Brenda’s New Career
She endures her new life as a ponygirl

by George
- as inspired by the art of WITZ
- do not use without the author's permission.

For what she thought was probably about a week following her enslavement, Brenda’s life had been a monotonous and miserable routine. Her first night as the chattel of Cornelius McGillicuddy III had been spent trussed up painfully in what he called “The Training Room,” with her hands manacled above her head and chained to what she later learned was a track that ran around the ceiling of the large room. Since being cuffed that first night, her hands and arms had remained in the same position.

While the thuggish minions of the evil, foul-smelling old man had outfitted her almost nude body with a saddle and a bridle with a bit and attached reins, she had fought back the best she could. Brenda was big and young and strong, and had tried her best to punch and kick her tormenters, but to no avail. As punishment for that resistance, her ankles had been tied tightly to the backs of her thighs, and Brenda had spent the night in agony and, she believed, had come close to permanently losing the use of her legs.

The next day the bonds that held her ankles and thighs were loosened but more degradation was inflicted on the sexy and statuesque brunette. Her captor, who told Brenda he was now her owner, went on to inform her that she was his ponygirl, and the sooner she learned to accept that, the better off she and everybody else would be, and the less pain she would suffer.

To reinforce his perverted demands, he had the rest of her clothing ripped from her and a butt plug with an attached tail forced into her ass, where it was kept in place by her anal sphincter. Except for a once daily cleansing of her bowels by an enema, followed by carefully washing her body with warm water and mild soap, she had been forced to retain that symbol of her degraded status ever since it was forced into her. The initial insertion had been painful, and it had remained so for the next few days but, since then, she had adjusted to it, and docilely allowed it to be inserted in her again at the completion of her daily bathing. After a week, if she even noticed it all, it actually felt rather pleasant and erotic, although she didn’t ever expect to like it.

For hours, that first full day and every day since, she had been forced to walk, totally naked except for the ponygirl tack, on her knees, with her upper body supported by the chain that held her wrists to the track. Her self-proclaimed owner sat in the saddle, directed her with the reins attached to the bridle, and rode on her back all around the large room. If he thought she was too slow, he used his leather riding whip on her thighs and hips, raising several painful welts.

That first day had resulted in exhaustion and angry red marks on her soft, fair skin but, on subsequent days, Brenda learned how fast she needed to go to both conserve her strength and avoid more than the minimum of whipping. After a few days, her abuser started carrying a riding crop in lieu of the whip and seldom used it at all. When he did strike her, it stung, but not as much as the whip had, and did not leave any painful welts. Even those from her first days no longer hurt and their redness had almost faded.

One morning the routine changed. McGillicuddy and two of his men entered the training room where she had gotten a little sleep the night before. As always, she was on her knees and her hands were manacled and chained above her head. The chain that ran down from the ceiling was too short for her to lie down. Her captor was carrying the same small valise he always brought with him, and she knew it contained his riding crop, and probably some other implements of torture and abuse. Brenda was not interested in finding out what these other things were, because she knew they boded no good for her.

“Well, my dear,” he told her when he stood in front of her with two goons at his side. “You will be glad to learn that your ponygirl training is going quite well, and we will be starting a new phase today. I hope you enjoy it. I’m sure I will.”

Brenda was unable to reply because of the bit that was wedged between her teeth and connected to her bridle and reins. She always wore them except when being washed, and the bit was also removed when she was being fed her boiled vegetables and mush. She would not have been allowed to speak to him anyhow, except to express herself as a pony would. He set the small valise on the floor, opened it and removed two black objects. She didn’t know what they were, and didn’t want to find out, but she knew her wishes meant nothing to the three men who surrounded her. All she could do was glare at the evil old man and the two thugs who were there to protect him.

“I have some nice gloves here for you, my dear,” he told her as he brandished a pair of what looked like long, black, leather gloves.

That was a surprise to Brenda, and she didn’t know quite what to make of it. Looking at the gloves, she believed they would probably mean that she would be walking on her hands and knees instead of the way she had been doing. That would be less of a strain on her shoulders, which were usually in pain from her arms supporting his weight while being held in the unnatural position above her head. She surprised herself by feeling a brief flash of gratitude for what would be no more than a small easing of her hard life, but she knew she would never stop hating her captors for their treatment of her.

“Remove the cuffs,” the scrawny old man ordered his thugs.

