.... I am on trial for property damage - namely, I had struck and killed a farmer's plowing horse with my car. The case takes an unexpected twist when the farmer's lawyer makes the incident appear intentional (which I can only feebly deny), and they demand a unique form of restitution. Absurdly, the judge agrees: "For so willingly destroying this man's plowing horse, it is only fitting that you should take its place."
      I am, of course, aghast. But as the commotion over the verdict rises and I stand to protest, security officers seize my arms and pull them behind me. A leather sleeve is brought up over them, pulling them tightly together at the elbows to wrists (and, I notice, making me thrust out my chest, offering my breasts to anyone who dares touch them). Court is adjourned. Everyone rises to go their seperate ways, and I am dragged toward the prisoner's exit. I call out to the judge as he straightens his notes and rises: "For how long?!?"
      He doesn't hear, the first time, and I repeat the question. This time, he glances at me as though I've asked the most ridiculous question he's ever heard. "Permanently, of course," is his reply.
      I wail. I am heaving and bucking and fighting, but they still pull me into the prisoner's exit, where the farmer and his grooms are waiting for me. Meanwhile, the sleeve around my arms is secured by straps which run over my shoulders, under my collarbone and then buckles on the opposite side. There are straps on the armbinder at wrist, elbow and mid-bicep areas (where the sleeve ends), and these are quickly secured.
      Without my co-operation, my clothing is quickly disposed of, save for my skirt (although I keep nothing that I wore underneath it), which is shortened so that it covers just barely enough to avoid giving any young boys an unexpected education.
      With the epithets I'm shouting and the volume thereof, gagging becomes their next priority. I feel them place a leather set of straps on the top of my head, and go to work. The top lattice consists of a circle that runs the circumference of my crown, over my forehead and around the back, plus a pair of straps which cross over the top, one of which runs front to back, the other side to side. From this headpiece descends a strap which runs down my forehead to the bridge of my nose, meets a silver ring, and splits into two straps which go to the corners of my mouth. These also terminate in rings. From the mouth rings, a strap runs to the back of my neck, where each side joins up with a vertical strap from the headgear. Also from the mouth rings, there is a chin strap, which they buckle snugly, jerking my head a little bit to ensure that it is pulled tight enough. The vertical strap in the back then runs to a wide leather collar fitted around my neck. The headgear is on.
      The bit is next. I renew fighting with a rabid strength when I see it (I am appalled that they are going to harness me up and take me outside in pony gear right now), but it's futile. These grooms are able to deal with thoroughbreds - my piddley strength is nothing to them.
      The bit is a solid rubber rod about six inches in width and nearly two inches in diameter. Projecting from the center of it is an odd assembly which they bring toward my face. The assembly is made of two pieces of metal which extend out, bend toward each other, then curve back toward the bit. They terminate in jagged points, and a spring pulls them together. I quickly learn that these claw-like plates clamp around my tongue, and make it painful for me to try to retract it into my mouth - although instinctively, that is what I do, and I end up drawing the bit tight into my mouth. This is advantageous for them, because they are able to quickly and easily attach the bit to the rings at the corners of my mouth, using the headgear as well as my tongue to keep it well in place.
      The sounds I make are now unintelligible animal sounds; primal grunts; whines. The grooms busy themselves with one of my feet, putting a boot on it which is shaped in a tight arch like a high heel, but with no actual stilletto in back. It has a funny feeling of weight at the toes.
      When I see them pick up the other boot to bring it over, I soon realize why this is: there is a horseshoe affixed to the bottom, tracing the curve of the toes. I gasp and buck a little, but I'm running out of energy. Soon, the boots are both on, and being secured by a tight strap which encircles the ankles. They finish with my legs by attaching cuffs on my ankles which are attached to each other by a foot and a half of chain. Hobbled, my last defense of kicking is now denied.
      Next, they begin with a harness, beginning with a heavy leather corset, complete with boning. There are re-inforced rings around the perimeter of the thing, which (after what seems like hours of struggle and compression and crushing) cannot be more than 22 inches all the way around. I can barely breathe, and it takes a lot of the fight out of me.
