Razor wire coiled atop the posts, glinting like a serpent’s smile. Fifty yards of open ground. Fifty yards for them to tackle her, drag her back, punish her in ways that made today’s humiliations feel like foreplay. Susan’s breath stuttered. The bit dug into her gums as she swallowed around it, drool slicking her chin.
Robert didn’t glance back. Didn’t need to. His shoulders were relaxed, his stride leisurely, as though he already knew the exact moment her resolve crumbled. And perhaps he did. Perhaps he’d broken enough ponygirls to recognize the precise second their pride cracked under the weight of their own helplessness.
A small whimper escaped around the bit as she followed him inside, the stable doors swallowing them both in shadow. The scent of hay and leather oil thickened the air, undercut by something sharper—her own sweat, the musk of humiliation clinging to her skin beneath the nylon. Her feet dragged slightly, but she couldn't stop. Not when Robert’s broad back beckoned like a lodestone, his riding crop swinging lazily at his side.
As she fell in beside him, Robert grabbed her bridle and pulled her face to his. He was such a tall, broad man that Susan barely came up to his neck. Unsure if she was going to be punished, she flinched in a way that would've shamed the superheroine a mere week before. But instead of hitting or berating her, Robert kissed Susan's forehead with a tenderness that froze her in place.
"Good choices, filly," he murmured against her skin, his breath warm against her hairline. "Very good choices."
Robert straightened, and in one fluid motion, snapped his fingers. Two stable hands materialized from the shadows, hauling something between them—something sleek, leather-clad, and unmistakably sexual.
Susan stared. The sawhorse stood waist-high, its polished wood gleaming under the stable’s hanging lanterns. But it wasn’t the craftsmanship that made her knees weaken. Strapped atop it was a saddle—black leather, intricately stitched with the same equestrian motifs that dotted her bodystocking—and rising from the seat, thick and veined and glistening with some unidentifiable sheen, was a dildo. More than 8 inches long and ribbed, the ridges dripped with a viscous coating that made Susan’s stomach flip. The base flared wide, with a knob protruding in the front for...rubbing...left no room for misinterpretation: this sick implement was to be her "reward."
Even with everything else she'd been through, this was too much. Sue recoiled instinctively, her pointed heels skidding backward in the straw-littered dirt—but Robert’s hand clamped down on the back of her bridle, halting her retreat. “None of that, filly,” he chided. “You've earned this.” The words slithered through her, warm and toxic. He regarded his henchmen expectantly: "Boys?"
The two stablehands seized her arms, their calloused fingers biting into her biceps as they maneuvered her toward the sawhorse. Susan’s breath came in frantic bursts around the bit, her chest heaving against the restrictive stocking.
The dildo glistened obscenely in the lantern light—inhumanly thick—and her thighs clenched reflexively. She had never taken anything so large before -Reed had misgivings about using his powers for such "juvenile" purposes- and the thought of being forced upon it...
“Nnmmph—!” She twisted her hips away, but the men pivoted in perfect unison, forcing her back against the saddle. The leather creaked as they lifted her bodily, her feet kicking uselessly until one heel hooked on the sawhorse’s crossbeam. Then—oh god—the slick, rounded tip of the dildo nudged against her moistened entrance through the gaping crotch of her bodystocking. Susan froze, her muscles locking in panicked resistance.
“Easy now,” Robert murmured, approaching to stroke her flank. The stablehands didn’t pause. They pushed.
"Ohhhmmmhhh ggoooddphh...!" she moaned into her bit as the first half of the dildo breached her. The ribbed surface dragged against her inner walls, the sensation so wrong and yet so relentlessly precise that her thighs trembled. One stablehand gripped her waist, forcing her down further, while the other began to fidget with her now-spread ankles, peeling the cruel heels from her feet and tossing them to the stable floor with a dusty clatter. He then bound her ankles to the sawhorse’s legs with leather cuff, giving her just enough slack...to what? To fuck herself on Robert's wooden steed?
Yes. That was exactly what was to happen. Robert circled her like a judge at a livestock show, his riding crop tapping against his palm. "Pump," he commanded, the word slicing through her panic. Susan’s breath hitched—half sob, half gasp—as she stared down at the obscene length disappearing between her thighs. The stablehands tightened their grip, forcing her hips down another inch, then another, until the ridges rubbed against a spot that made her vision blur. "Ride it properly," Robert continued, his voice softening, yet firm. "I know you can do it, pretty Susan."
