It was the middle of winter, so a thick wool blanket was thrown over Christy as she was led out of the auction house and into the horse trailer. Still, the biting wind took little time finding its way to her bare skin, which wasn't hard, as she wore only an open-backed panty girdle and open-cup bra under her harness. She began to shiver uncontrollably as her new owners removed the blanket and strapped her in from head to foot, a process which seemed to take forever. She stared straight ahead, as a good ponygirl should, her vision partly clouded by her steaming breath shooting out from the gaps between her leather muzzle and cheeks. The ponygirl gave a silent prayer of thanks when the men finished securing her and the doors were finally closed behind her. Though she no longer had to suffer from the wind, the trailer was pitch-black, which only made the cold seem colder. Her shivering rattled the metal D-rings at the end of her restraining straps, and she could feel the melting flakes of snow slither down her shaven head, slide down the tops of her pony boots, and tickle her hardened nipples.

How long was it going to take them to turn on the fucking heater, she fumed. Even though ponygirls had to learn extreme patience because they often had to spend long periods of time hitched or tethered with nothing to do (or worse yet, forbidden to even move), Christy still found herself getting annoyed at the least little delay.

The truck started up and they took off, the heater kicking on as the engine revved up. The ponygirl gave a silent prayer of thanks as the first hot blast hit her legs. Her shivering subsided, and she was able to relax as the heat from the floor unit bathed her in warmth. She didn't know how long the journey was going to take, but she knew she was in for an extended period of boredom. With nothing to see or smell, and with only the drone of the heater in her ears and the taste of rubber bit on her tongue, the only things that stimulated her were the warm air on her skin and the soft caress of her undergarments on the more sensitive regions of her body. Soon, even this was not enough, and she fell into a drowsy, half-awake state where time had little meaning.

Why her, anyway? It was just pure dumb luck that her name had come up in the ponygirl lottery. She had been a junior in college majoring in business administration when she had gotten the bad news. Oh, how she had cried at first when they had harnessed and bridled her and taken her from her dorm room in the middle of the night, bawling like a little baby. The girls who had been still awake expressed their condolences to her as she was led away, or locked themselves in their rooms, not wanting to face the reality of the situation, because they knew it could just as easily happen to them. She had come to accept her fate, though, and had done very well in training camp-- which was just as well, as her exemplary behavior had resulted in her being bought by a caring, responsible owner.

Christy considered herself lucky. She had heard of all the things that were done to ponygirls to ensure their good behavior and servitude. Owners were often brutal taskmasters who punished on a regular basis; her new owners, she could tell, were more of the "horse whisperer" type. Most ponygirls were naked, and some had to suffer in skin-tight latex bodysuits or tight leather corsets; she at least got to wear normal clothing, even if it was only revealing undergarments. Many routinely had ointments applied to their heads to prevent hair growth except for a narrow mane; her owners had just shaved her head, leaving open the possibility that she could still enjoy a full head of hair someday. Some had their vocal cords severed, so that they would be unable to talk; she was just given a shock collar, which jolted her with electricity whenever she was stupid enough to speak (which, thankfully, was very infrequent now-- she had learned her lesson well). Many farms also isolated the girls from each other, knowing ponygirls valued social interaction most of all; Christy, as a showpony, would be able to mingle and bond with the other performers on her farm.

She gave thanks that she wasn't chosen as a breeder or relief pony, the latter sent from farm to farm to provide sexual "relief" for the pent-up frustrations of the small number of ponyboys. A shudder passed through her at the thought of being restrained in a bent-over, spread-legged position as she was gang-banged from behind by a dozen or more seriously horny ponyboys on a regular basis.

Then there were the more extreme cults that half-blinded the girls, so that they could only see vague shapes and movement, forcing them to rely mainly on their hearing and making them even more dependent on their Masters. They also-- and at this Christy grew sick-- surgically removed their arms, breasts, and clit, claiming that they were unessential to a ponygirl's work or focused her mind on dirty thoughts of sex. There were even rumors of selective lobotomies that left the ponygirls intellectually incapable of resisting. The former college girl sighed with relief. She never thought she'd be grateful to be fully restrained in her pony tack, with its accompanying hobbles, leashes, blinders, and reins.

Still, the loss of freedom was a tough pill to swallow. She had no idea when she would see any of her friends again-- if ever. The standard term of service was five years, but that could be renewed for as many times as her owners saw fit. She tried not to think of life as a ponygirl when she was forty or fifty.

She flexed her hands. Fingers that were once adept at playing the piano were now just useless appendages. She loved making music, yet she had no idea when she would ever play again, if her hands were still dexterous after her service.

And dancing. She might never go dancing again, not after years of prancing around in high-heeled pony boots. Or swimming. Or a million other things. All her activities-- all her movements-- were now restricted by leather straps and buckles.

