Caitlin "Cat" Mancks doused her headlights before parking on the street across from the warehouse. Having inherited Globalcom Industries from her dad after his death, she had wanted to be a hands-on person and know as much about running the conglomerate as possible. So when she had come across a subsidiary called Bits and Tail-ends, naturally she was curious. However, discreet inquiries and investigation turned up nothing further about this mysterious company. Was it something illegal? If so, she would have to be very careful checking it out.

The warehouse was dark, a silent monolith near the shore, and there appeared to be no activity from inside it. Caitlin got out of her car, cringing as the smell of seaweed and dead fish from the bay assaulted her nostrils. Gaining entry was no problem, as she had found the keys to the warehouse in her late father's safe. As the young woman approached the building and pulled the keys from her suit pocket, she gave a silent prayer of thanks that he had been so meticulous and organized.

There was a side door, and she was able to unlock it almost immediately. Her hand groped for a light switch, found it, and flipped it up. Nothing.

Caitlin swore silently to herself. Good thing it was a cloudless night, as all she had to go by was the pale moonlight coming in from the skylight.

Moving along the wall, she eventually found an office, and another key got her past the locked door. There was a desk and some file cabinets and little else. She tried the desk drawers. Locked. Same with the file cabinets.

She didn't have any keys that would open any of them, so she began searching-- under the desk blotter, behind the pin-up calendar, around the loose-leaf binders on a shelf high above the desk.

Caitlin didn't see the large cup of coffee on the shelf, so when one of the binders toppled over, it sent the contents of the nearly-full styrofoam cup all down the front of her.

"Damn! DAMMIT!"

She jumped back, even as she felt the cold liquid soaking right through her clothes to her skin. A good suit, too! She just hoped the dry cleaners could get it out.

Luckily, there was a small bathroom just past the office. She locked the door, kicked off her wet shoes, and quickly disrobed-- jacket, blouse, skirt, slip, bra, even pantyhose and panties--, hanging the wet garments to dry wherever she could. It was a good thing it was a warm summer night. She pulled some paper towels out of the dispenser and wiped herself dry.

Now what? Since she was already there and it was obvious there was no one else around, she might as well complete her mission, albeit in the buff. Hell, who was there to see her, right? She was in her bare feet, so she hoped she didn't step on anything sharp.

The warehouse appeared to be empty except for a row of large crates at the one end, near the loading dock. Whatever was in them appeared to be ready for shipment.

She approached them and looked for some kind of latch or opening, but there wasn't any. She returned to the office, and searched around until she found a utility locker which held a wide assortment of tools. She grabbed a hammer with a claw end and hurried back to the crates.

It took a bit of effort, but she finally managed to get the claw end underneath one of the sides. After more grunting and sweating, she was able to loosen the top half and pull it away. Nails screeched in protest, echoing in the nearly-empty cavernous building.

It took her a minute for her eyes to adjust, and then another minute for her to realize what she was seeing. At first, she thought it was a mannequin in leather restraints, but when she saw the slow rising and falling of the breasts, she realized it was a living, breathing woman.

"Oh, God, no!"

Caitlin saw the leather bridle, complete with blinders and bit. A harness encased her naked torso, and straps leading to the sides, top, and back of the crate held her in place. A tube taped to her mouth led to a bottle of liquid hanging from the one side of her wooden prison and, as the businesswoman peered downward, she could see the pubic-shaped receptacle between the captive woman's legs, with a tube leading down to a large empty bottle on the floor.

The heiress clenched her fists until the knuckles went white. There were nearly a dozen crates, and she had to assume most-- if not all-- held a woman. It was some kind of white slavery thing. These women were being shipped somewhere as if they were so much cargo. Was this the kind of thing her father was into? Well, if so, she was going to put a stop to it, right here and now.

She went to the first crate, but it already stood partly open. She wrenched it open further, only to discover that it was empty except for the restraints, which lay in a pile on the floor.

As she started to move to the next one, a beam of light made her whirl around, instinctively dropping the hammer and covering herself with her arms. The flashlight blinded her. She had just started to speak when a pinprick in her side made her cry out in pain.

She looked down to see a tiny dart hanging from the skin over her ribcage before it dropped to the floor. And that was all her brain was able to register before things went black, very black.

"Son of a bitch. How the hell did she escape?" said the night watchman in amazement.

The ringleader looked down at the comatose woman. "It happens. It's rare, but it happens. They're double-jointed or very flexible and they can slip right out of their restraints if you're not careful. I've seen it happen before."

The night watchman saw the other opened crate. "Got here just in time. Looks like she was trying to free the others, too. Well, let's strap her in good this time."

They fitted the bridle over her head, making sure it was good and snug, the rubber bit lodged deep in her mouth. They then wrapped the harness around her body and began belting it tight. Caitlin, already semi-conscious, started to move around in a feeble attempt to resist.

"Jeez, she's coming around already. Good thing we're almost done."

They secured the wrist straps to the waist belt of the harness and tightened fist mitts over her hands, then worked the pony boots onto her bare feet and buckled them tight. As the young woman moaned, they hoisted her to her feet.

Caitlin tried to speak through unresponsive lips, tried to tell them that she was their boss, that there was going to be grave repercussions if they continued what they were doing. But all that came out of her mouth was a few syllables of baby talk.

A rough hand spanked her on the bare ass-- hard. "Quiet, bitch. Ponygirls don't talk."

Even though she was vaguely aware of the pain caused by the spanking, Caitlin thought his words were funny-- a pony girl. Whoever thought of such a silly thing? Until it hit her that she was the ponygirl, and that they were deadly serious about what they were doing to her. Ponygirls were part of the S&M subculture, something she wanted nothing to do with. She struggled and tried to speak some more, even as they secured her inside the crate.

