Olivia had always been taught to be polite and to do her best, and good things will come her way, so when she was snatched from campus her junior year, stripped, shaved, harnessed, and bridled, she cooperated with her owners as best she could, despite the pain and humiliation.

The tawny, petite brunette endured the near-nakedness (always looking on the bright side, she appreciated the fact that they provided sports bras for her to wear to prevent tissue breakdown during exercise, and would have thanked them had she been allowed to speak), the lack of privacy and freedom, and the rigorous training with an enthusiasm that put the other trainees, even the compliant ones, to shame. Not that that was too hard -- many of the fillies cried or fought their sudden change in status. At auction time, she stood proudly -- head high with chest out -- and obeyed every command without hesitation.

She did not get frustrated or bored during the long, hot, bumpy ride in the dark trailer, and ignored the exhaust fumes that made her woozy, along with the numerous tight restraints that kept her immobilized, the high-heeled pony boots that made her feet ache, and her inability to relieve her empty stomach and full bladder. And when she was locked into her cold, bare, wooden stall that was barely larger than the back of a van and was lit by a dim overhead bulb, she did not lament the fact that she would most likely be a pony girl for the next few decades, and would never live out her dreams, because she was grateful that someone cared enough to spend a lot of money to own her.

She soon came to accept the cheap, ill-fitting sports bras her new owner bought for her, the bargain pony food in giant bags that was as bland as dog chow, and the obsessive care he took in shaving, restraining, and training her, because pony girls didn't complain.

In town, she ignored the stares and comments of strangers (no matter how complimentary), refused the food they offered her (no matter how tempting), and paid no attention to other pony girls nearby (no matter how much she wanted to socialize), because well-trained pony girls didn't do those things.

She did not let it bother her when she had to pull the sulky with her owner up long hills or down muddy roads, or when she had to wait tethered outside his favorite bar half the night, even in the rain, or when she had to take him into town on hot and humid days when the sun baked her bare skin and the sweat stung her eyes, because that was what she was trained to do.

And, unable to perform adequately after a quarter-century of hard work and imprisonment, she did not let out a whimper of protest as she was sold to a dairy farmer, loaded onto a trailer with other no-longer-useful pony girls, and taken to a barn, where she and the others where penned up naked in long rows, injected with hormones, and milked by computerized machines. Because she was a "good" pony girl.