Chapter Twenty-one: Crossing The Finish Line

The lights had come on at the raceway, an illuminating diamond necklace circling the dark throat of the sky, crystalline brilliance spilling downward to bathe the track in a phosphorescent cloud of tamed fire.

Perched on the edge of his seat, Joey shook like a malaria victim, the fever of success and the foreboding chill of failure alternately sweeping through his body. His quest for the Chiron Cup would be decided by this last fledgling class race.

On his right, Edmund Dirks sat as relaxed as though he was sitting for a portrait. His posture of repose was a well-practised cover. Within himself, the manager of Kyner Stables was feeling a high sense of excitement. His entries had run extremely well this meet, already garnering him enough points to require Mitchell to finance this year's trip to Tahiti. A win by the number six horse would be the proverbial frosting on the cake; assuring his young friend of taking home the Chiron Cup he so coveted.

Over the past three weeks Dirks had come to be very fond of Joey and not just as a current and potentially continuing client. Joey had been unafraid to dive head first into the deep waters of racing and, perhaps because of his initial ignorance, had been a quick and avid pupil, one who could easily prosper in the sport.

Despite his early shyness this morning, he had acquitted himself well in the social jungle that was the Squire's Parlour, to the point that Mrs. Satran had made certain discreet "inquiries" about Joey's "domestic situation" on behalf of her daughter Sophia.

Even the failure of his other pony to perform in an adequate manner had done little to alter Joey's expressed enjoyment of the day. But finally, and understandably, his nerves were showing.

Wordlessly, the stable manager placed a calming hand on the shoulder of his nervous charge, only to have it shook off as a horse shakes off a nagging fly.

"I'm fine Edmund. I'm not going to pass out or throw up. Well, at least I'm not going to pass out," Joey said, a tense smile teasing its way across his face.

"Did you know, Joseph, that I did exactly that once," Dirks asked, smiling in return.

"Did what?"

"Regurgitate at an awkward moment. It was more than 30 years ago, just before the first horse I had ever trained on my own ran. I was an eager apprentice trainer with Pavicji's at the time. The stewards were probably a minute from bringing the horses out on to the track and I was needlessly giving final instructions to the driver. In the middle of warning him he needed to use a light hand on the whip with this particular filly, the butterflies in my stomach won their freedom and I vomited right onto the seat of the sulky."

Laughter burst out of Joey like a jack-in-the-box.

"Go right ahead and laugh young man. I can assure you that, at the time, I found nothing humorous in the situation. And, since there was not enough time to clean up my spewings before the race, well, let us just say that while he has forgiven me, Mitchell has never forgotten the incident nor has he let me forget."

"The Mitchell MacHale you introduced me to this morning, that Mitchell? He used to be a driver and you puked into his seat before a race? Edmund, I can't believe it. You actually upchucked and he had to sit in it for the entire race?"

"It was worse than that. Lev Pavicji was not going to trust his best prospect to an untried team, so the filly he gave us was not particularly fast, although in the class she was entered in she did not have to be. Despite the distracting circumstances Mitchell found himself in, he did win the contest although it was a very slow race. Mitchell was quite distressed at the end," continued Dirks, noting to himself that the conversation was serving its purpose, as Joseph had quit shaking and seemed to be regaining his composure.

"But your horse won, the one the two of you trained. So what if he had to sit in puke. He won right?"

"Ah Joseph, even though Mitchell and I were a team, during the months of training of the filly we also became friendly competitors for the favours of a young woman, the daughter of the horse's owner, Ami Raineau. Let us just say that when the time came for Ami to drape the Mums and Mallows over Mitchell's head his rather malodorous condition did nothing to commend him to her good graces. Nor, once she became aware of it, did the fact that I was responsible for Mitchell's less than savoury aroma as she bestowed his brow with a kiss, add to my charm."

Even as he told his story, Edmund's mind called forth memories of the Haitian-born scion of the French horse breeder. Her dark flashing eyes. The soft dusky nape of her neck, always awash in yielding velvet brown curls, ringlets sliding this way and that as she strode past the stalls. When she knew they were watching, the way she adopted the firm carriage and gait of a military cadet, shoulders thrown back to accentuate her small, pert breasts, an extra effort made to call attention to the twin half moons of her rolling buttocks packed so tightly into their denim covering.

