Unregistered Ponygirls

This work is copyright 2000 by Xaltatun of Acheron (A Pseudonym). It may be posted on the Internet to any free forum, provided it is not modified in any way, and provided that this notice is included in its entirety. It may not be sold, or included in any compilation that is sold, or posted on any forum that requires a fee for access, without my written permission. My permission will require payment, terms to be negotiated. For purposes of this notice, sites guarded by Adult Check or similar packages are considered pay sites. Posting on any site must include this copyright notice.

Adult Content Warning - this story contains adult themes, including non-consensual bondage/slavery and forced sexual acts. If you are under the lawful age for such materials (18 in most jurisdictions) or if you would find such material offensive, please go elsewhere.

This is one of twelve stories in the series entitled “Ponygirl Transformation.” I may write others later, but twelve is it for now.

Acknowledgements. The setting and several of the characters are taken from two works by Sir Thomas (A pseudonym). “Adventures on the Hoof” and “Ponygirls, Inc” are both copyright by the Academy Club. Used by permission of Sir Thomas. These works are commercially available, and should not be on any web site on the internet, except for a short excerpt on Sir Jeff’s ponygirl web site. They may be ordered in the US from Quality SM, and in the UK from the Academy Club.

The character of the lobo-ra has been changed substantially. This is partially to motivate the biotechnology theme beginning in Sorceress’ Apprentice, and partially for other reasons.

The character of Sharon, in the story “The Politics of Ponygirls” was originally modeled after Rhianna Summers, a character created by Leviticus (a pseudonym). She had to be changed because the final Rhianna Summers story took a turn that made the timeline impossible. (The final story has not been posted on his site at the time of this writing).

In neither case should you infer anything about the prior stories from this one. The authors named above have substantially different objectives for their stories.

There are a number of hidden references throughout to obscure (and some not so obscure) science fiction and fantasy stories. This is a game that some authors play. Should you care to look, have fun finding them.

Safety Warning. This story may contain descriptions of practices that are decidedly unsafe, either in general, or if performed by someone without adequate training. There are a number of good books available on safety in the BDSM scene. Most large cities, and some not so large ones, have organized BDSM groups that will usually welcome a newcomer. I’m not going to point out which practices are safe, and which aren’t. Any practice is unsafe if performed by someone with inadequate training and experience, or if performed when not paying attention. Please think before you act. Don’t make yourself a candidate for a Darwin award.

Science Warning. In common with most science fiction authors, if I need it, I invent it. Just because it’s described, don’t assume it exists. On the other hand, just because you’ve never heard of it, don’t assume it doesn’t. There are only two universal laws. If you believe in a limitation, it’s yours. Yesterday’s impossibility is today’s research news, and tomorrow’s consumer product.

Chapter 1. The Brunette

I couldn’t even die. I knelt here on my display stand, looking at my two sisters in distress, and I had no way of improving things. I couldn’t make it better. I couldn’t even make it worse. My keepers just didn’t care. The evil old man who had been tormenting us hadn’t come around for a few days. Two days ago, they had started feeding us slop. I hadn’t tasted that in years. It was just as foul as ever, and the taste never went away.

I hadn’t been exercised in days. They barely had enough interest to put me down at night, and shower me in the morning. Grooming was a fond memory of the distant past. I knelt here, and dreamed of better days gone by.

Then the two men who should have been tending me got upset and ran away. I didn’t care. If I didn’t get fed and watered, eventually I would die. It was supposed to be a horrible death. But at least, it was an end. I would discover if there were any angels. So far, none had appeared, no matter how hard I prayed. Maybe I needed to pray out loud. But that was impossible. Not only was this ball stuck in my mouth, but also my voice had not worked in years.

A young man walked into my field of vision. He looked like a younger version of my tormenter, but he didn’t look particularly evil. Just puzzled and irritated. He tried talking to us. I couldn’t understand him, and I don’t think my sisters in pain could either. Eventually, he went away.

Chapter 2. The Raid

Old man McDivot had died last week. His grandson had come out to bury him and dispose of his property. McDivot had a lot of that, scattered among the hills and valleys. According to rumor, he was as kinky as hell, and had a number of things honest people shouldn’t know about hidden away. He also had a lot of money, which made people not look too deeply into the rumors. His grandson had already turned up a few things that shouldn’t have existed. The county board and the sheriff wanted to keep a lid on it. I could see why. What had turned up so far would have blown them totally out of office, if not into the pen. People around here have very little patience with public officials that don’t see what is under their nose.

I’m Lt. Sam Dahl. I’m the token brain on the county sheriff’s force. With a master’s degree in criminology, I tend to get the ones where the powers that be figure that following procedure to the letter is the best policy. The McDivot mess had graduated to that level about two days after his grandson arrived. It wasn’t getting any cleaner. I was doing the investigations; a couple of the crookeder deputies on the force were doing the cover-ups.