While one of them held Brenda’s wrists, the other unlocked and removed the manacles, which were left hanging from the ceiling. Still holding her arms, they raised her to her feet, and either of them held one hand out to their boss, as he approached with the first of the gloves. She didn’t know what was about to happen, but she knew that any resistance was useless and, as long as the shriveled old man was able to have his fun, she would be comparatively safe from his henchmen.

None of the three men who worked for him had tried to rape her yet, but she was quite sure they wanted to, and any attempt would succeed, except that he was somehow preventing it. There had been quite a bit of fondling and patting, especially when bathing her, which was bad enough, but she was sure that complaining about it would have done no good, and might have invited their retribution, the way her struggles on her first night had.

When the man who claimed to be her owner started to slide the glove onto her hand and arm, it was loose, and Brenda saw that it had laces that would hold it in place. The strangest thing about it was the lack of fingers; it just became wider at the end and, when the tips of her fingers were close to that point, she felt a thick leather cylinder that extended from one side of the strange garment to the other.

“Wrap your hand around that leather if you don’t want to hurt your fingers,” her tormentor advised her. “You know, you are so beautiful, I would hate to see you get hurt in any way.”

Even if she could have said anything, Brenda would not have done so. A sharp retort would probably have resulted in a whipping, and she wanted to avoid that at all costs. She fully realized what the gloves were intended to represent. They were converting her hands into hooves, which would definitely mean that she would soon be carrying the little man on her back while walking on her hands and knees instead of knees only. Although the change would be a relief to her shoulders, she was certain that other dreadful things would soon be happening to her.

Once both hoof-gloves had been laced onto her hands and arms, with her fingers curled around the leather cylinders, Brenda looked at the ends. Although her upper arms were held tightly, she was able to bend her elbows enough to see that the new accoutrement ended in thick pads of leather that were shaped like horseshoes. She would still live in constant humiliation, but the physical pain might be less. She would also have a better chance of escaping if her arms were not constantly chained to the ceiling.

“I have something else her, my dear,” McGillicuddy told her. “I don’t want you hurting your sweet little knees either,” he continued as he removed a pair of kneepads from the valise.

Brenda wondered about the latest trappings. The floor of the training room was well carpeted and padded, and there would have been no previous need for them. She thought she might be taken outside, to be ridden there, and she didn’t know if that was good or bad. The fresh air would be nice, but it might mean being outside in the heat or cold or even having her nakedness put on display to other creeps and perverts. Whatever happened, there would be nothing she could do about it, so Brenda stood passively while the pads were buckled into place.

“Well, my dear, suppose we go for a little ride now.” He turned to his silent henchmen. “Saddle her up,” he ordered them.

As he spoke, her self-styled master tapped her leg lightly with the riding crop. Without being told, Brenda realized what that meant, and got to her hands and knees to wait to be prepared for mounting. As they did every day, the two men placed the saddle on her back, buckled it around her shoulders and cinched it around her waist, fondling her breasts as they also did every day.

The new hoof-gloves on her hands felt awkward, but she was sure it would be a relief to carry her master on her hands and knees instead of with her wrists chained to the ceiling. She stood docilely on all fours while he mounted her and patted her head. She really had no choice, because one of the ever-present goons was standing beside her and holding her leash, while the other man waited passively.

“Good girl,” he said. “Your training is really going well. Giddyup!”

Wanting to avoid being whipped, Brenda started forward. She was not used to walking on what amounted to her fists and knees, and she had to struggle somewhat to remain upright. When she felt a tug on the reins that her rider was holding, she obeyed and turned in the indicated direction, toward the side of the training room where the toilet and washing facilities were.

It was a wide, shallow porcelain basin set in the floor, and was where she was taken daily for her enema, followed by moving her bowels, followed by her hand washing by some of her master’s men. The track in the ceiling led to it, and she had been able to walk over and use it to urinate as needed, if she was alone or even when there were men in the training room with her. Whatever modesty Brenda may have felt about such intimate things had been crushed by her enforced nakedness and the daily enemas and having her body intimately washed by men who also touched her wherever and whenever they wanted.

“Do you need to use the facilities?” her rider asked. “We’re going outside where there are none available, so you’d better use it now or hold it quite a while until we return.” Brenda shook her head, and he commanded her to start forward again and pulled on her rein to direct her back to the center of the room.

“You know, my dear, I’ve been thinking of what your name should be. We can’t keep calling you Brenda, because that’s a woman’s name and you’re my pony now. I’ve decided to call you ‘Raven,’ because of your beautiful, long black mane.”