They had not blindfolded or earplugged her, as was the usual custom. This small gesture of compassion meant a lot to her, psychologically if not physically.

From her brief glimpse of the outside, the weather had looked pretty bad, and even in the enclosed confines of her trailer, she could sense the truck working its way through the heavy snow and being buffeted by harsh winds. She hoped the journey didn't take too long. What if she had to pee? They hadn't given her a catheter or piss bag, and they couldn't exactly take her outside by the side of the road. She supposed she would just have to do it in the trailer, like any normal animal would do.

As Christy drifted off to sleep, her body relaxed against the restraints, which continued to hold her in an upright position. Straps leading from her harness and from cuffs on her arms and legs kept her rigidly in place. There was even a ceiling strap that was hooked to the top of her bridle, side straps that clipped to her bit rings, and a front strap that clipped to the forehead part of her bridle, so that she could barely even move her head. The only thing that was really free were her breasts which, despite the support of her bra, bobbed and swayed and jiggled with the motion of the trailer. Her breathing grew deep and regular as she escaped to the freedom of dreams.

A sudden crash jolted her awake. Before she could figure out what had happened, the trailer pitched sideways and slammed into something solid, throwing Christy against her straps, the leather digging painfully into her skin. The loud boom of impact was amplified by the smallness of her enclosure, stunning her with its sound.

The ponygirl hung there at an angle as her horseshoe-clad boots skidded off the metal floor, leaving her hanging like a fly caught in a spiderweb. She knew something terrible had occurred, as they had come to a complete stop. But confined in her trailer, she had no way of knowing what had happened.

As she recovered, she realized that the bright light blinding her was real, and as she turned her eyes upward, she could see snow blowing in through a ragged tear in the upper corner. The ponygirl knew then that the crash had been pretty serious, but had her owners survived? As she felt blasts of cold air sweep over her body, she prayed that they would free her, or that someone would come along and rescue them all.

She began to shiver now. The frigid air was coming in stronger, chilling her bare head, and the heater wasn't strong enough to counteract it. Gooseflesh studded her bare skin, and she began to flex her muscles just to stay warm.

But as the minutes passed, she realized no one was coming to save her. She couldn't cry out for help even if she didn't have the shock collar, as the muzzle muffled any speech. She had to do something drastic-- and soon. Perhaps if she could free one hand, she could undo the rest of the straps and free herself. And then-- what? There really wasn't any way she could patch the hole, so she'd have to go outside in the freezing cold, wearing almost nothing, and seek shelter elsewhere. But what if the trailer doors were locked--?

No, don't think about that, she thought. Just think about getting free and saving yourself. Christy tugged and twisted her arm, straining against the wrist cuff with superhuman desperation.

But it was no use. Her small body was no match for the tight cuff and its thick leather, nylon stitching, and metal buckle. All she had done was get friction burns on her skin and nearly dislocate her wrist. She went limp, feeling the chill slowly seep into her body once more. Her good fortune did not seem so good any more. Unless a miracle occurred, she was going to freeze to death. Tears rolled down her face. She was an intelligent, caring woman, a human being. She was SOMEBODY! Why did this have to happen to her? WHY? If only she could have a more dignified death, instead of being trussed up in a horse trailer, harnessed and bridled like an animal, wearing only trashy, revealing lingerie. She did not want to go like this.

And then the heater quit.

It gave one final rattle, and then died. Christy screamed with frustration, and got a jolt of electricity for her troubles. She blacked out.

She had no way of knowing how long she had been out, but it couldn't have been long. The icy cold slapped her awake. She had a headache. She was shivering uncontrollably. Her fingers and nipples were growing numb. Snow was building up inside the trailer.

Her mind was growing panicky, even as her body grew less and less responsive to her will. Even the numerous straps could barely control the constant tremors that shook her frame. Sweat from her exertions and the melting snow had turned her thin bra into a stiff glittery prison for her breasts. Her bladder let loose, soaking her panty girdle until a torrent of urine streamed down one leg. Despite the cold and the muzzle, Christy thought she could smell the rank steam of her piss. A few minutes later, her sodden undergarment had frozen solid against her shaven crotch. She barely felt it. A steady cascade of fluffy snow gradually built up on her head and back, covering her still form in a soft blanket of white.

They were found several hours later. The owners had been killed instantly when their vehicle had slid off the road and hit a tree. Christy, who had shown such promise as a showpony, had died not long after. It was said that frozen tears hung like icicles from her eyes when she was removed. As a ponygirl, her name was not even important enough to be mentioned on the evening news, and her body was buried in a modest grave in a pet cemetery. As unfortunate as her loss was, it was affordable, and she was soon replaced by another ponygirl.