So, when the McDivot kid called and said the old man had a ponygirl hideout, I just about choked. I hoped he had just turned up one of the local kink groups. He said, no, there were three girls in real bondage, stuck on stands like butterflies on a board. They reminded him of begging puppies. The guys who were supposed to be taking care of them had lit out for the horizon when he had pulled up. He couldn’t get into the cells.

So I got my computer fired up, and checked the FBI notes and circulars. Ponygirls came right up, with a contact number in one of the FBI offices on the east coast. I called the man, and he gave me another number. I called it.

“Lt. Dahl. I’ve got an unregistered ponygirl hideout. I’m told the support team lit out, and nobody can get into the cells.”

“Damn. The kid forgot to tell me. I’ll have to call him and find out.” Security hung up. Whoever the hell Security was.

“OK, I’ve got them. They don’t look like any of ours, for sure. We can play it two ways. I can get them out and make them disappear. They’ll be taken care of, but there won’t be any way of your following up. Or I can give you another number. They’ll still be taken care of, but you’ll have a paper trail.”

I decided I wanted the paper trail. This was looking more and more like we’d have to talk to the judge, and I wanted it nailed down.

“Good. She’s in. The person you want is named Sharon Samuels. She’s in charge of compliance for one of the more competent ponygirl fanciers. They can take it almost all of the way. You might have to supply a locksmith; Sharon used to be FBI, but I don’t think she’s got the tools to crack those cells.”

Chapter 3. Another Phone Call.

Brrrriiingg. The phone call was from a Lt. Sam Dahl. Security very thoughtfully put background on the screen, so I knew who he was even before he identified himself. He’d been told to call me about an unregistered ponygirl hideout. Well, that’s part of the job I do for my owner, Fran Donaldson. It seemed that the support team had vanished, and the girls needed support, pronto. He told me where it was, while I watched Security’s map on my screen.

We arranged to meet in about half an hour. I called Fran and told her what was going on. We still had nine cells available, so I could move them in here. I put in my camouflage earrings and picked up a pile of the evidence release forms from my FBI days, and headed for the garage.

I picked up a pile of the breather masks and sleepy gas canisters we keep in the garage, and slung them in the car. The sound of silence when you turn one of these things on always startles me; I want to check if it actually started. The gate was up, and the green light was on under the big “Authorized Personnel Only” sign. I drove in and turned it off. I’m not one of the people that can take a teleport awake, so I put one of the breather masks on and fell asleep to the hiss of sleepy gas. When I came to, someone had turned on the sunlight. I was on the side of a dusty road punctuated by tumbleweeds on its way to the horizon.

Security had thoughtfully dropped a map on my face while I was out. The big “You Are Here” and “You Want to be Here” arrows stood out.

Chapter 4. The blockhouse.

There it was, right where the map said. Weathered concrete blockhouse built into the side of a hill, blue Toyota pickup parked by the drive. A fairly tall, worried looking gent came out the door.

“I’m Sharon Samuels, in charge of compliance with the Consensual Slave Act.” I carefully didn’t say for whom.

“Am I glad to see you. I’m Tom McDivot. This is one of my grandfather’s hideouts.”

The door looked like typical weathered wood frame. As I got closer, I saw it was anything but. Rusted steel was more like it. The wood was just on the outside, probably to keep anyone who saw it from getting curious. The inside was decorated in late male squalor imposed over early whitewashed concrete block. A brown table decorated with coffee rings, two lopsided stuffed cloth armchairs. The pictures on the wall showed a decided lack of imagination; but then, I’m a connoisseur of such things. There was a well worn track through the dust to the back door.

That door looked like it meant business. Like the front door, it was steel, and solidly set in the concrete blocks of the wall. Fortunately, it was open.

There were four cells. Three of them held a blonde, a brunette and a redhead, one each. The fourth held encrusted dirt. Right, total lack of imagination. They might be about 5’10” and in their early to mid thirties, although the general feeling of hopelessness could have contributed.

The brunette was the singleton on the right. The bondage looked right: bridle, ball gag, collar, puppy paws, bustier and boots. Except. She was slumped in her bondage, with the rings on the back of her bustier holding her up. That wasn’t normal. A well-tended ponygirl was erect and alert. Her eyes followed everything. This one looked like she hadn’t been tended properly for a while.

I tried the cell door. The two hidden quick releases we used weren’t there. Neither was the card reader. And the override code in my implants wasn’t doing a thing. Damn.

There were two more rooms before a locked door. One contained tack and other equipment. No surprises. The other contained a table, chairs and a refrigerator running off of bottled gas. No luck on opening the door.

