Mare Training: Warhorse Drill
Well… I… don't really have a choice… do I…♡
A hot breath, thick with resignation and shy embarrassment, slipped past Sonia's slightly parted lips. It was a sigh that carried a faint, half-conscious thread of anticipation she hadn't even recognized in herself. The lukewarm, damp air met the cold mountain night and bloomed for an instant into a pale white plume before scattering uselessly into the dark — like a last, futile thrash against reality itself.
The bondage suit clung to every curve of her body with an obscenity so precise it left nothing to the imagination, locking her voluptuous figure into place without a single millimeter of give. Soft leather crushed down against her enormous breasts; the same material clamped hard around the springy flesh of her hips, every pressure point lighting her nerves on edge. Where the suit's design left her bare — the insides of her thighs, the soft plane of her navel — the night wind's chill kept brushing her skin, a relentless reminder that none of this was a dream.
Perched atop her glossy blonde hair were a pair of carefully groomed brown horse ears, meant to embody the dignity of a military warhorse. They fluttered weakly, trembling in tiny spasms that seemed to speak for the despair churning inside her.
They'll vanish on their own later, so don't you worry!
She was trying hard to believe the spirit's bold assurance, so the alien weight sprouting from her head wasn't her biggest concern at the moment. The real problem was the outfit itself — this costume of pure, maximized humiliation. She would have to walk this mountain path in it, pass the outer edges of a city where lights were already beginning to wink on one by one, and then ride the subway a full three stops just to reach her own front door. The sheer horror of that reality was closing around her throat.
And arriving home wouldn't even end the ordeal. The bondage suit was locked down her back with a nest of complicated buckles she could never undo alone. The thought that she might have to show this grotesque state to her next-door friend Luce and beg for help sent heat flooding into Sonia's cheeks as if she'd been branded.
Of course, asking someone she knew for help and wandering the late-night streets in this lewd, utterly defenseless state were problems of entirely different magnitudes.
Ahead of the direction Sonia was descending — and to her rear, and along both flanks — the porters had already taken their positions in secret and finished their reconnaissance. Eyes held still in the dark glittered with greed.
It went without saying that not a single one of them possessed any professional knowledge of breeding or training a wild mare. They didn't need it. The breathtaking silhouette of Sonia's breasts, still vivid even in the dark, and the lewd sheen of leather flowing along every curve of her body were more than enough to appraise her value.
The original purpose of their herb-gathering outing had long since been wiped clean from their minds. From the moment they discovered the mare called Sonia, the party had transformed into a wild top-grade mare capture operation.
At last, the greed-blinded porters began to move.
…Ugh… they did treat me well, that's true… and I'm grateful they gave me a warhorse's power, too… but… ugh… maybe they just forgot to take the bondage suit off…? Or… do they actually think it's fine for me to go home like this…? Hnn…
Every time the cold night wind sliced across the bare skin left exposed between the straps of the suit, Sonia flinched and drew in on herself without meaning to. She placed each careful step, turning over her resentment and confusion toward the spirit who had abandoned her like this.
Just as there were predatory Magical Girl brokers who shoved absurd contracts at naive young girls and drained them of mana, there were surely spirits and fairies with equally rotten intentions. That was exactly why an unspoken rule had taken root among Sky City's adventurers: never let a Magical Girl into your party. Magical Girls were unpredictable, and they had a habit of endangering entire parties for their own gain.
Of course, the Horse Spirit… was a good one… but still… maybe this is just some kind of cultural difference…? Calling a car a horse made of steel… cracking weird jokes… haah…
Lost in those thoughts, Sonia saw herself as nothing more than a hero in a tight spot. The porters watching her from the forest saw something else entirely. To their eyes she was a mare, pure and simple — nothing more, nothing less. Through gazes thick with greed and lust, she was nothing but expensive livestock with a magnificent pair of udders.