Panicked, overwhelmed by sensation, she had no idea what to do. But the idea of trying to push herself off of the dildo's length seemed...plausible? Susan's fingers gripped the saddle’s edge, the leather squeaking under her desperate hands. Her first tentative lift forward was clumsy—more stumble than rise—but the dildo’s ridges dragged against her inner walls in a way that made her toes curl inside her nylon stockings. A whimper escaped around the bit, drool dripping onto the saddle between her shaking hands. Robert tutted, stepping closer to brush the sweat-damp hair from her forehead. "Don’t think," he murmured, his fingers tucking a strand behind her ear. "Just feel." His hand slid down to grip the slack of her bodystocking in the back, suddenly yanking her backward sharply—then shoving her forward onto the dildo in one efficient motion.
The sudden penetration forced a ragged cry from Susan’s throat, muffled only by the bit. Her thighs trembled violently, the spotted nylon stretched taut over her quivering muscles as she tried—and failed—to steady herself. The stablehands stepped back to observe with crossed arms as Robert took charge of her, circling, his riding crop tapping rhythmically against his palm. "Again," he commanded, and when she hesitated, the crop cracked against her flan, hard enough to make her obey. She forced her hips forward, dragging the dildo’s ridges against that spot again, and this time the Invisible Girl's moan sounded less tortured.
Her next attempt was less a conscious effort than a reflex—a shallow, involuntary grind that sent sparks up her spine. The bodystocking clung to her damp skin, the fabric bunching at her inner thighs where it was stretched tightest. Every shift of her hips sent the saddle’s leather creaking, the sound obscenely loud in the stable’s stillness. Robert stepped forward, grabbing her bridle straps and tilting her head back until she was forced to meet his gaze. "Good girl," he murmured, his thumb brushing her lower lip where it stretched around the bit. "Just like that." His praise slithered under her skin, warm and venomous, and despite herself, Susan found her hips rocking forward again—reluctantly—but enough to make her womanhood clench.
The dildo’s ridges dragged against her inner walls with each stuttering thrust, the sensation too much and not enough all at once. Sweat beaded along her hairline, trickling down her temples as her breath came in ragged, nasal bursts. The stablehands loomed at the edges of her vision, their crossed arms and assessing stares amplifying her humiliation tenfold. One of them laughed when her thighs gave way mid-rise, causing her to slide awkwardly back down the dildo all at once. "Again!" Robert snapped, and Susan obeyed, squeezing her eyes shut. But that only sharpened the other sensations—the saddle’s leather biting into her inner thighs, the dildo’s relentless stretch, Robert’s fingers now possessively placed on the small of her back, guiding her motion with masculine control.
She couldn't bear to think, focusing on the rhythm instead. Forward—creak—back. Forward—creak—back. The saddle’s hinges groaned in time with her movements, a metronome marking her degradation. The bodystocking’s crotch gaped obscenely around the intrusion, the nylon stretching and yielding as she rose and fell. Susan bit down on the bit until her jaw ached, trying not to moan, but her body pursued orgasm regardless, and she knew she was close. Her hips jerked forward without her permission, chasing the friction against her clit where the ridged knob at the haft of the dildo rubbed just right.
"Ohhhhhhmmpphh..." A long groan sang from her throat—loud, involuntary—and Robert’s chuckle ghosted over her.
Susan’s fingers dug into the saddle’s edge, her knuckles blanching beneath the spotted nylon as she rocked forward again, harder this time, her thighs trembling with the effort of maintaining rhythm. Forward—creak—back. The saddle’s leather groaned beneath her, the sound syncopating with the wet slide of her body taking the toy at a slightly better angle with each thrust. She squeezed her eyes shut, blocking out Robert’s looming presence, the stable hands’ leering grins, even the damned bridle straps digging into her cheeks. There was only the ache in her thighs, the stretch of her cunt around the dildo, the slick heat building low in her belly.