The fridge contained jugs of something brown. I opened one up, and took a very cautious sniff. Slop. The thing to know about slop is that it’s a variant on our standard ponygirl food, which we call mash. Slop is just mash that tastes awful. It’s used as a punishment in the initial stages of training, and for nothing else.

“Your old man must have been a sadist of the first water. If he’s been feeding them on this stuff, we’re going to have more problems than I thought.”

Chapter 5.

The young man came back with a 5’6” redhead. She was wearing a black leather miniskirt, a white fitted blouse that showed off her figure nicely, heels and an air of authority. The ear jewelry was out of place. She wasn’t the type. She stood in the center and examined everything like she was memorizing it for an exam. Her frown just kept getting deeper and deeper. She tried to open the cell doors, holding them in unusual places. Finally, they vanished down the other end of the corridor. She hadn’t said a word the entire time.

They walked back in, and she made an announcement in a loud voice. It was the same gabble I couldn’t understand. Then she stopped and started again. Part way thorough, it suddenly made sense. She was speaking Spanish. I hadn’t heard my native language since the drug lords had sold me to the people who made me into this. I tried to jerk upright. Ouuuchhh! The edge of my collar hurt! She obviously noticed me, because she suddenly started talking directly to me.

She told me I was in the United States, that a law called the Consensual Slave Act had been violated, and that things were going to be put to rights. Just hang in there. That confused me totally. Since when did a slave consent?

Then she turned to my two sisters in misery, and started talking at them in different languages. The blonde reacted to one, but she didn’t tell her anything. I wasn’t sure what was going on, but at least there might be hope. Maybe my prayers had been answered.

“Lt. Dahl, I presume? I’m Sharon Samuels.” We shook hands. His two associates were Lisa and Betty. Betty started work right away on one of the cell doors.

“They aren’t. What would you say if you had a horse that looked like that?”

“Feed it, exercise it, groom it, and plenty of TLC. Otherwise, take it out and shoot it.”

“I’d recommend that Tom sell his interest in them to Fran’s Ponygirl Stables. She’s got the facilities to rehabilitate. There’s an Owners Association fund that will pay for time and materials.”

“Well, the act presumes that since they were discovered being treated as pony slaves, that’s what they are, until and unless they state otherwise. So they’re technically indentured to Tom, even if we don’t have the papers. They don’t know English, they aren’t from the U.S., and they have no idea of the social changes in the last 15 years. Would you put them out on the street?”

“We need to crack those cells. Then I put sleepy gas breather masks on them, and teleport them out. Then Fran does rehab, and we find out what they want at their first career planning meeting.”

“Well, it’s a fairly poorly kept secret. I can do it because of my employer and job responsibility. Somebody will review the logs to insure that whatever I did is within my responsibility, or I’ll be on the carpet.”

Betty swore, and came up for air. “No way I can crack this. We’ll have to blow them.”

The locks blew up. Then the redhead came back, and measured the poles on all of our stands. She put a mask on my face. I heard a hiss of gas, and then fell asleep.

When I woke up, I was somewhere else. The building was immense. The steel girders on the roof were at least 30 or 40 feet up. A wall with a brightly lit door was at least 100 feet away. A woman and two men entered from the door. The woman was a 5’10” blonde, dressed in a black leather miniskirt, black leather boots, a white blouse and a red belt. She had livestock medallions in her ears like I did. I recognized the prod and whip on her belt, among other accessories.

The two men were dressed in slacks, open shirts, sandals and a green belt. They wore collars around their necks, and carried the same prod, whip and accessories on their belts that the woman did. One of the men carried a number of chains and leather straps.

The woman came around behind me. Snick, Snick, and I felt the ankle chains come off. Then she pulled the headrest off the pole, and the two men lifted me and set me on my feet. She took one of the chain and leather arrangements, and wrapped the ends around my legs, just above the knee. I now wore about a 6” hobble.

She snapped a leash on my collar, and tugged. I came forward a few steps, then stopped. I heard them doing something behind me; it sounded like they were taking one of my sisters in pain off of her stand.

Two people came through the door. As they got closer, they resolved into a pony with her reins held by a woman behind her. The pony was doing a perfect march step, thighs coming up to a precise horizontal, calves held exactly vertical as she marched. The woman behind her wore a blue tunic with a green belt, sandals and a collar. She had a prod, a whip and other accessories on the belt. As the pony passed us, I could see that her thick blonde hair draped to her knees, and mixed with her tail.

A moment later, I felt someone snick a leash on the back of my collar. The sounds repeated. Then the woman came in front and tugged on my leash. I followed it out the door into a brightly lit corridor.