Not a single one of them was a properly registered Guild adventurer; they were a ragtag band of inexperienced porters. Even so, they had agreed to approach carefully and work out a plan. This was a low mountain on the far outskirts of Sky City, a long way from Sonia's home in Complex 32. In the deep of night, no one would notice what happened in these woods.
"How much do you think we can get for this? We go through all the trouble of catching her and they only pay us for a regular slave — that'd be a loss, wouldn't it?"
One of the porters asked in an uneasy voice. With those massive breasts and a pretty face on top of it, a good buyer might give them top-tier sex-slave money — but even that wasn't worth the risk. Quietly sticking to herb-picking would have been the more stable income, he argued, and a few of the others nodded in agreement.
Every gaze drifted naturally toward one man. With a confident look on his face, he glanced at the silhouette of the female horse carefully making her way down the mountain through the dark, and opened his mouth.
"Trust me. None of you seem to understand what a mare actually is. The price on something like this swings wildly depending on how you sell it and who you sell it to. Dump her at some common slave market and of course you won't get much. She's not just a slave. She's a mare — a mare. Does anyone here actually know what a mare is really worth?"
A few porters sheepishly raised their hands — then shut their mouths one by one as the follow-up questions came. So do you know the exact market rate? The main uses? Which body parts matter most as a product? The hands that had gone up quietly came back down.
Now every pair of eyes in the group fixed on that one porter alone, full of awe and expectation. Even split ten ways among the whole herb-gathering party, the sum he described would be enough for a carefree week of drinking and carousing in the red-light district. As the details poured out, their eyes went wide with shock and naked greed.
"Back in the day, only rich perverts with a bondage fetish hunted for these things in secret. But times have changed!"
He fished an old communication terminal out of his pocket. With a soft click, the battered screen lit up — and the display filled with mare-girls dressed in flashy, high-exposure idol costumes, laughing and dancing with bright energy. Loud, cheerful music spilled from the tiny speaker.
"And that's not even all of it. Here — look at this!"
As if drawing a trump card, he carefully reached into his personal herb-gathering pack and produced a cute plush doll. It was official merch — a chibi deformation of the popular idol mare who had just been dancing on the terminal screen.
"Why are you carrying that around…?"
"It's a hobby. Show a little respect? Anyway — back in my hometown, horse-racing with mares was insanely popular. Some rich businessman from this world saw it, turned it into a real enterprise, and now they've expanded the whole thing into racing and idol performances. That's the game now."
According to his passionate explanation, a shrewd entrepreneur who had crossed over from a fantasy world had launched a new form of entertainment that combined ponygirl racing with idol performances — and it had exploded in popularity among the wealthy and a particular breed of enthusiast.
"So a top-shelf specimen like that one doesn't go to a regular slave market. You hand her to a specialized broker on that side of the business if you want real money. I don't need to spell out the rest, do I?"
"…Sounds legit… the way he's talking about it, all fired up like that…"
The details were extremely specific. A mare with an owner always carried a mark or tattoo of ownership somewhere on her body — nipples, neck, hips. Through the telescope, this one showed nothing of the kind. She was a perfect wild specimen — or abandoned property with no claim on her at all.
"But how are we supposed to catch her? We're not even proper adventurers."
"Heh… don't worry about it. You've only been staring at those giant tits. I was watching her walk. Heh heh."
A half-trained mare would wobble and give herself away. This one, he explained, showed the movement of a thoroughly trained thoroughbred — from the elegant set of her wrists bound behind her back, all the way down to the way she planted each toe against the dark ground as she descended the mountain with quiet confidence.
"So… she's been trained to the bone, but somehow she got dumped out here… is that it? Meaning if we just clip a leash on her and pull, she'll come along quietly?"
"If she's a female horse trained all the way down to the core of her heart — yeah. That's exactly how it works."
The plan was simple. If she was a gently conditioned mare, the moment a collar closed around her throat she would, by the long education drilled into her, stop all resistance and obediently follow her new master.