Brenda, or Raven, didn’t say anything, of course, but she was determined to continue to think of herself as Brenda. She would now have to answer to her ponygirl name, but she would never think of herself as anything but a woman named Brenda, although currently in a bad situation. Her rider used her reins to steer her around the room once, before he commanded her to start toward the door he had come through a short while ago.

“Open the door,” McGillicuddy said to the man who was not holding Raven’s leash. He hurried to obey, and held it open for her.

She followed the directions her rider gave her through via her reins and passed through the open door and out to the tile hallway. Once she reached that hard surface, Brenda was quite grateful for the protection of the kneepads, and she wondered where else her master would want to go. Wherever it might be, she would obediently go there while he rode comfortably on her back.

He directed her to turn down the hallway, and she carried him toward a heavy wooden door. Brenda had to move more slowly than what she had determined to be the optimum pace, but her master seemed to understand and refrained from using his riding crop. Walking on the hoof-gloves was a problem, but the ponygirl in training seemed to be starting to get the hang of it as she continued with her lesson.

The man who had opened the door from the training room hurried to open the second one, letting in the bright sunlight. Unused to it, Brenda blinked several times but continued in the direction her master had ordered her to go. After negotiating a small door sill, she was on a red cement veranda overlooking a large, bright green patch of lawn that was surrounded by roses and other flowering bushes. It was a lovely place, and she wished she could stay there the rest of the day and not have to return to her place of captivity.

Her master had a similar idea and tugged on the rein to direct her to turn to the right. Raven started down a gradual incline, also cement, and had trouble staying upright on the slope, but she persevered and reached the level surface at the bottom, where her master used her reins again to command her to turn to the left.

Following his directions, she stayed on a cement walkway that passed between two hedges that were at a right angle to each other. She was at the same level as the lawn she had seen from the verandah, and it was on her right, while to her left were several rows of comfortable-looking seats. There were more rows on the other side of the lawn and on the end that was closer to them. It looked to Brenda as if she was carrying her master beside a tennis court or similar athletic arena, and she wondered what it would be used for.

“Whoa,” her master softly ordered as he pulled back on the reins. Obediently, his steed halted, wondering what would happen next.

“Good girl,” he told her, leaning forward and affectionately patting her neck and shoulder. “Isn’t this a beautiful place, Raven? Soon you’ll be out there on that parade ground, showing everybody what a good ponygirl you are. Isn’t that thrilling? Of course, you’ll be wearing fine, new shiny tack for those occasions. Do you see that nice looking building there on the end? That will be your home when your training is complete. You should be meeting your stablemates in a few more weeks.”

None of the things just described in her future immediately appealed to Raven, who was still thinking of herself as Brenda. The idea of being put, naked, on display in front of a crowd of the old man’s fellow perverts had little appeal for her. Still, as she thought about it some more, there was a certain fascination in the idea. She had been scantily clad while putting her body and sexuality on display many times already, as a cheerleader in high school and when she was winning a series of beauty pageants, and she had very much enjoyed doing so. Even in her job as a hostess in the night club, before being lured into her predicament by the man who was riding on her back, Brenda was a sex object for men to gaze at and lust for more than anything else.

She still hoped to escape, although she didn’t know how, but if she had to stay where she was, it would not be the worst possible fate. That day’s training was difficult, but her master had refrained from using his riding crop, and was actually being quite patient with her. He ordered her to start forward again, and Raven obeyed him immediately, trying to give him an even better ride than she had been doing.

His newest ponygirl carried him all around the grassy area, which he had called a parade ground. As her owner, he was not ready for her to walk on the soft ground, with her front legs still needing practice, so he kept her on the surrounding cement. After one trip around the place where he expected her to soon be on display and winning prizes for his stable, he steered her back up the long incline and through the doors which had been left open. Back in the familiar training room, he dismounted and patted her shoulder and stroked the glossy black mane that had inspired her ponygirl name.

“Good girl, Raven. That was an excellent training session this morning. I hope the one this afternoon will be as good.”

She cherished the compliment and whinnied in response, one of the few times she had spoken to her master. When he left the training room, her wrists, still in the hoof-gloves, were manacled again, but the chain connected to the ceiling track was longer. She was still a prisoner and still confined to the same room, but she would have the freedom to go anywhere she wanted to, within that limit, and even to lie down and rest.

The ride that afternoon was just as good, and Cornelius McGillicuddy III and his newest ponygirl enjoyed themselves again. At the end of the session, Raven was once again manacled to the chain that hung from the ceiling. After her daily bath, followed shortly by her afternoon feeding, she was on her own until the next day, when it would be time for her to continue to practice the new and unfamiliar way of walking with a passenger on her back.

