Brenda, or Raven as she was known to those around her, woke up and noted that the soreness on her right buttock had decreased almost to the point of disappearing. When Cornelius McGillicuddy III, who had told her she was a ponygirl and he was her owner, had his minions brand her there with his monogram, the pain had been so excruciating, she had fainted. Maybe even worse were, the crackling sound made by her skin as it was turned to ashes and the odor of her own charred flesh, which were still such vivid memories, she expected to retain them for the rest of her life.

Since the branding, Raven had been allowed to rest and recuperate. She didn’t know exactly how long ago the mark had been burned into her, because there was no way to keep track of time, but she guessed it had been a little more than two weeks.

She got to a sitting position on the edge of her mattress by pulling on the chain that connected the manacles on her wrists to the track on the ceiling, and from there she stood up. The first thing she needed to do was to go over to the drain and urinate. Maybe McGillicuddy or some of his men were watching as she took care of that very personal need, and maybe they weren’t. She had no way of knowing, and had stopped caring on her second day of her enslavement. Far worse offenses had been committed against her, especially the branding, and the lack of privacy was well down the list of any complaints that she would have voiced, had she been able to do so.

Much higher on such a list would have been the leather collar, leash and bridle and the wooden bit she was forced to wear at all times, except when being washed and groomed or eating. Also high on the list would have been the shiny black tail that was attached to a butt plug that was wedged in her ass and held there by her anal sphincter. It was always in place except for the one time a day when it was removed and she was given a powerful enema to empty her bowels. After that very thorough internal cleansing, her body was carefully washed, contributing greatly to the erotic fun of the men who performed the task and got to stroke and fondle her pussy and breasts and other parts of her voluptuous body to their hearts’ content. Those sexual liberties taken by them and others would have been the basis of another complaint she expected to never have a chance to make.

Except for the leather bridle and collar and her tail and the hoof-gloves, which were laced high on her forearms, she was completely naked, because that was the normal state of a pony. Her status was constantly impressed on her by her self-styled owner and his minions, and this had been done since her abduction. For the first part of her captivity, she had worn a small saddle, and the first phase of her training had been walking on her hands and knees with her owner or a small guest of his riding on her back. Raven had been told she was soon to start cart training, and that might have been why she no longer wore the saddle, but nobody had ever even mentioned it, and the bit in her mouth would have kept her from asking, even if she could have expected an answer.

She walked over to the metal basin that was filled with her drinking water and dipped her lips in to suck up water around the bit and into her mouth. The liquid was tepid, and not very refreshing, but it was the only thing she had to drink. Her water was clean, at least, because it was changed several times a day. After drinking, Brenda returned to her mattress and lay down to wait and see what that day might hold for her, and find out if it would partially relieve her boredom.

The mattress, placed there after her branding, was a small concession to her comfort; before it was provided, she had slept on the carpeted floor. Brenda lay on her left side and thought about what might happen that day. She expected McGillicuddy to come in and treat her sore buttock with the salve that had seemed to be working quite well at alleviating the pain, and she would be fed the bread and boiled vegetables that were her normal fare. Ponies didn’t eat meat or drink anything but water, so neither did pony girls. Part of her hoped something would happen after that, because Brenda felt she was going crazy from her boring existence, but the other part feared the change might include whipping and other kinds of punishment.

Something did happen; the door to the training room opened and her owner, accompanied by two of his men, walked in with the small black bag he almost always carried. Raven knew it would contain more of the salve that he applied to her brand twice a day and a bandage pad that would cover it.

“Good morning, Raven, my dear,” he greeted her. “I trust you slept well, and I hope the pain where I had to brand you has almost gone away.

The pony girl continued lying on her left side, but whinnied a response, knowing that cooperation would prevent or lessen the whipping and other physical abuse that she knew would result from any kind of sullenness or disobedience. Her owner set the black bag on the floor by the edge of the mattress and reached out to gently stroke the long, black mane that had been the inspiration for her pony girl name.

“You are truly beautiful, my dear,” he told her. “I believe you will be the finest pony girl in my stable after your training is complete. Maybe even the finest anywhere.”

Gingerly, he removed the thick bandage and touched the brand on Raven’s shapely buttock. “Let me know if this hurts.” When there was no response, he touched her with slightly more force, and was gratified when his pony girl expressed no discomfort. “It’s healing well,” he announced.

After carefully using a sterile pad to remove the leftover salve, McGillicuddy took a mirror from his bag. “Do you want to see what your brand looks like, my dear?” he asked, holding the mirror in place.