      The corset is the centerpiece of a whole-torso harness, and the grooms proceed to fasten the remaining straps - one over each shoulder, one around my armbinder sleeve (keeping my arms close in to my back), and one vicious raw strap which they grooms have to pull my skirt down to apply. They pull it between my legs, tight into my sex (which is by now slicked with moisture) and then into the buckle loop in front. The strongest of the grooms takes hold of this strap, pulls so tightly that my toes are lifted from the floor, and buckles it there - tighter than I can bear, and starting to rub my lips raw. But then, I can't very well protest.
      The finishing touches are then applied: blinders are attached to my headgear on either side of me, to restrict my peripheral vision. A plume is attached to the top of the headpiece. Clamps linked by rings with sleigh bells attached are applied to my nipples, and tightened. I wince during the tightening, and noticing, they tighten just a fraction more, and leave them there.
      They leave them, that is, until it is time for the reins. The left rein and the right rein both have a split lead, and the top attaches to the appropriate side of my bit and headgear, while the lower lead attaches to the appropriate nipple clamp. I am horrified that I could be coerced in such an intimate manner.
      That's when it is time to replace my skirt and lead me home. I am taken from the courthouse through thongs of reporters and onlookers - thankfully, the blinders keep me from seeing the full extent of the crowd, but I can certainly hear them. I am weeping, and the light winter wind chills my bare flesh and creeps up under my tiny skirt. It's bloody cold!
      I'll skip some, here, like the ride home in the smelly cattle trailer and the settling in at the stable. I do have to wonder, for a moment, why I envision myself as a ponygirl. Is it because I've always liked horses? We picture horses as proud, graceful, majestic. When we harness them, we acknowledge their power. Maybe a ponygirl is, in this way, admirable.
      Once on the farm, the farmer's stable hand, Evelyn takes me by the reins with that damned tugging and feeling of moving weights at my nipples, and leads me to the stables, where I am to spend the nights.
      "You are to be under my charge," Evelyn states. "You must obey me completely, or suffer the consequences. In these parts, whipping an uncompliant horse is not frowned upon...."
      I shiver, she continues: "There is one more part to add to your wardrobe, to help define your role, here." She shows me a metal chastity belt with a modification: It is solid steel, with a padded metal tube at the vaginal area. The thing is extremely wide, frighteningly so. Its diameter is so wide, I'm not even sure that it would fit inside me.
      Over the next half hour, the thing is fitted (Evelyn gets a few other stable hands to assist her for a few moments), and soon, the horrific thing is in place. There is a valved catheter which was inserted in my urethra to channel wastes elsewhere, while the huge tube leaves my hole open and uncomfortable. I feel constantly plugged, like there is a jar or something impaling me. It is impossible to close my legs completely; when I walk, it is somewhat awkwardly.
      Before application, that frictionless foam was applied around my clitoris; it sprays on like a whipping cream, surrounds my sensitive center, and then dries into a spongy film. I cannot generate any friction against it, and it prevents anything in contact with my genital region from rubbing against it. My little nerve cluster is completely isolated.
      "You will notice," Evelyn gloats, "that you feel nothing but the smooth steel and wide penetration." (I could also feel a little wetness from the lubricant used to work the tube into me, but that was a moot point.) "You are no longer allowed to feel stimulation down there. Your belt will be changed weekly for sanitary reasons, and there will be a modified type for during your period. But there is only one kind of sexual contact which you will ever be able to have again."
      Evelyn tugged down on the reins, indicating that I should kneel before her. I did so, as well as I could with fettered legs, restrained arms and a filled vagina - which is to say, incredibly awkwardly. She then slid down her breeches, and unhooked the bit carefully from the rings and my tongue. With her hand behind my head, she forcibly thrust my face into her pussy, and ordered me to lick. As she ground her wetness into my face, I tried to comply. I slid my tongue into her lips and along the edges, tasting her thick fragrance.
      "As I said, this is the only human sexual contact you will ever have," she states. As I keep busy in her crotch, I can't help but wonder about the tube inside me. As if anticipating that, Evelyn continues: "That doesn't mean, however, that you'll never be fucked." (The harsh language and humiliation send erotic tremors through me). "I imagine some of our ponies are wanting to foal." With this, I draw in a deep breath and try to protest - my panicky sounds are muffled by her fur.
      The days that would follow would be harsh. Working the plow, serving Evelyn, being unable to communicate, being trained for racing, all of those would follow, in my new life.