For the next two days, her master continued his ponygirl’s training all over the grounds behind the house, even including cautiously attempting the parade ground. He also rode on her back in the rear part of his mansion, which was kept tightly locked apart from the front area, where his ordinary household staff worked and lived.

None of the people who were employed by the rich old man and limited to the front of his mansion knew anything about what went on in the rear part of the building. They were also unaware of the grounds in the back, which were only accessible through the rear of the building or by a concrete driveway that was barricaded by a steel gate with electronic controls and heavy padlocks. He and the men who dealt with the ponygirls and some carefully screened associates made sure that none of those employees ever found out.

One day, two of those associates, Ronald and Virginia Graf came to call on him. He was a portly, middle-aged man clad in blue jeans and a western style shirt. She was a small, pinch-faced woman and wore jodhpurs and a blouse that matched her husband’s shirt. Raven knew nothing about the visitors but, if she had, she would have disliked them for what they enjoyed doing.

They were also ponygirl fanciers, and friendly rivals of their host, although Ronald was too heavy to be carried on the back of any member of his stable. He preferred to be pulled in a cart drawn by a team, so he could watch their asses swing while they trotted, and occasionally apply his carriage whip if he felt like it or when he thought they were not making enough of an effort. His wife was a few years older and liked riding the way McGillicuddy did, and she always carried a short quirt, which she liked using on her young and attractive steeds.

The visitors were expected, and they called ahead on their cell phone shortly before their arrival. One of the men who worked with the ponygirls was waiting to open the gate and give them access to the back property and, after they parked their car, he escorted them to the veranda where their host would be joining them. The Grafs had been told of his new ponygirl, and they were interested in seeing and maybe even buying her.

Cornelius McGillicuddy III proudly rode out to the veranda on Raven. “Whoa,” he commanded, and she obediently stopped and stood passively while her master greeted his guests.

Ronald and Virginia wanted a closer look at their friend’s new chattel, and they walked around her and touched her where they wished. “Nice mane,” Virginia remarked as she stroked the long, glossy tresses, which had been shampooed and treated with conditioner earlier that day, in order to show off his latest acquisition for his stable.

Her husband was more earthy, and he walked around to the other side of the ponygirl, while her master remained in his saddle. Ronald also stroked and admired her hair, but then he reached under Raven’s nude body, to fondle a breast and tweak her nipple between his fingers. “Nice tits,” he remarked, and continued stroking her lush body, while his wife silently glared at him.

His hands caressed her side and buttocks and the insides of her thighs. He even ran his impudent fingers along the pussy lips of the ponygirl. Although she remained docile, Raven was seething that a man would take such liberties with her. She expected her master to do something or say something, and he might have admonished his friend, but Virginia caught his attention.

“She looks really great, Corny. Beautiful and strong and young. Can I take her for a ride?”

Glad of a chance to show off his new prize and unsure about what to do about Ronald Graf, McGillicuddy dismounted. “Don’t try to go too fast,” he cautioned his guest. “She’s still undergoing her training, and doesn’t have full control of her front legs yet.”

Virginia mounted the ponygirl, who was obedient but unsure. She wanted to please her master, but hadn’t liked being fondled the way the other man had done to her, and was not at all happy about carrying a stranger. The new rider secured her feet in the stirrups, leaned back and delivered a stinging slap to Raven’s shapely ass, and ordered her mount forward. Still obedient, the ponygirl started forward, going down the incline again. She still had some difficulties, because she was not yet fully accustomed to walking on her knees and her fists, especially going down a slope, and she moved slowly.

Her rider wanted more speed. “Faster!” the woman demanded, punctuating that command by pulling her quirt from the waistband of her jodhpurs and slashing Raven across her right thigh.

That was the first time a whip had been used on her since her second day of training, and it was extremely painful. Raven moved faster, dangerously so, on the sloping surface. She reached the level area and Virginia Graf, wanting to turn left and ride beside the chairs that overlooked the parade ground, gave a yank on the left rein, so hard as to wrench the ponygirl’s head to that side. Raven followed the command and, when the steed and rider were hidden from the view from the verandah, the latter decided she wanted yet more speed.

“Faster, you lazy bitch,” she commanded, and her quirt landed painfully on the ponygirl’s left thigh.

Raven moved ahead as fast as she could go, much faster than she had on any of her training rides, but she couldn’t maintain that speed with what was still an unfamiliar way of striding. One wrist buckled outward, and she pitched forward, sending her passenger tumbling off her and to the side. Nobody was hurt from the fall itself, but Virginia was outraged that a slave should treat her in such a way.