Out of curiosity, she did. Brenda looked at the reflection of the identifying mark on her creamy skin, and saw a dark pink block M, with a small c crossing its right leg. Because of the angle, she had never seen it before, but would always have starkly terrifying memories of the blazing head of the branding iron just before it was pressed against her helpless flesh. The mark it left, of course, was a mirror image of the metal head.

After a minute, the mirror was put back into the bag, and her owner applied the salve and replaced the bandage. “We will start your cart training today,” he announced to his chattel. “Right after breakfast, the men will be outfitting you with the new tack you’ll need.”

Brenda didn’t know whether to be happy about that or not. It would help to relieve her boredom, but she knew any training she underwent could be tiring and painful, depending on how much abuse was involved. She hoped it would be kept to a minimum, and resolved to try to do nothing that might result in having a whip or riding crop used on her tender body.

Minutes after their boss left, another of his minions brought in the trough with her nourishing but bland food and rinsed out her drinking basin before filling it with clean water. He removed her bridle and bit and washed off the latter before leaving. Picking up the lumps of food in her lips and pulling them into her mouth with her tongue, Brenda ate as a pony would have and sucked up fresh water as she had before. She could have moved the containers with her hoof-gloves but, since there were no individual digits, she would not have been able to pick up anything. When the meal was finished, she lay back down to wait for the handlers who would be putting on the new tack.

Two of them arrived, accompanied by McGillicuddy, and Raven quickly got to her feet, ready to cooperate in what needed to be done. As her owner watched, one of the goons bent over and tapped the ponygirl’s calf. When she didn’t respond, he hit her again, much harder the second time, and she realized what was wanted and raised her foot. He slipped on a leather boot that came almost to her knee and, when he tapped the other leg, Raven responded quickly and correctly.

With both boots in place, they were laced up tightly, and Brenda was shod for the first time since the night of her confinement. The black footwear matched the hoof-gloves she was wearing and was quite comfortable, well-padded inside and with thick soles and heels. She felt tall wearing them, but no more so than she had in the stiletto heels she favored before the old man claimed and took over ownership of her.

“Walk around a bit, my dear,” McGillicuddy instructed her.

She did as he told her, and found the boots to be quite heavy and realized the soles included metal horse shoes. “What else would a pony have on her feet,” Raven asked herself.

The bridle was slipped over her head next, and she opened her mouth to accept the bit, which was securely fastened to the metal rings. She knew what was expected of her after that, and bent over to let her owner pull her long, black hair out between the leather straps that made up the bridle, producing the flowing mane he admired so much. This was the only thing he ever did in her preparation, since her training had started. After he stepped away, Raven straightened up and saw a man waiting with a collection of straps and belts, and realized it was the harness she would wear and that would be connected to the cart she would have to pull.

Her wrists inside the hoof-gloves were still handcuffed and connected to the ceiling as they always were when she wasn’t being trained or used as a steed and, when directed, Brenda raised her arms. The harness was placed over her head and on her shoulders, with the upper strap resting on the slope of her succulent breasts. Taking his time and taking advantage of the opportunity to fondle her, one of McGillicuddy’s men buckled the second strap in place just below her breasts. The third and forth were fastened more quickly, as was the last and heaviest of the straps. It was actually a wide belt which rested right at the flare of her hips and ass, and Brenda wondered about the way it jingled while it was being placed there and securely buckled just above her mons.

Looking down, she saw there were several rings attached to the thick black leather and a single open manacle on either side. It was obvious that her wrists were to be held in place, and this was proven when the silent man released one hand at a time from the cuffs fastened to the ceiling and locked her wrists in place beside her hips. Raven made no attempt to prevent this from happening, because she knew that any such attempt would not keep her arms from being immobilized, might result in injury to them, and would almost certainly earn her a whipping as punishment. With the harness in place and her arms unable to move, the goon tweaked a soft, pink nipple, unwrapped her leash from around her neck and handed the end to his master, who took it and smiled at the beautiful creature he controlled.

“Raven, my dear, we will be outside for several hours for your training. You’d better go and empty your bladder before we leave, so you won’t need to do so while on the parade ground.”

The ponygirl took his suggestion, and he led her over to the drain, which she straddled when she crouched down to urinate while the three men watched. When she was done, her owner led her by the leash out to the grassy parade ground, where she had been on her hands and knees many times when she carried McGillicuddy or one of his guests who was seated astride her back with their feet in stirrups. At the edge of the grass was a light, two-wheeled carriage with a single seat and two wooden poles extending from the sides. Their ends were resting on the ground, and Raven realized she would be in between the poles, somehow connected to them by the metal rings that were attached to the heavy lowest belt of her harness.