"Seems like this little filly needs a little breaking in."

"We can't have her yelling during the voyage. Better get a shock collar."

Caitlin tried once again to speak, her tongue fighting the hard rubber cylinder that filled her mouth, but only disjointed sounds and drool came out. Her body sagged, though only slightly, held upright by the many straps leading from her arms, legs, torso, and head. Panic gripped her like a cold chill, causing her to hyperventilate, which only made her feel the tight leather straps even more, escalating her terror.

The vague shape of a man came into focus, and his arm struck out. Caitlin felt a slashing pain across her thigh. She gave a short yelp, and tears pooled in her eyes, blurring her vision. The lingering sting told her that she had been hit with a nylon riding crop.

"This should teach her to shut up."

The heiress felt something tighten around her neck, something that had a small box attached to the front. She sniffed back tears. Her mind was finally putting all the pieces together, and it was scaring her. If only she could tell them who she was! If only she could speak her name!

The imprisoned woman felt them attach the urine drainage cup between her legs, then felt them belt something to her waist. It wasn't until they adhered the opening of a plastic bag around her butt that she figured out what it was. A defecation bag! Her face went red with shame at the thought of pissing and shitting like an animal in a cage.

A tube was jammed in her mouth and taped to her lips. Nourishment. For the "voyage". Where were they going, anyway? The men were almost finished, and time was running out. She made one last try at saying her name.

A lightning bolt shot from her throat to her brain, stunning her. Her body jerked, snapping the sturdy straps that held her. She might have blacked out momentarily, though she wasn't sure.

The men laughed. The heiress was shaken when she figured out what had happened. The shock collar discouraged speech. She was hopelessly trapped now. They closed the blinders over her eyes and pressed wax into her ears, leaving her with only the the smell of well-used leather, the taste of vulcanized rubber, and the feel of tight restraints on her bare flesh. Her skin crawled as she felt a rough hand cup one of her large full breasts, squeezing it and pinching the nipple before letting it drop back onto her chest.

Bastard!

Wait! What if they discovered her clothing in the bathroom? They would at least figure out that she didn't belong there, wouldn't they? That was her only hope, because the men had already closed the crate and were hammering the nails back in. She could feel the vibrations as each one was pounded home.

Trapped in her wooden coffin, claustrophobia and fear took hold, and she emptied her bladder, scarcely aware of the urine splashing around in the cup before it drained into the gallon bottle beneath her.

She tried to regulate her breathing, to meditate and calm herself down. Someone somewhere would realize their mistake and she would be freed. There was no way they could get away with this. Absolutely no way.

But as the minutes turned into hours, hope withered into despair and depression. She sucked on the tube in her mouth, and was rewarded with water that tasted vaguely of chemicals. Eventually, she felt vibrations and swaying-- a forklift moving her out onto the dock? A jolt and then she and her crate were swinging freely. Caitlin didn't want to know that she was being loaded onto a ship, even as her crate settled back down with a thud.

The heiress sighed. The bridle and bit. The pony boots. The harness. Was she really going to live as a ponygirl? And what would that be like? Unfortunately, that was something she was going to have to get used to, like it or not.

"Topping tonight's headlines is the mystery of heiress Caitlin Mancks' disappearance. Though evidence points to a possible suicide-- the sudden death of her father was both unexpected and untimely, and her abandoned car was found just two blocks from shore-- officials aren't ready to rule out foul play, though they admit they have no leads, and the trail seems to have grown cold. In other news--"

The night watchmen turned off the portable TV. The ringleader spoke first.

"All her clothing is gone?"

"I incinerated everything. Even her shoes."

"Good. The last thing we want is for any new clues to re-open the case. Hell of a risk, but we couldn't just let her go, could we? Not after what she had seen."

The watchman shook his head and settled back in his chair. "Tough break. From multi-millionaire to . . . "

He left the last part unspoken. They both knew what he was referring to.

Caitlin pranced naked around the training area, her small bare breasts bobbing in time to her high-stepping stride and the metal shoes of her pony boots thudding dully on the hard dirt floor. Her feet were on fire from the unnaturally high heels of the pony boots and the hours of rigorous training she was subjected to every day. Her trainer was a perfectionist, and the remote-controlled butt plug delivered a shock deep within her ass every time she did not perform as expected.

When she had been finally uncrated, she was too disoriented from sensory deprivation to know how long she had been imprisoned. Hell, she could barely remember her name at that point. All she knew was that the defecation bag sagged from the weight of her shit and stank like hell when they peeled it from her skin. The first thing she saw was the inside of a stable, and she had seen little else since then.

Even friends would not have recognized her now. Painful electrolysis had left her head bald except for a narrow mane down the back of her head, and breast reduction surgery had turned her from a C cup to a barely B. Extensive tattooing on her face and body gave her a zebra-like appearance, and hair plugs at the base of her spine gave her a real-life pony tail, just like her fellow ponygirls.

They now gave performances for their new Master, and had to execute their routines flawlessly. The dressage maneuvers were as difficult and complicated as a long ballet routine. Unfortunately, the heiress was not a good dancer, unlike some of the others, who she guessed had been selected because they couldn't quite make it to the top of their profession. Who would miss unknown ballerinas, anyway?

Though she wasn't quite sure what country she was in, she was sure she had seen the dictator on TV before. It was hard to forget that cruel smile and those cold eyes. Someone to whom human rights meant nothing. It wouldn't do to make him angry: even though she had only been one of his ponygirls for several months, she had already seen two others disappear and be replaced.

How much longer would she last?