She turned us to the right. I could see more doorways. Then she turned us right again. I was in a long corridor with cells on each side. Several of them had girls on their stands; others had girls running in their trotting booths. The ones on the left had their right walls paneled completely in wooden drawers and cabinets, polished to a deep glow. There were even recesses for what looked like awards. Each of the cells had a sign in front with a design of red blocks, and some writing I couldn’t read. Many of them had some kind of a picture, sometimes interwoven with the red blocks, sometimes by itself. No two were alike.

I particularly liked the one of the girl tied to a pole, with a table built around her waist.

She stopped me in front of an empty cell. Snick, and the leash was no longer on the back of my collar. I followed my leash into the cell. Two more of the men with the green belts walked in, picked me up and put me down on the display stand, then left. Click. Click. I felt the cuffs on my ankles. Then she installed the headrest, and I let my head sink back. Perfect. Then I felt her hands on my legs, as she removed the hobble.

A woman in a yellow tunic and green belt walked in and installed the feeding funnel. The taste surprised me. Strawberry? I thought mash was always vanilla! I savored the mash as I slowly sucked it down and felt it fill my stomach. The deep glow of the polished wood cabinets on my left, and the people in the corridor comforted me. If this was going to be home, then I was definitely out of the low rent district. So far, the people had been competent, definite and kind. Maybe this was heaven for women like me?

The woman who had freed me from the cages came in with a man. This time, her ears had little medallions like mine. I didn’t remember them from before. He wasn’t wearing a collar, his ears didn’t have medallions, and he didn’t act like he owned the place. Someone normal, at least.

“Well, of course you do. By the way, I’m Sharon. I’m going to tell you some of it. Over the next few weeks, we will restore your voice. Once that’s done, you will learn English. We will also continue to train you as a ponygirl. You’ve met Donna, your trainer. She is the woman in the yellow tunic. You’ve also met Dreammaker, your senior trainer. She is the woman wearing the red belt. The woman wearing the gold belt is Fran, your owner. Frank, here, is your speech therapist. He’ll be with you an hour a day until your voice regenerates and you can start English class. Tell you more later.”

Ponygirl. Well, at least I now had a name for what they had made me. She left. The therapist took out my gag, and gave me instructions. I had to move my mouth, make sounds, and move my tongue. He listened, gave me more instructions, made some measurements. Only about half of the simple stuff worked. The complicated movements didn’t work at all. Then he was done.

He put my gag back in. “Well, that’s about what I expected. We’ll keep doing this, and it should regenerate in about two weeks.” He left and went to one of the other cells.

The tall woman with the red belt and tags in her ears came in. She introduced herself as Dreammaker. She was a master trainer, and would be training me. She unhooked my ankle chains, and took off the headrest. I wondered what she was going to do. It took two men to put me on the stand and take me off of it.

I found out right away. She started moving me around on the stand. She began by moving my legs so I was squatting. Then she put her hands on my ass and pushed up. I came up. She pushed me a step forward, then a step back. Then she pushed me back down to the squatting position, and had me move my legs back so I was kneeling.

She kept at it until I could do it perfectly. By the end, I was coming up when she said “up”, and going down when she said “down.” I was backing up to the pole when she said “on the stand.” I could feel the commands settle in.

She put me back on my stand, and fed me. I let myself settle back and suck my mash. Maybe Sharon was an angel. I’d never heard of one in a leather miniskirt. All the paintings showed them in long white dresses. This place looked like it knew its business. I was going to get my voice back. I was going to be able to understand them. And I had a competent trainer. I hadn’t seen one of those since my circus teacher. If this wasn’t heaven, it would do for a while.

Sharon came in with Donna. “How’s your sex life, kid?” I started. I hadn’t had any for a few days, and I was getting horny. I was even beginning to remember my last owner with a certain fondness. She got real explicit in asking my preferences. Being limited to two taps for yes, and three for no made for a certain amount of directness. I was either aroused or embarrassed out of my mind; I wasn’t sure which. Probably both.

She took out my ball gag, and popped in a ring. This I knew. “UP.” I came off the stand and marched over to the bucking rack. She bent me over and hooked me to the parallel bars. Then she moved them until she was satisfied. The rod across my back finished the setup.

Donna lubed me, and then started in with a vibrator. Sharon hiked up her skirt, and I got right in sucking her off. Women had never been one of my favorites, but she had been quite explicit that it was in my job description. Donna was an expert with that vibrator; she got me off exactly when I got Sharon off. Then they swapped places. This time, Sharon used a strap-on. If anything, she was even more expert. I couldn’t tell her from the real thing. She played me up and down for a while, and then brought me off exactly when Donna came.

Donna put one satiated pony back on her stand. I almost didn’t have the energy to suck my mash.