There were two men beside the sulky, both of them standing, although there was an empty folding chair on the grass. One of them was one of her owner’s regular minions, and the other was a small, black haired man she had never seen before. With his size and his facial features, the stranger reminded Brenda of photos she had seen of Adolph Hitler, and she felt a foreboding. The feeling was amplified by the sight of a whip standing upright in a socket on the right side of the carriage, where the person on the seat could easily reach it and use it on whomever or whatever was between the poles. She couldn’t help but believe the man who looked like Hitler would use it freely.

Raven balked, but it was much too late for her to do anything. The two men half dragged and half carried her until she was standing between the wooden poles. The goon who had been waiting for her attached them to the rings on Raven’s harness while the small man, who had taken a seat on the sulky, watched impatiently. When she was securely in place, the reins were clipped to her bridle and the free ends of the long leather strips were handed to the driver. With preparations complete, he turned to Cornelius McGillicuddy III who had sat in the folding chair and was watching the preparations.

“Any special instructions, Mr. Mack?” he asked.

“She’s new. This is her first time pulling a cart. Don’t whip her any more than you have to.”

“I’ll use the whip as much as I have to, but no more. I believe free use of it teaches these ponygirls their place, especially the new ones.”

Having expressed that opinion, the driver turned his attentions to the ponygirl who would be pulling him around the track. Although her gorgeous ass was bare and no more than three feet in front of him, he was all business and ignored her beauty. “Giddyup!” he shouted, and punctuated his command with a backhand swing of his whip, slashing Raven’s left thigh.

It was the first time Brenda had been whipped for many days, and it caught her by surprise. When she failed to start forward immediately, the driver used the whip on her again, this time a forehand stroke across the pad covering the brand on Raven’s right buttock. The pain was intense.

“Don’t whip her there!” McGillicuddy yelled. “Her brand isn’t healed yet and you might damage the scab.”

The driver apparently heeded the order, because he didn’t slash her in that particular spot, but his whip whistled through the air two more times and gave the ponygirl another red welt on either of her thighs, until she began stumbling forward. It was hard to do, with the heavy hoof-boots and with her arms pinned to her sides. Until that instant, she had never realized how much she used her arms while walking.

“Strut, you dumb cunt! Don’t you know how to strut!?” The driver’s question ended with a hard overhand cut of his whip that landed on one of the ponygirl’s creamy white buttocks.

McGillicuddy had been impassively watching the start of the training session. He had no objection to his ponygirls being whipped when they needed it, and he sometimes did it himself, although he was concerned with the looks of his brand, once it had healed. However, he did come to Raven’s defense after the driver shouted his question.

“No, she doesn’t. I told you she was new. Nobody has shown her yet.”

The driver leaned back in his seat. “Okay, then one of you show her how to do the ponygirl strut, and we’ll start over.”

That chore fell to the youngest of the three goons, who stepped in front of Raven. “Like this,” he told her, raising one leg so his thigh was parallel to the ground and bringing it down with a thump, followed by doing the same thing with his other leg. “Keep strutting like this until the driver tells you to stop.” He did it a few more times in place, and repeated the strut as he passed in front of her and rejoined his coworkers.

Knowing what was expected of her, and not wanting to be whipped anymore, Raven prepared to start forward again. As soon as the driver’s order came, she stepped off, raising her leg high as she had been shown. At parades, Brenda had seen drum majorettes marching in a similar way, and she believed she could match those girls. It was gratifying to her that she was not struck with the whip when she started.

Her luck didn’t last very long. After no more than a few hundred yards, the unaccustomed gait and the weight of the hoof-boots began to tell on her. She slowed down slightly, but picked up the pace again when the whip cracked across one thigh, followed by a matching slash across the other.

Keep a steady pace!” the driver shouted at her. “And keep strutting.”

Raven did as she was ordered, to the best of her ability, until more speed was demanded of her. She responded to the reins being flicked over her shoulders, after realizing what the signal meant, but that was not quick enough to satisfy the driver, and he slashed her twice more with his whip, this time on both her upper arms. The searing pain was terrible, but Brenda clamped her teeth more tightly on her bit and kept going, raising her thighs until they were parallel with the ground and thumping her feet the way she had been shown.

For hours, Raven strutted around the oval track, raising her legs and bringing her feet, in the heavy hoof-boots, solidly to the ground. Even as she neared total exhaustion, she kept marching forward, wanting to avoid, as much as possible, having the whip used on her. She was not completely successful in her effort, and the Hitler look-alike rained blows on her arms and legs and back and left buttock whenever she slowed or he even thought she might. Every time he lashed her, it felt to her skin as if a red hot wire had struck her, and she could see some of the welts the carriage whip was raising.