How she looked at them, a heady mixture of affection and indifference, joy and humour, innocence and concupiscence. The way she would smile at he and Mitchell, always with a casual touch as she glided past. Sometimes, if there were no observers, the touch would go beyond casual; a bolder, lingering brush with more than a hint of promise to it. Promise that had never been redeemed.

Oh Ami, you deserved a better fate than the one which found you. Damn you Travis, damn your soul and damn me for my weakness. We've all paid the bill for my cowardice.

Returning to the present, Dirks chided himself for lapsing into melancholy. He'd quit being mastered by his emotions years ago and had no desire to return to that particular servitude. Being around his young client had brought with it the "gift" of remembrance of things past, a very mixed blessing to say the least. Best to concentrate on the next race and leave the past where it belonged.

Back in the paddock, Cort Szeman busied himself in the corner making last moment adjustments to the sulky. That was his job, that and getting the most out of the pony once they were on the track. The task of getting the pony ready for this final race belonged his partner, Beven Vass.

Holding Terri's head in his hands, Bevan tilted her head upwards, forcing their gazes to meet. "See my little pony, I told you that you would run harder and faster and stronger than any other pony on the track and you have. You've done well. But you're not done yet. There's one more finish line to cross."

Determination burned in the filly's eyes like the fire of candles in a darkened shrine. Cort wouldn't need to use his whip, Bevan judged, this pony's desire and longing to prove her worth would be goad enough. Crouching down, the trainer began a massage with the stable's own enervating gel, a combination of amino acids, minerals and vitamins in a special, fast-penetrating base, his hands rubbing her legs in an unconscious mimicry of a chef coating a piece of meat with oil before placing it in the oven.

The yellow goo would give her a short-term energy boost by neutralising some of the build-up of lactic acid and ketones during the race as well as replacing lost potassium and magnesium. Kyner Stables believed in taking every advantage they could get.

As he reached the top of her thighs, Bevan's craggy face was split by a small smile. The new dark cotton knickers the pony was wearing to help prevent chafing was already stained by a sharp, tangy dampness, a sure sign of her readiness for the race and for other things as well. With a final slap on her ass, he turned the pony over to her driver.

An allegro roll of the drums followed by an equally quick arpeggio from a solitary bugle announced the final competition for the fledgling class. Nine ponies were led to the starting line but Joey's attention was riveted on only two entries, his pony and the cinnabar-clothed number eight pony. With the withdrawal of the number three pony due to a pulled hamstring, the competition for the Cup had come down to these two fillies. Whichever one won would win the Cup.

Conscious thought had abandoned Terri, replaced by raw surging sensations. The feel of the reins lying loosely against her back, the almost palpable presence of the crowd, the tense breathing of the ponies and their drivers punctuated by the creaking of the sulkies as the animals and drivers shifted for the best advantage, the acrid putrescence of a nervous fart from the pony next to her. These had become the boundaries of Terri's world.

At the centre of this world, the core of her being, was the need to achieve victory over the red-hued pony, the pony that had already beaten her today, the pony she couldn't lose to again.

For Decima Reis it was a different story. Alarm was cutting through her mind like a knife through flesh. Her focus was not on the race, only the consequences of losing it. Unlike the other entries, she wasn't an "impermanent" with a guaranteed right of reversion to human status when the race was done, she had to win this race to do that. Lose and she would be a human equine for life. She realised that now, realised it later than she should but not too late. She could still get herself out of this. One last win, there was no other option.

Remember your mantra, Cort told himself. The race doesn't begin at the starting line. The race isn't won at the finish line. It's won somewhere along the course. Look for the advantage and take it.

Your pony is spirited. She'll want the lead right way so keep her reined in. Get her out well, but not too quickly. Get her comfortable and moving through the field. Go with her strengths. And watch out for the number eight pony, she's finally realised what's at stake, look at her eyes.

That number eight pony will need to get away or at least be within a length of the leader to win. She lacks discipline otherwise she wouldn't be in this fix in the first place. So she won't pace herself, she'll be flying from the start, challenging the others to keep up. This is gonna be a frantic over-distance sprint, can't get too far behind but gotta make sure my pony has something left for the sixth lap at the end. And keep in tight on the curves.