After that, sex was on the menu daily. Sometimes it was just one trainer; sometimes it was two at a time. The men got their shot. Some of them were almost as good as Sharon with her strap-on. And I got to suck cock, which was another delicious treat.

Every once in a while, Donna would stick a vibrator in me while I was still on the stand, and then leave. That thing would bring me up and back down, and up and hang and back down. Then it would shove me over the top in a wild blaze of thrashing, leaving me hanging off the rings on the pole. She didn’t do it often, but when she did, wow. I was one happily wiped pony for an hour afterwards.

“Open up wide now,” she said. She poked around my mouth with a little mirror and made notes. Then she popped the ball gag back in and left. A week later she showed up again. “Open up wide now.” She pulled eight teeth. Then she left.

She came back every day for a while, just before the speech therapist. “Open up wide, dearie.” She poked around, and then she left. After a few days, I could feel new teeth coming in.

“Open up wide, dearie.” This time she put a horseshoe shaped thing in my mouth. “Bite down, now. Good. Open up wide, now.” She left with it.

A few days later, she showed up again. “Open up wide, now.” She put a white curved thing in my mouth. “Bite down.” I felt my teeth sink into the depressions prepared for them. She twisted something. “Open up.” I couldn’t; my teeth were fixed in place. She twisted again. “Open up.” This time I could. Oh, my. Another twist. “Open up.” I couldn’t again. She showed me a device that looked like part of a red ball with a hollow screw and wings. She pried up my lips. Snick, I felt it lock in. Then she arranged my lips over it. “Perfect.” She tightened the chinstrap on my bridle and left. She tossed the ball gag at the recycle bin on her way out. I never saw her again.

“Ge Hup.” Donna flicked my reins, and guided me out the door of my cell. My march step had improved to where she wasn’t wincing whenever she looked at me. Turn left, and I marched past the cells I had seen on my way in. This time, Dreammaker was on the running machine in the cell with the lady bound to the pole. I practically balked. Fortunately, my training carried me through. I kept marching, right leg up, horizontal, forward, down, left leg up, horizontal, forward, down and repeat. March. Through the door. My reins tugged to the left, and I turned with them. My reins tugged for another turn to the left, through the door to that vast space where I had arrived. I could barely see the other end in the distance.

I was marched across the dirt floor. After the sharp clip, clop of my horseshoes on concrete, the dull thud, thud of the shoes on dirt was vaguely comforting. It brought back memories of before I was made into this. There was a short, chain link fence in front of me. Donna guided me through a gap, and then across another area of dirt. Then through a gap in another chain link fence.

There were three sunken arenas to the side of the walkway. They were easily twice the size of the arena’s I had practiced in before. She guided me down a ramp into one, and then backed me up between the shafts of a cart. I could feel her tightening straps on my bustier. Then she walked behind, and flicked the reins. “Ge Hup!”

We went around and around the arena, starting, stopping and turning. Brrrinnnggg! An alarm went off, and she turned me back to where she had hooked up the cart originally. More tugging at my waist, and then the shafts dropped to the ground. She guided me back up the ramp, turn right, out of the vast room, right again and again into the corridor of cells. This time Dreammaker was on her stand, sucking down her mash. She winked at me as I went by.

Donna put me on my stand, and gave me my mash. I thought about what I had seen, and couldn’t make sense out of it. Eventually, I put it aside. Soon enough, I would be able to talk. Maybe they would answer questions.

The trainers handled me through my day, getting me on and off my stand, feeding me, putting me in the trotting booth and taking me out, putting me down for the night. Many days, the trainer was Donna, but many days, it was one of the other ones, although Donna was the most frequent.

After that, the days became much the same for a while. I slept in a hog-tie at night. One of the attendants got me up in the morning and groomed me. Ah, luxury. He took his time drying me, and made it a most sensuous experience. The attendants put my hair up in different styles. It had been so long since they had done anything except a basic ponytail, I had almost forgotten. After a few days, the hair on the sides of my head fell out, and was replaced by short hair, very like the hair on a pony’s head. Another puzzle.

Dreammaker came by every three days for a training session. She concentrated on movements. She would take one movement, or one muscle group, and work it for a while. As always, she was patient, meticulous and utterly inevitable. Always, when she was done, the movement was easier, more natural, more flowing.

My speech therapist came by every day, and put me through exercises. After a few days, some things began working. In a couple of weeks, he was giving me Spanish phrases, and making me repeat them back. He was also making me learn new sounds, and repeat them back. Those phrases weren’t Spanish.

Chapter 6. Interlude.