During her circuits of the track, she passed her owner several times, and saw how he was watching the abuse impassively, even when the whip whistled through the air and slashed her when she was no more than a few feet in front of him. It was obvious to Brenda that his idea of excessive whipping was much more than hers.

She tried her best, but the time came when Raven could go no farther. Her thighs felt like wood and their muscles rebelled, refusing to lift her hoof-boots any more. Despite repeated slashes of the whip on her legs, ass and arms, she could go no farther, and slowly collapsed to a kneeling position. Once she was down, and obviously not going to get up, the whipping stopped. The driver was good at his job, and he loved it, especially being able to freely use his beloved toy on the beautiful and sexy ponygirls, but he stopped punishing Raven when it was obviously doing no good except for providing him with sadistic pleasure.

Raven remained where she was for a few more minutes, her legs throbbing with agony and pain searing her body in all the places she had been slashed with the whip. No skin had been broken, but her body was striped with angry red marks, and every one of them was burning her skin and deeply into her body. Not since her branding had Brenda been in such agony, and this time she remained conscious. The man who had inflicted the myriad of lashes on her remained where he was, until two men came out to unfasten the ponygirl from the carriage and, once again, half carry and half drag her to where her owner still sat on his chair.

The driver approached the same man and expressed his opinion of his day’s work. “A good session, Mr. Mack. Raven is young and strong and beautiful, and I think she wants to please. She’ll make a fine cart pony after she develops her leg muscles. Will we be having another session tomorrow?”

“Yes, we will. I want to have her ready by the time the season starts.”

The driver returned to his quarters and Raven’s owner returned to the interior of his mansion, through the back door as he always did after a session with one of his ponygirls. His three goons followed one of them leading Raven by her leash, while she stumbled along behind them, managing to avoid falling down. When they reached the training room again, they unhooked her wrists from the belt and manacled her to the chain hanging from the ceiling again. After removing her tack, except for what she wore on her hands and feet and around her neck, they left her on her mattress.

Brenda lay down, but could not get comfortable. No matter how she lay, the contact between the bare mattress and any of the multitude of welts covering her arms and legs and ass sent pain throbbing through her body. She finally managed to lie supine, with her knees bent so her weight was supported on the soles of her feet and her shoulders, which had been covered by her harness and had escaped the lash of the sadistic driver.

She lay like that until it was time for her daily enema and washing, followed by eating more of her bland fodder. With her stomach full and her bit in place again, Raven watched while her owner approached and set down the small bag that she knew held the ointment that would be applied to the stripes that had been raised by the whip that day. She expected some relief from the burning pain that was throbbing through her body.

“Well, my dear,” the wizened man said, while stroking his chattel’s mane. We had an excellent day today. We’ll continue with your training tomorrow and, by the time we’re through, you’ll be the best ponygirl in my stable, maybe the best anywhere. Isn’t that exciting?”

Raven bobbed her head and whinnied her agreement. She could certainly think of better careers than being a beast of burden for the amusement of the old man and his cronies, but she thought it best to agree. She was still in agony from being whipped, and she knew there was ointment in the bag that would alleviate the pain somewhat. She watched as her owner pulled the zipper open and took out the jar.

Brenda was disappointed. The old man removed the covering from where her brand was healing and inspected the scab to assure himself no damage had been done from being struck with the whip. After satisfying himself it was healing peoperly, he treated the injury in the usual way, including covering it with a protective pad, closed the jar and replaced it in his bag. Nothing was done about the whip marks from that day, nor was any explanation offered for the omission.

That was when Brenda realized that, although he seemed at times to have some compassion, her owner cared nothing for her, except as a valuable chattel. To him, she was no more than livestock. He had watched her being practically raped by his employees and by one of his associates and had never chided any of them. Nothing was said to the jealous wife of that associate for the severe whipping she administered, although he had used the ointment to treat the painful welts that resulted. Because he wanted her brand to quickly heal to a perfectly formed scar, he treated her there, but he would do nothing about the pain from a whipping he had administered or that had been at his command. Apparently, McGillicuddy wanted the agony from her punishments to be left unabated as a reminder to her to be more obedient.

Until then, Brenda had tried to be a good ponygirl, and she would have to keep doing so, if she wanted to minimize the abuse she would be receiving in the foreseeable future. However, from that time forward, she would be on the alert for a chance to escape the hellhole where she was being held a prisoner for the perverted amusement of an evil old man and others like him. She didn’t know if the opportunity would ever arise, but she would be constantly alert, and take it if and when it did.