Dear Mum,

You must be surprised to receive a letter from me. I have been silent for so long. I would not have written to you, but I have something to say. To shout!

Listen!

I am a ponygirl.

I have said it. It is out. I am trembling at the thought of what I have just said. Mommy's little girl, who left home almost a decade ago, is a ponygirl.

I think of what you must be thinking and cringe at the thought.

But then I consider that you may not realise what I have just said. A ponygirl. You will think, 'you were a ponygirl a long time back, spending all your time at the stables, caring for ponies, grooming them and occasionally - oh, you cherished those moments - riding one... Have you become child again? Well, I did always think you were an odd one, but it could be worse!'

No, ma, my mind is shouting, it could not be worse.

If you could see me!

I wear my Master's collar; a steel band that has been welded closed around my neck. For clothes I wear a harness of leather straps, enclosing my thighs, crossing my belly and chest and passing below my crotch to my ass and back. That is all; my tits and cunt are bare, for all to see and touch. (Lord knows they do, whoever ‘they’ are!)

Do you have the picture? Or do the wings of your love make it possible for you to substitute 'Partner' for 'Master'? And make you see Him as a picture of love and His main task in life to instil me with the seed of our future offspring, which we'll lovingly foster and raise?

The truth defeats this picture. My tits: they are designed for what you did at my age, suckling a baby (me!) Yet they harbour large steel rings, which prevent their practical use. My cunt - mother, pardon me for these terms - that secret passage for passing me His child, is no longer open. I am to be chaste for my Master and He has commissioned a large ring through my urethral channel to prevent penetration. If until now, mother, you had indeed embraced my Master as my partner, these facts will have made those rosy ideas whither.

Oh, Mother, it is of necessity that I have become His. Don't think I have taken an easy way out by simply throwing my life away, into His hands. It is not easy at all, but it is my destiny.

I spent many of the years after I left home leading a conventional life, passing through college, taking a job, having boyfriends on the side - you know my story, you have met a few of them. Then I met Master and I quickly realised that He held my fate. I can't explain it, but I knew. His authority! No, my wits had not abandoned me. No, I was not desperate and flung myself at the first opportunity that came along. No, I did not jump at the opportunity He offered me at all.

I held back for almost a year as the fate entailed a radical chance, a goodbye to all that, and a hello to a difficult life, no matter how rewarding the guidance of my Master. I held out until my resistance to the desire for Him led me to the brink. Only then I finally did commit to Him. He then moved swiftly and collared me that same day. In the course of the few months that followed He marked my appearance as his. The marks are signs of my submission; no, tools to my submission to him.

I have graduated to be a ponygirl. When in action, my rear is plugged with a tail, my head is graced by a bridle, my mouth by a bit and I cannot speak. Mum, I pull his cart and carry my Master. I feel I hear you mutter, 'My dear, is this not demeaning?' But did you not slave for dad and 'carry' him, even if not literally? Are women not the men's donkeys?

Is my fate so much worse? To be a ponygirl is hard work, so much is certain, but it is also the pinnacle of submission, requiring high discipline. Submission equals the subordination of my free will to the will of the Master. Free will, what an overrated term! My will, mum, now exists with the sole aim to please him!

Because - to use this shocking word - I love him.

Totally and unconditionally.

Dear Mom, I implore you to accept me as I am. On the wings of your love. There is no alternative.

I send you mine,

Your Eve