To: Lt. Sam Dahl, Square County Sheriff’s Department

From: Fran Donaldson, Fran Donaldson Ponygirl Stables

Re: Three Ponygirls in the McDivot case

Lt. Dahl,

My compliance person will send you a complete interim report shortly. I’m just going to cover the high spots, and answer your questions from your last call.

I have bought Mr. McDivot’s interest in the three ponies. He realized he did not have the resources which rehabilitation under the Consensual Slave Act required. Consequently, he is out of the picture as far as current responsibilities under Regulation S.

The International Ponygirl Consortium had the numbers on their livestock tags registered. All three of them originated with the same Russian vendor. The descriptions on file match. The vendor has since gone out of business, and their records are not available, so I cannot trace them before they became ponygirls. That will have to wait for their voices to regenerate.

Their last registered owner liquidated his herd about five years ago. His records are also not available, so I cannot trace them from him to Mr. McDivot. No registrations were made for any of his herd at the time. I’ve turned that matter over to the proper authorities.

I’ve contracted with Leprechaun Genetics for regeneration. The speech therapist tells me that the program is coming along nicely. He expects that the brunette will be available for conversation in her native language within two weeks. The other two will take longer by a week or so.

I expect that it will take from four to six months for them to have a sufficient familiarity with English for a valid career planning session. Under the Act, this is the first time they can ask for release from the indenture.

I am not allowed to answer your questions about “Security.” You need to ask the FBI field office that gave you their number.

Sincerely,

Fran Donaldson

Chapter 7. The Talk Rule.

“Well, Brownie, the therapist tells us you should be able to speak. So, I’m going to tell you the talk rule.” Sharon was getting me off the mat before grooming. “It’s very simple. You’re required to talk during grooming. Not allowed, required. There’s a bit of a ritual.”

Allowed to talk! Thank God! I would have collapsed if I weren’t already prone on the mat.

“Here’s how it works. I’ll take the gag out, and say “You may talk.” Then you can talk to your heart’s content. When I want you to stop, I’ll say, “Talk time is over.” Then I’ll put the gag in. Understand?”

She laughed, and finished taking my night bondage off. I got up on my hands and knees and crawled into the bathroom. She took a tool out of her belt pouch, and twisted. The ball part of the gag came off. Then she twisted again. “Open wide.” I opened my mouth, and she took out the mouthpiece. Both of them went flying into the recycling bin. “You may talk.”

I hadn’t talked for fifteen years. With all the questions I wanted to ask, I was still speechless. So I forced myself to ask one.

She laughed again. “I suspected you might be wondering. We try to tell ponies as little as possible, so they can keep their heads out of it, and react as ponies. But they all know the background. What did they tell you when they trained you?”

“Nothing. The drug lords sold me to some people who trained me to do this, but I couldn’t understand them.”

“I’ll start at the beginning then. A ponygirl is a girl that has been trained to act like a pony. That’s what you are. Where you are is in the United States, at Fran Donaldson’s ponygirl stable. She races and shows ponygirls, and also boards some for other people. You’re being retrained with a view to being sold.”

By now, I had gotten through the part where I shit, and I was straddling the toilet, with my back straight and my ass above the bowl. She had just started feeding the water into me for my enema.

“Hold that thought. You’ve been hoping to be rescued for the past, what, fifteen years? I rescued you a month ago. One rescue to a kidnap. The thing is, you actually do have a clear path out of here. You don’t have to stay here and be a ponygirl unless you want to.”

She had finished filling me up, and it was time to release it. The look on my face combined with the enema coming out my ass would have made quite a picture.

“Yes, honey, you can. You need to learn English first, then you can ask. I’m going to explain why you might want to consider staying. A bit of background.”

She had finished the enema. I got myself off of the toilet, and crawled to the shower. The showerhead was four feet off the ground; the only way I could shower was sitting or on all fours. I started washing myself down. The procedure required me to be very thorough.

“You might have heard that the US has an anti slavery clause in the Constitution?” I nodded. “Well, that isn’t quite true. The wording is “involuntary servitude.” You’d have to ask a historian why they wrote it that way; I don’t remember the explanation. But it doesn’t prohibit voluntary slavery. A few years ago, they decided to regulate some practices in the kink communities, and passed the Consensual Slave Act. It was intended to regulate practices for maybe a few hundred people.”

“They do for some people. Not a whole lot, but some people just cope better if they hand off final responsibility to someone else.”

“Well, it caught on, and had some very unintended consequences. Most people who would like a slave take a look at Regulation S, and decide to do something else. The police used it to shut down a lot of sweatshops. The courts decided that if someone was being treated like a slave, Regulation S applied.”

“Regulation S is real complicated. Since you were discovered as a pony slave, there is an assumption that you wanted to do that. There’s also an exception for training. So you’re stuck here until you learn English. If we didn’t teach it to you, we’d be in real trouble. But we are going to, and you will learn it. Then you’ll have a career planning session with Fran, and make some decisions.”

