Author's Note

The Orange Band Collar written by Sepia, edited by Silent Whisper, Pretty Penne and Dioxin

Contains: BDSM themes, allusion to Noncon play, Heavy Bondage Fantasizing.

The Orange Band Collar

Soft Cell slips back, panting with all the weight of a used and broken slave…

And bouncing on her hooves with all the energy of an excited foal.

She feels glorious.

The red-hot strikes on her flanks, the firm slaps on her cheeks for not moaning just the right volume, the bruise on her foreleg from when she was stuffed into her next cage with another mare, and the cuff marks where they were clasped just too tight--the perfect amount of just too tight! “Mnnhf,” she moans just thinking about it all.

The soreness is a nice soreness, and she rubs her hooves over the marks and bruise, wiggling into place on the bench by her locker.

She gasps sharply and sits up again, wincing. Maybe she isn’t quite ready to sit down. She giggles to herself and rubs at her rear. Then, with a sigh, she unclasps her purple band collar and sets it back in her locker. She sinks as the tension leaves her core, flowing out with a tingle in her hooves--she’d been sitting straight with the posture of a good slave all this time! And she still isn’t tired!

But there’s a new tension in her gut. A creeping tingle up her spine.

Soft Cell turns her head towards her third collar, her eyes darting this way and that down the locker room floor.

Her orange-band collar. It’s less like a collar, and more like a choker, a white strap with an orange band around its center. Her hooves raise up and take it off its place in her locker, and she carefully pulls it closer, shaking while she bites her lip, and starts to gently pant.

The stretchy vinyl feels like the hoof bands she wore while tied to to chair in the home of that wonderful, horrible mare. A ‘collector’, she called herself.

She grips her collar tighter, her other hoof slipping up to rub at her cheek, then her chin, and squeezes it just like the mare would, before forcing her into a kiss. “Please no...” she whispers with a smile she can’t keep down. Soft Cell’s hoof slips back into her mane, and she grips it hard, tugging it back, letting out a quiet yelp into the locker room.

She bites down hard on her lip to cut it off, squirming in embarrassment and darting her eyes left and right. No one heard that, right?

She draws the collar closer, but not towards her neck. The way the collector would stroke through her mane with the threat of a slap, or push her head down a mere inch down while Soft Cell protested and cried to be let free, before whispering cruelly into her ear.“Good girls don’t speak.”

Soft Cell whimpers as she presses her collar to her lips like a gag, before going silent, heart pounding with nervous glee. She climbs onto the bench and curls up tight, panting heavily--curled up just like when the collector dragged her by her tail, kicking and struggling and screaming through her gag, eyes wide with faux terror, and stuffed her down into the Suitcase. She left her on the streets of the Society, only realizing too late when the first stallion thrust deep inside that there was a hole for her needy, wet cunt.

And when the collector finally let her free, she promised only worse if she ever dared disobey her again. Just the thought makes her drip onto the bench, and she snaps up with a sharp eep, wiping her juices off with her hoof. Oh Mi Amore, she needs this. She needs this now.

Soft Cell tugs her collar on with shaking hooves and clicks it shut, eyes snapping wide again, arousal and tension written all over her darting eyes and parted, panting lips.

She stands up quickly, lowers herself, stumbling with every step she takes towards her wonderfully cruel night.