Cort's mental instructions to himself ended with the sharp report of the starting gun. Shoulder to shoulder the nine human fillies began their first circuit of the track.

By second lap each slap of her feet on the cinders sent pain shooting through Terri's arches, ankles and the bones of her shins. The pain didn't bother her, it reminded her of the essence of her needs: breathe, stride, breathe, stride, a comforting rhythm. When she needed to do something more her master would tell her.

In the lead, Decima felt heady confidence rise in her like wine filling a goblet. This was her race, easier to run than her last cross-country race when she'd won her third championship, no hills here, just a nice flat surface. She'd blow these other bitches off the track; they couldn't keep up with her on the best day they ever had.

A few more minutes and she'd be free. No more threat of conversion hanging over her head; she'd be able to live her life again. She'd show them all; that prissy cunt who called herself a coach, the one who'd pretended to be Decima's friend and then gave her scholarship to another girl just because her grades slipped a little. That fat foul-breathed bastard of a boss who's framed her and turned her in to the cops when she wouldn't put out for him. He wanted to be paid back. She'd play him back plenty once this was over, just not in either of the currencies he wanted. And that judge that had sentenced her. Butter wouldn't melt in his mouth when he did this to her. Acted like he was doing her a favour by sentencing her to this hell. Well Decima Reis would have the last laugh on all of them; she'd use their bloody precious Cup to store her tampons in, that'd fix 'em.

Even as her driver yanked back on the reins to slow her down, Decima picked up her pace. Run, run as fast as you can. You can't catch me, I'm even quicker than the gingerbread man.

By the fourth lap, muscles were turning to rubber. The distance between the field had widened. On top by six lengths, seemingly unaffected by the pace she had been setting, was the number eight pony. Decima's thighs were scissoring past each other like a finely tuned clockwork automaton. It was an illusion.

Her head restrained, Decima's field of view was limited to what was ahead of her. She felt like the fox and the hound at same moment. So close to the end, so near to winning but she couldn't tell where she stood in the race. She tried to ignore the feeling of anxiety that was watering her wine but her mind kept focusing on what was behind her. Who is still with me? Who might make a break? Should I give it all I've got left now or wait until the last lap?

As they neared the backstretch of the fifth circuit, Cort noticed the lead pony's strides were getting shorter, her feet coming off the track just a little less with each step. She was beginning to falter. Time to go, Cort decided, intuition supplanting planning. Come around the clubhouse turn on the rail and take off like holy hell. For the first time in the race he used the whip.

The bite of the whip jolted Terri like electricity, energising every fibre of her being. Faintly she could hear her master yelling, "This is it baby, Let's go. One revolution left, one more time around the track, one more lap for it all. The hay is in the barn. Come on, the hay is in the barn. Burn her up baby, make that crimson bitch just another cinder on the track. Be tough now, be tough." The whip cracked again.

Terri gathered herself together, drawing a rush of determination from deep inside her. Sweat danced off her body, surrounding her with a salty fog of her own making. Her pace increased, her strides grew longer and her senses began to shut down. She felt nothing but her heartbeat, heard nothing but her breath, saw nothing but the dancing raspberry plume growing larger in front of her with each step.

The marathon had become a dash, one final revolution of merciless burning, a war of sinew and nerves, a contest where runners never caught their breath and where courage as much as strength would determine the winner.

Even as each breath she took laid heavy as cement on her lungs, even as streams of pulsating fire flowed through every muscle, Terri pushed forward, slowly closing the gap between her and her opponent. Pain didn't matter. Exhaustion didn't matter. Crossing the finish line first was what mattered.

Horror was surging through Decima's mind like flood waters through a gorge, drowning all her training. She didn't have to see, she could feel a pony coming up behind her. Ignoring the shouts of her driver, the scorpion stings of the crop, Decima began to panic.

She couldn't lose this race, she couldn't. She wanted to be a person, not a horse. Oh please, she was sorry for all she'd done; sorry for not studying, sorry for taking the money; she'd do anything, make amends to everyone, even let her boss have his way with her and film it if she just won this race. Each thought, each regret, each promise took the pony further off her pace. Decima's very humanness was betraying her, sabotaging her frantic efforts to keep it.