I’d finished washing myself. So I crawled out of the shower area to where she could dry me. She spent a few minutes using a dryer on my hair, and then she dried the rest of my head and put my hair up in a new style.

She put a form on top of my head. My hair came down in two falls, one on each side. The form made the falls stand out from my head, almost like wings that had lost their way. Or maybe like pony ears. Then she put feathers between the falls. Finally, she held up a mirror so I could see the effect.

“I trained animals. I like to think I was as good or better than Dreammaker.”

“Kid, you’ve got it made. If there’s anything Fran wants more than another championship racing ponygirl, its another three trainers of Dreammaker’s ability.”

“You’ve got time to think about it. You have to learn English first. One of the quirks in the law.”

“Talk time is over.” She held out a fresh mouthpiece. I opened my mouth, and she inserted it. I bit down, she twisted, and I could no longer open my mouth. She swatted my ass, and I obediently crawled on all fours to the mat, where she put me in my harness and mounted me on my stand.

“Hum. One more thing. Got it!” She took a pair of pretty little colored glass chimes from a drawer, and hung them on my breast rings.

This I was going to have to digest. I let it percolate as I knelt on my stand, sucking my mash and listening to the tinkling of my chimes.

Chapter 8. English Lessons

My speech therapist still had me an hour a day. He spoke, I repeated. This time I didn’t understand the sentences, so I presume they were English. He didn’t tell me. He just spoke, and I repeated. When I didn’t do it right, I got hit with the prod. Sometimes he’d have me break it down into separate sounds. Sometimes he’d give me separate sounds, and I’d have to put them together. Eventually, he must have been satisfied.

She startled me out of a reverie. Another session on the trotting machine was supposed to be next. What was girl mode?

“Up.” I found myself standing beside the post. Click. Zip. Click. Zip. She had the puppy paws off. Another zip and the bustier came loose.

“You’re going to girl mode. I take off the puppy paws and the bustier. You do the rest.” She unlaced it, and it fell on the floor.

“Here’s how you do the gag.” She showed me where the tools were kept, and ran me through the drill for taking it out and putting it back in.

“Here’s how you do your tail.” My tail unclipped with a squeeze, and reattached with a push.

Hot damn. Let’s lose this collar. I felt for the snap. God, it felt good to have my head upright again. Find the buckles on the bridle. Zip. Zip. Kick the boots off. September Morn. I felt like dancing. The anal probe didn’t come out.

She pulled open drawers and a tall cabinet. Real clothes. After fifteen years, real clothes. I rummaged. Pink panties. Sheer pantyhose. A black leather miniskirt. A bra. A white blouse with a medium neckline and pouf sleeves. Pumps with five inch heels. Not much choice, but still. Real clothes.

Across the way, my sisters in former misery were pulling things out of drawers and trying them on. Dreammaker was helping one. The linguist was helping the other.

We headed to the classroom with a clatter of heels. At least, it was different from the clip clop of horseshoes. We sat at small tables, with the teacher at the front. He got Sharon, or Dreammaker, or Dianne (that was the linguist) to say and do something. Sometimes two of them, or all three. Then we had to do it. I was paired with Dreammaker, Blondie was paired with Dianne and Red was paired with Sharon.

We worked on it until we were perfect. Voice, breathing, mannerisms. God was it fun. Like some of the circus classes, but more intense, more vivid.

Then somebody pulled the blinds. That’s what it felt like to go back to my cell. Walking from a busy street to a quiet room. I kept expecting a librarian to go “ssshhh.” I’d strip, dump my clothes in a hamper, and lie on the mat, spread-eagle. Sharon would put me back in harness.

One day, she didn’t. She left, and one of the trainers came in and did me. After that, I came back to the cell by myself. Then she bridged the switch the other way. The trainer put me down on the mat, took off the paws and bustier, and then left. I got up and did the rest.

The switch grew more natural. Pony mode and girl mode simply became two rooms in the same house that I used for different things. Red couldn’t take it. One day, I heard shouting, a whine and a scream. She was down on the floor of her cell, sobbing. They picked her up and put her in the chair. The mirror came up, and she vanished from sight.

The next day, it was just Blondie and I. Class was real subdued until Fran walked in. She chased the teacher out, and we discussed how we were handling the pony mode to girl mode transition. I explained the rooms, and Blondie tried to explain how it was a high pitch and a low pitch, or like an orchestra and a tuba solo.

Red arrived on the end of a leash, and sank to her knees in front of Fran. Fran had that effect. I’d wanted to do that too, but I restrained myself. Fran and Dreammaker questioned her on the transition. They left and took her with. Blondie and I went back to our cells. Both Fran and Dreammaker were in Red’s cell with Red. They worked her for quite a while, going from pony mode to girl mode and back.