Then—oh god—the next thrust hit just right. The ridges dragged against her g-spot with merciless precision, and Susan’s back arched violently, her hips bucking forward in pleasure. A broken sound tore from her throat around the bit, half sob, half scream, as her muscles seized. The orgasm hit like a lightning strike—sudden, violent, all-consuming.
"UMMMMMMMPPHHH! UMMPH! UMPH!" Her vision whited out as her body convulsed around the dildo, her thighs clamping down on the saddle, her toes curling inside the stretched nylon. She came hard, her cunt pulsing around the toy in ragged, involuntary spasms, her breath coming in ragged, whistling gasps through her nose.
The stablehands exchanged knowing smirks as Robert stepped forward, his fingers carding through her sweat-slicked hair. “There’s my good filly,” he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction. He traced the curve of her ear, his thumb brushing the sensitive lobe, and Susan whimpered, her oversensitive body trembling at the contact.
She squeezed her thighs together instinctively—as though she could hide the evidence of her own surrender—but the motion only dragged the dildo’s ridges against her still-clenching walls. A fresh wave of humiliation flooded her cheeks as she realized just how loud she’d been—how shamelessly, obscenely wanton. The stablehands had heard how much she'd wanted it. Robert had heard. Hell, the entire estate had probably heard her moaning like a common whore.
“Look at you,” Robert murmured, his knuckles grazing her cheek where tears and sweat mingled. His thumb hooked under her chin, forcing her gaze upward. “So pretty when you come undone.” The words dripped like honey-coated venom, sinking into her pores. Susan Richards flinched, her stomach twisting at the realization that he’d wanted this—not just the orgasm, but the aftermath. The way her breath still hitched unevenly. The way her thighs trembled when he traced the damp nylon stretched over them. The way she couldn’t meet his eyes without confronting how easily she’d shattered.
Robert unhooked the ankle straps securing her to the sawhorse, his movements deliberate, almost reverent. When he lifted her off of the dildo, Susan gasped, her body clenching around nothing—a reflexive, humiliating spasm that drew a low chuckle from him. “Still greedy,” he mused, palming her ass through the spotted bodystocking. His fingers dug into the sweat-slick fabric, kneading the flesh beneath as though memorizing its give. Then, without warning, her legs buckled instantly—but Robert caught her, one arm banding around her waist while the other gathered her thighs. Susan’s breath hitched as he lifted her effortlessly, her body folding against his chest like a rag doll. The sudden proximity was suffocating. His smell—something woodsy and expensive—clung to her skin, mixing with the stable’s musk and her own humiliation.
The bit dug deeper into her mouth when he adjusted her in his grip, his fingers tracing the straps with possessive precision. “Let's get this tighter,” he murmured, adjusting the bridle until the leather creaked. Susan whimpered—not from pain, but from the awful rightness of it, of how he managed her. Her wrists and ankles were bound next, the restraints snug and constraining. Robert’s thumb brushed the inside of her knee when he secured the final strap, the touch featherlight, almost apologetic. Then he lifted her again, cradling her against his chest as he carried her through the stable’s labyrinthine corridors. Her head lolled against his shoulder, her lashes fluttering shut—from sheer, shattering depletion.
The stalls loomed ahead, their wooden slats weathered by decades of use. Susan’s breath hitched when she recognized the one she’d shared with Wanda the night before, though it seemed like weeks ago. Robert kicked the bar up then shouldered the door open, its groan loud in the hush of dusk. Inside, Wanda scrambled upright from her nest of straw, her pink thigh-highs still girlishly juxtaposed against the muted hay. Her eyes widened—first at Susan’s limp form, then at her bonds and bit gag, and finally at the animal print of her spotted bodystocking. "You...fiend! What did you do to her?"
Robert lowered Susan onto the straw without explanation. She settled half-curled, her bound wrists tucked awkwardly beneath her ribs, her knees drawn up instinctively. Wanda lunged to her friend's side. "Oh, Susan. Please...are you okay?"
Susan couldn’t answer. The secured bridle bit buckled tight behind her teeth choked any response, so Wanda reached for her. Susan sank into her friend's arms, her entire body tense from the humiliation radiating off her own skin like fever heat. The bridle straps had left angry red lines across her cheeks; her feet had marks from the switch; her lips were raw from worrying at the bit. And worst of all—the crotch of her spotted bodystocking was dark with slickness, the nylon clinging obscenely to her folds where Robert’s training had wrung submission from her body like juice from crushed fruit.