Less than a length separated the two fillies as they boiled around the far turn. The cinnabar entry gave up her attempt to maintain the racing pace she was taught. With a little leap, Decima went into her cross-country form, changing her stride and swinging her arms in unison with her legs. As she did so the sulky began to shudder.

The number eight pony's previous stubbornness had caused each of her wrist cuffs to be tightly chained to the handles of the sulky, standard treatment for a hard to control "hothead." There wasn't any slack to allow her arms to move freely. She'd forgotten that. Her body thrown off kilter, Decima stumbled, her attempts at recovery hindered by the chains that bound her. Her legs stretched backwards in an attempt to stay vertical, her boots losing their purchase on the track. For a second she was poised as though performing a classical arabesque for the crowd. As it must, balance bowed to gravity and Decima crashed to the ground, her knees digging furrows in the cinders as she dangled suspended from the sulky by her chains.

Cort didn't even need to use the whip. As the cinnabar pony struggled to regain her footing his filly surged forward as though her blood were pure adrenaline, the race hers.

In the owner's box, Joey was as fired up as the main pit at a company barbecue. He'd won, he'd won the Chiron Cup. But, even as he turned to Dirks, his excitement proved to be as brittle as thin glass. For there was one horse between Terri and the finish line, Crowbait.

The back of the "black hood" horse was covered with flowing red streams from the vicious slashes of her driver's sjambok, each downward stroke having peeled off another layer of skin and muscle. Never meant to win the race, the black silk collar around her neck marked her to hang for the pleasure of the spectators at the end of the event. Already lapped twice by the rest of the field, Crowbait was staggering, tasked beyond endurance by what would be her last race.

Every tug on the traces momentarily tightened the silk, asphyxiating a body whose lungs were already fighting for each thin, whistling breath. Bitter tears leaked from her eyes, descending like raindrops to bathe her crushed soul. Crowbait was aware of what awaited her, each step taking her closer to the end.

In a way she welcomed it, the promise of surcease from a life gone dark and decayed. Once she had been a teacher in high school. Always good at running, she had even coached the girls track team. But teaching didn't pay very well and her perennially out of work father had four other children to support. A broker looking for talent had seen her at a meet. She made the mistake of beating her all-state runner in a match race. A month later the offer he placed before her father more than tripled what she would earn in a career of teaching. Two days for the paperwork to clear and she was in a stall, branded and undergoing her first conversion treatment.

For a time some of her team and her students had come to her races. Some of her students, much older now, were probably mixed in among the crowd eagerly anticipating her providing them with a final entertainment, getting their long sought revenge for her strict classroom discipline and grading, even if it was by proxy.

Flashes of that earlier existence still haunted her memories. Knowledge inappropriate for a horse would impinge on her equine awareness. Even now, slowly shuffling toward the end, her mind kept repeating a line from Shakespeare's Anthony and Cleopatra "The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch, which hurts, and is desired."

Irritated by her slow pace, her driver struck out with the sjambok, each blow sending up a fountain of red, viscous blood, blood which flew into Terri's eyes as she passed. Momentarily blinded by the burning of her eyes and unable to clear them, it was Terri's turn to stumble.

The curses which came from Cort's mouth were both inventive and terrible. There was little he could do to help. He was saddled with a pony who couldn't see to run. "Don't worry about where you're going. I'll guide you. Just respond to the reins. The reins," he yelled pulling her back to the right.

Other drivers besides Cort knew to look for the advantage and take it, including the driver of the number two pony. Seeing Terri's trouble, he took his shot at what might be his only win of the day.

Pulling out, he put his tired pony into a full flat-out sprint. It would either be feast or famine; the effort he was asking of his pony wouldn't leave her with any reserves. If his pony didn't cross the finish line ahead of everyone else, it would finish well out of the money. It was a gamble but sometimes chance favours the audacious.

The final half furlong of the race was the most exciting of the meet.

The cobalt blue livery of the number two pony pulled on top, first by a half and then by a full length. Close behind Terri tried to let Cort's strong hands on the reins guide her to victory. But she couldn't stop shaking her head to purify her eyes, each twitch forcing a small course correction by Cort, each correction costing them precious ground.

For his part, Cort felt as though he had swallowed a handful of razor blades. He'd never been faced with this situation before, driving a sightless pony down the track. His filly was doing as much as he could ask of her, the key would be whether her flowing tears diluted the blood enough to give her any vision, even blurred, before the end of the race.