The next day, all three of us were in class. Fran was satisfied with our progress; we would be talking to her in a month or so. I’d crossed that indefinable threshold from not knowing English, to just needing lots more vocabulary.

Something about the begging puppy with earphones struck me as totally ridiculous. They put a TV in the cell, and had us watch shows. We role-played some of them, and discussed others. It was a riot. I really missed it when they took the TV away.

We hit reading and writing. English has the reputation of being very hard to spell. The teacher taught us how to do it the right way. It had something to do with visual memory. Rules don’t work; English is a hodgepodge of stuff from too many languages. Pronunciation has changed over the years, and the dictionaries haven’t. We went through a bunch of exercises, and then I could spell any word I had really looked at.

She painted a picture of why we didn’t want to leave. She didn’t have to convince me, the television shows had already done that. I knew it would take me a couple of years to adjust. If she really wanted a trainer, I was prepared to swallow my moral qualms and do it. As the saying goes, morals are an affectation of the rich. The poor and the dead can’t afford them.

She painted a picture of what it would be like to stay. Days off. Vacations. Career planning. Racing with real competitive fields. Retirement fund. Medical if needed. She made it sound like a secure job with a big corporation.

That was it for girl mode for the next week. I was back to being a pony full time.

Chapter 9. Career Planning.

Dreammaker came to get me for my session with Fran. Her office was in a large room off the main corridor. It just said “Fran Donaldson. Owner” on the door. To the point.

She laid out what she wanted. I needed to make a commitment to her. She wasn’t going to send me to the trainers’ class simply to lose me. I argued her down to five years after finishing the senior trainer’s course. She would have someone called the Sorceress guarantee it.

“You sign that,” Dreammaker said, “You won’t even be able to think about leaving until the end of five years. The Sorceress is like the Borg. Resistance is not even possible.”

“The Sorceress guarantees both ends. And her word is final. It would take a direct edict from God Herself to overrule Alice on one of these.”

“In comparison, the drug lords are retarded schoolgirls at a Sunday School picnic.”

“I need to give you a new name.” Fran said. “Brownie was just convenience until you made a decision. How about Amazon Princess?”

“With Princess for short? I like it. Only way I’m ever going to be royalty.” We all laughed. Even a lame joke cuts the tension.

“Amazon Princess it is. We see the judge to get your papers straightened out tomorrow. The name change will be part of it.”

“Dreammaker will train you on heavy sulky before you go to class. You need to know how a racing pony feels from the inside, and I don’t think your prior experience was all that good. I’ve got a contract to train a new driver. Her father has promised her a ponygirl of her own if she sticks with it and learns.”

“You’ll be Dreammaker’s shadow for the rest of the time. When you come back, you’ll be on part time like Sharon. Unless you turn into a championship pony; then your schedule will look more like Dreammaker’s.”

Chapter 10. Wrap up.

To: Lt. Sam Dahl, Square County Sheriff’s Dept.

From: Fran Donaldson, Fran Donaldson Ponygirl Stables

Re: Rehabilitation of Ponygirls from Mr. McDivot’s illegal stable.

Lt. Dahl,

My compliance officer will send you the final report in a few days. I’m going to cover the high points.

The brunette was an animal trainer for a circus. She ran afoul of the drug lords, and they sold her to the Russians. She was resold several times, the last two without proper IPC registration of the transfer. She decided to accept my indenture with the understanding that I will have her retrained as a ponygirl trainer. She will then join my staff. The Russian group is no longer commercially active.

The blond was a graduate student in genetics at the University of Kiev when the Russian group kidnapped her. Leprechaun Genetics made me an offer; she agreed to the sale. She is currently at their site.

The redhead was a police officer that crossed the drug lords. She accepted my indenture as a pony slave. Her career choice is to pursue a degree in Criminology with a view to joining my compliance staff.

Sincerely

Fran Donaldson

Epilog.

Well, that’s it for this story. I could tell you some more, but let’s save it for later.

One thing I found out quickly, however. Training ponygirls was nothing like training tigers. Tigers are, well, tigers. They all work just about the same. You just follow the marked path, and you get your results. But they’re still tigers.

Ponygirls are still girls. Every one has her own personal racetrack, and every one has her own personal payoff at the end. You help them along their path, and you have a happy pony, eager to please and a pleasure to work with. You don’t, and you don’t. Like Alice told me during training, resistance is a statement about the trainer, not about the ponygirl.

I still don’t know if angels exist. Sharon is most unlikely as an angel. I’ll find out when they close my eyes and carry me out of here. And that’s soon enough.