Robert shut the door on the two woman without ceremony, casting them in the same shadows they'd endured the night before.
Wanda didn't know what to do, but gathered Susan against her chest. Susan stiffened at first, her muscles locked in silent resistance, but Wanda’s fingers carded through her sweat-damp hair with aching gentleness. “Shhh,” Wanda whispered, her breath warm against Susan’s temple. “It’s over now.” The lie tasted bitter, but Susan let herself crumple into it anyway, her forehead dropping onto Wanda’s shoulder. Straw crackled as Wanda shifted, guiding them both down into the makeshift bedding. The scent of hay and sweat and something muskier—Wanda refused to investigate it—thickened the air between them as Wanda arranged their limbs carefully, avoiding the raw patches on Susan’s wrists where the restraints had chafed.
Susan’s breath hitched when Wanda’s thigh brushed hers— warmth meeting warmth. The contact sent a jolt through her oversensitive body, her traitorous nerves lighting up like live wires. Just as it had been Sue's role the night before, now Wanda offered rest, murmuring softly, "Sleep, Sue. Just sleep," her hand stroking down Susan’s back in slow, soothing arcs.
It took only moments for Wanda's request to take hold of them both.
The stable's quiet was thick—the kind of quiet that settles over things only when the world has exhausted itself into submission. Straw rustled faintly beneath the two heroines, not comfortable, but warmer than the night before.
Still, Wanda dreamed in fractured vignettes: the bite of restraints, Robert’s voice coiling like smoke through her thoughts, Jean’s whimpers echoing from some unseen corner of the stable. But then—movement. Her eyes fluttered open. She was not quite wide awake, and yet- her body was responding to something that was happening. Something wrong. Her hips shifted instinctively, trying to adjust -but found that her legs weren't moving, that they were intertwined with Susan's.
Then she felt it.
The slow, rhythmic pressure against her thigh—subtle at first, just the faintest brush of nylon against nylon. Wanda stirred drowsily, her mind still half-lost in the fog of sleep. The stable’s darkness pressed close, the scent of hay and sweat thick in her nose. The warmth beside her shifted again, and this time, the movement wasn’t accidental. Susan’s hips rolled forward with deliberate, needy precision, her stocking-clad pelvis sliding against Wanda’s thigh with a whisper of fabric.
Wanda’s breath caught. She lay perfectly still, her body rigid with shock as the realization seeped in: Susan wasn’t awake. Her breaths came in shallow, uneven hitches, her lashes fluttering against her cheeks as if caught in some fevered dream. But her hips didn’t stop. If Sue had been cogent, she would've known it to be the same desperate rhythm she’d used on the sawhorse—slow, then urgent, then slow again—her thighs trembling against Wanda’s.
She's humping me.
The thought shot through Wanda’s mind like a stray bullet—sharp, startling, nearly impossible to reconcile with the stalwart Susan Richards that she knew...if she wasn't sitting her experiencing it. Sue's breath graced her shoulder, warm and uneven, as her hips rolled forward again. The spotted nylon of her bodystocking rasped against Wanda’s bare thigh with each subtle thrust.
Fitfully, still deeply unconscious, Sue's lips whipered. Trying to remain still, not sure what to do, Wanda leaned her ear closer. Susan whispered again, this time clearly an "r" sound.
Pity swept over Wanda for her friend. She wants Reed, she thought. And that was only natural, of course. No matter how strong a woman, the torment she had gone through today would have her wanting her husb-
"...robert."
Wanda had been trying to sit upright, but now simply sank to the straw floor. Too stunned to wake her friend, she simply laid still as Susan whimpered and ground against her lightly in her sleep, awkwardly waiting for Sue to ride it out.
As she sat there, paralyzed in the awkwardness and fear of the moment, Wanda wondered. What could've happened? What could a man like Robert have done to break a woman like Marvel Girl yesterday...and the Invisible Woman today.
And her last thought, sliding through her mind as Susan shuddered contentedly to her wet finish astride the Scarlet Witch's thigh was...
What would he do to her tomorrow?