The two ponies thundered down the homestrech, unaware that Decima had recovered and, her very existence at stake, was closing in on the leaders. It was suddenly a three-pony race.

Eyelids feeling as though they were held open by needles, Terri's sight had begun to return, the pony in front of her represented by a smudge of blue, a smudge that was becoming more distinct as the gap was closed.

The yells of the drivers in front and behind of him rang in Cort's ears. There was nothing he could do now, no trick to pull out of his bag. It was all resting with his pony.

A burst of light as bright as noon greeted Terri as she crossed the wire. The tote board told the tale: INQUIRY, INQUIRY, INQUIRY running in a crawl across its surface.

It took the judges fifteen minutes to decide the order of finishing; fifteen minutes where the ponies couldn't leave the track; fifteen minutes that seemed like fifty before the numbers bloomed incandescently for the crowd to see.

2 - 6 - 8 ... 2 - 6 - 8 ... 2 - 6 - 8 ... 2 - 6 - 8

Working on a farm or a ranch was dangerous. Bad things happened with frequency and not just to the livestock. Farmhands, at least the ones who wanted to stay employed, quickly learned to shelve their emotions and calmly deal with whatever situation presented itself.

As the blinking numbers seared his eyes, the young owner discarded his hopes like letters from an old lover. Commanding his churning stomach to behave, he took a deep breath and accepted the truth the tote board revealed.

His pony had placed, just a hand's breadth behind the winning pony. The driver of the blue pony had won his gamble and the race with it. Decima took the show position, two feet out of second, two and a half feet away from continuing as a human being.

Dirks turned to Joey who was still staring at the results. "We could ask for an another inquiry Joseph, even though it was accidental the blood from the black hood entry did interfere with your pony. The judges might be inclined to see it that way."

With effort, Joey composed himself and turned to face the stable manager. "Edmund, you've told me class is winning with a smile, losing with a grin. I admit it takes a little bit of doing," he said, the smile of a man with a migraine plastered on his face, "more than it would if I had won. The fact is that I didn't win. But I gave it my best effort and that's all I can do."

"Men are ever the sport of circumstance, Joseph. Fate is the helmsman of the ship of life."

"It's funny, my dad says the very same thing although his version is a little more compact and earthy."

"Really," asked Dirks, one eyebrow canted into a inverted V. "What is it your father advises?"

"Shit happens," Joey responded with an almost straight face, coaxing a laugh like a seal's bark out of his mentor.

"Your father is a wise man, Joseph. He has it exactly right. Shit does indeed happen. I am just sorry it happened to you this time."

"Nothing to be sorry about. Like I said, we gave it our best shot. I just hope I didn't cost you your bet with Mitchell. I'm sure Tansy'd be sorry if she didn't see you in Tahiti this year."

"No worries mate, she'll be right," said Dirks, dropping into an Australian accent. "Mitchie had Buckley's Chance this year. It's his shout."

"Edmund, I've never heard you speak anything other than the proper King's English. What was that?"

"Strine. Tansy's an expatriate shelia from Australia and even after all these years on Tahiti she still speaks pure strine. When she feels herself slipping she goes back to Kalgoorlie, her sister runs a hotel there. It is impossible to spend any significant amount of time with Tansy without slipping into the vernacular. Both Mitchell and I speak fairly fluent strine."

This time Joey's smile was warmer and more natural. "Well, I'm glad you'll have the chance to renew your relationship with Tansy. I'm literally riding shank's mare on the companion front for awhile. If I remember right, you said it'd be a day or so before my ponies would be able to talk again, about a week before most of the conditioning wore off. That leaves me on my own until then."

An idea presented itself to Dirks, if Joseph was without company perhaps he would be open to some socialising with the "horsey" set.

"Mr. Geryon, there is a traditional dinner and dance which takes place the evening following the close of the races. For many years it was a black tie affair as befits the sport of kings. The less stuffy among us finally convinced the celebration committee to adapt to our changing times. It is now a more casual affair, although sports coats and slack are the minimum acceptable attire for men. I know there will be a number of unattached ladies at the event tomorrow night. Perhaps even some semi-attached ladies without escorts. While it is by invitation only, I can bring a guest. Would you care to attend?"

"Mr. Dirks, I believe I would be delighted. I won't lie to you. It's been a tense time and I could use a little relaxation."

"Good on ya, mate. That's bonzer. We'll crack a tinnie or two we will. Maybe root a coupla sheilas too."

An hour after the race results were official Decima Reis' descent into madness began. Instead of being returned to the paddock, she was taken directly into the stables. Already in restraints from the race there was little she could do to prevent it. Attempts to go limp were countered by the creative overuse of a cattle prod, as her handlers found every excuse to wield the electric rod against her moist flesh.

She found herself guided along a spalled cement passageway, its craters and crevices filled with straw and dirt. Stalls lined either side. Some of the occupants turned their heads as she went by, their eyes full of apprehension and pity. These were the impermanents, ponies who would regain their human status now that the race was over and they knew what was awaiting her.

The other occupants paid her little heed. They were true human equine and had little awareness of Decima's plight.

Two steel doors marked the end of the corridor, one painted white, the other black. Decima's groom unlocked the white door and, with a mocking flourish, waved the terrorised girl through.

The entire room was made of concrete, blocks for the wall, smooth slabs for the floor and ceiling. All were starkly painted in white as though the chamber had been designed by the set director for THX 1138. Failing florescent bulbs on the ceiling gave off flickering illumination adding to the eeriness of the setting.

In the centre of the room was a waist high platform, its top about 18 inches wide and four feet long. The broad sides of the platform sloped out from the top some six or seven inches on their way to floor. A variety of stainless steel rings were positioned in various locations along the expanse of the sidewalls.

On one side of the platform stood a white enamelled cart of the kind often seen in hospital. Its cold surface supported several jars, various metal and plastic implements, towels and a box of tissues. On the other side of the platform was an ordinary charcoal barbecue, the glowing coals inside its basin already coated with grey.

There was no metal grill on the barbecue, simply a long metal rod with a Bakelite handle on one end, the opposite end stuck deep into the coals.

Her face contorted into a devil's mask, Decima tried to scream but only noise that passed through her vibrating throat sounded like the rattle of dead grass rustling in a hot August wind. Her body began to thrash from side to side as she engaged in a final, desperate attempt to alter her inescapable future.

Uncoiling himself from the corner where he was standing, Travis Gordon strode over and stood before the struggling girl. Impassively he watched for a few moments as she tried to tear herself from the grasp of her captors. At his nod she was released.

Quick as a snake but with less warning, one stubby hand flew forward to violently punch Decima in the stomach, his grunt of exertion matching hers as the air exploded from her body. Even as the girl battled to fill her empty lungs, Gordon's other hand grabbed a handful of the girl's hair, yanking her head up with a force that rolled her eyes back in her head.

Without mercy he smashed his hand across her face, left cheek, right cheek, left cheek, right cheek. The four callous blows left Decima dazed, her ears ringing, her mouth spewing out a mixture of blood and saliva. Releasing his prey, Gordon stood back as she slumped bonelessly to the floor.

Using a towel from the cart to wipe the blood from his grey skin, Gordon nodded to himself in satisfaction. This conversion was off to a good start. He never used drugs on the first day, that was for amateurs, people who didn't know what they were doing and wouldn't have the spine to do it if they did. Physical punishment was the key to breaking their spirit. Beating them until they gave in made for a better foundation for the conversion than chemicals did. Besides it was more fun too.

Once again entangling his fingers in her hair, Gordon lifted upwards, the girl rising like a broken marionette. As she neared the apogee of her ascent, Gordon's hairy hand flew forward, burying itself in the folds of her abdomen. With exquisite timing that bespoke much experience, Gordon dropped her to the floor seconds before she began to vomit.

Lying in an acrid puddle, tears flowing from her eyes, pain as she had never felt before coursing through her, Decima could hear someone droning on above. A sharp kick to her ribs turned her over on her back, concentrating her attention on the voice. She just wanted everything to stop.

"Here's the drill. Your days as a person are over. Get used to it. You're chattel now, just another dumb animal. No rights whatsoever," he said stopping to give her another kick, this time to the sole of her foot.

"You're no longer human, you lost that privilege when you lost the race. You are a possession, mine now while I help you get your mind right, someone else's once they buy you." He stopped his speech to place his foot firmly on her forehead.

"I could fracture your skull right now and no one would care. I could turn you over and hold your face in your puke until you died and no one would care. You live to obey and you obey to live. Your only value is in your obedience. If you're disobedient, you have no value. If you have no value there's no reason to keep you alive." Gordon took his foot off her face.

"You're lucky even if you don't know it. Things like you usually end up as just another slaughtered cow that wasn't good for anything else. But you have a little talent. You can run. With the right training you might make a halfway decent filly. You'd have to be a hell of a lot more disciplined then you were today though. Well animal, you've got one more choice to make, it's literally the last choice you'll make in your life. Here it is.

"You're going to stand up and hold still while the groom cleans you up. Then you're going to walk over to the platform. Once there you will spread your legs and put a foot on each side. The groom will chain your feet to the walls. When your feet are secured you're going lay face down on the platform. The groom will strap you down but your hands will still be free and your head will be hanging off one end while your ass is hanging off the other.

"I will walk over and you will take my cock in your mouth. You'll want to get it as wet as you can because when I take it out of your mouth I'm going to walk behind you. When I slap your ass you will reach back with your hands and spread your ass cheeks apart. Then I'm going to ram my cock up your asshole as hard and as fast as I can and the only lubrication on my dick will be what you've put there with your mouth."

"Once I've shot my wad you will continue to hold those cheeks apart while I brand you. You'll probably pass out once the iron hits your flesh and that's OK. Flesh that burns when it's branded doesn't smell anywhere near as delicious as roast cooking in a hot oven. When you come to we'll pierce those nipples, put rings though them, one will have your identity tag and then take you back to your stall.

"Now you're probably thinking your choice is whether or not to do this. That's wrong, animal. You will do all of these things. Your choice is to make things easier on yourself by being a good, docile obedient animal the first time you're told or to make me beat you until you become one. Frankly, I hope you decide not to obey right away. Then I not only get the pleasure of butt-fucking you, I can get my rocks off a couple of times while I'm punishing you. That way the butt-fucking lasts even longer.

"Make your choice animal, you've got 30 seconds."

Alone, helpless Decima found her mind had turned to a frigid Arctic landscape covered with fierce alabaster ice fields, pitiless whirling storms scouring her identity clean leaving behind a blank waiting to be imprinted with a new personality. Obedience would make the pain stop. And she was so tired, tired of fighting with everyone and everything.

Shattered, the new chattel rose tremblingly to her feet, her time as a horse truly beginning.

Terri rose to the creaking of the neighbouring stall door as it slid open. During her time at Kyner Stables the lubrication-deficient door had become her morning alarm. She went though her daily routine, stretching to relax stiff and tender muscles, standing on tiptoe to gaze through the bars on her window.

Outside her stall the rising sun was just cresting over the horizon, a hint of chilly dawn still lingering in the air. Clouds pink and dusty danced across the sky. Familiar sounds greeted her ears, the snapping of leather, the jingling of metal, the soft cries of the ponies and the harder, more insistent commands of their trainers. Kyner Stables was waking up.

As she had been trained, the young filly stood next to her door awaiting its opening. She wore the standard workout livery for Kyner Stables, a simple outfit composed of loose fitting smock and shorts in a drab shade of poppy.

But this day was different. On this day the door would not open with the others. No handlers would come for Terri. There would be no morning workout in the exercise yard, no soothing massage afterwards.

Standing there Terri was puzzled. Was her master mad at her? Had she failed him? What was wrong? How could she make it right? Then she remembered, her time as a horse was coming to a close. The question was, does it have to?

Searching her soul as she had never done before, Terri Gudman realised nothing she has done in her life; nothing she has had done to her; has given her as much pleasure, joy, and fulfilment as the last few weeks had.

For years, in situation after situation, she never really believed that she belonged. Instead she thought of herself as a clown at the ballet, a jazz clarinettist in a symphony orchestra, a shadow without a body.

Fragmentary, incomplete and unfinished, Terri had sought fulfilment through many avenues, work, marriage, sport fucking. Until now all had left her empty, kept her yearning for something more, something solid and real.

This was that something.

Being under the guidance and protection of a strong master, one who saw her beauty and worth, had made her complete. She would die before she gave that up.

Suffused with happiness, Terri chose her life as a horse.