“You dirty cunt!” she hissed. “I’ll teach you to be more careful.”

She yanked the quirt from her waist again and slashed the errant ponygirl three times across the back of either of her thighs. She wanted to use the whip on Raven’s young and succulent ass but, with her tail in the way, she couldn’t get a clear enough swing to slash her as hard as she wanted. The enraged old woman settled, instead, for whipping the ponygirl’s legs some more.

When her anger faded, she smiled at the many red welts she had raised on the youthful beauty. The jealousy that had been evoked by her husband’s blatant sexual desire for Raven had diminished from her punishing her supposed rival, and she felt her cruel reaction was justified.

“Get on your knees,” she commanded the ponygirl. “I want you to take me back to my husband and your owner so they can see what you made me do.”

The older woman climbed back onto the frightened ponygirl and started her forward by another slap on her voluptuous ass. Raven moved slowly back to the incline and, when commanded by rough yanks on her reins, up toward the veranda. The pain from her abused thighs and ass throbbed all through her body with every pace of her knees, and she was unable to move fast, but her rider seemed to accept the slower speed and neither said nor did anything.

“How did you enjoy your ride, Dear,” her husband asked when his wife and Raven rejoined the men.

“Oh, it was very pleasant. She’s very young and strong. She’s quite beautiful, too.”

Both the men saw the welts on Raven’s legs, but neither said anything. Ronald had long ago learned not to criticize his wife and McGillicuddy was reluctant to chide a guest at his home for anything done to a mere ponygirl, even extreme cruelty. Virginia dismounted and stood beside her husband, and Raven was summoned to her master’s side, where he stepped partially in front of her, as if protecting his new favorite from any more abuse.

“Say, Mack,” Ronald began. “I see you don’t have Raven branded yet. Would you be willing to sell her to us? I think she’d make a fine cart ponygirl, and Ginny could ride her too.”

The owner had no intention of selling his lovely new possession, and certainly not to someone who had just treated her so cruelly, and was almost certain to do so again, given the chance. He knew he could get a large amount of money, but he was rich enough that he didn’t need it. At the same time, he didn’t want to turn his friend down flat.

“What do you think, Raven?” he asked the object of the discussion.

With the bit in her mouth, she couldn’t say what she really felt about the man and woman who had just made the offer, and she wouldn’t have dared it even if she could. However, Raven could give an honest answer without departing at all from her enforced role as a ponygirl.

“Neigh!” she answered as loudly as she could, shaking her head to emphasize her answer.

“Well, there’s your answer,” McGillicuddy told his friend, smiling to take away any sting there might have been about the rejection.

He knew Raven would not have given an affirmative answer and, if she had not replied at all, he would not have accepted the offer. Not only did he not want to turn her over to be abused further, he saw her potential in all phases of what a ponygirl should be able to do. He wanted to keep her for his own, and reap trophies and blue ribbons from what she would do for him and his stable while out on his parade ground and others around the circuit.

The visitors left a few minutes later, and McGillicuddy held onto Raven’s leash. She was already dreading the walk back to her quarters carrying her master, but she was ready to do it. However, he decided it was not necessary.

“I don’t think I need to ride this time, Raven.”

Instead, her master led her by her leash back to the training room. After she had been manacled to the ceiling he left, but returned a few minutes later with a jar that he opened in front of her.

“I didn’t mean for you to be whipped like that, Raven. I won’t let it happen to you again. This salve should take most of the sting from those welts.” He gently applied some of the salve to all the red stripes that had been raised by Virginia Graf’s mean little whip. “I think we’d better skip the training this afternoon too. We’ll resume tomorrow morning.” He stroked his ponygirl’s mane and affectionately patted her shoulder before leaving.

Raven was left on her own in the training room until it was time for her enema and bath that afternoon. The men performing the ablutions on her treated her as usual, getting her to her feet and walking her over to the porcelain basin where they removed all her tack, except for the hoof-gloves. One of them pried her tail out of her ass; the other replaced it with a plastic nozzle attached to a long, thin hose. They sprayed her face and upper body with warm water and used the mild bath soap to lather her up and wash and rinse her there, while waiting for the enema to have its effect.

After her bowels were through moving, they used the hose to flush the fecal matter down the drain, followed by applying the warm water and soap to the rest of her body. As they did every day when they washed the ponygirl, they played with her breasts, and fingered her pussy, and even her ass after getting her clean there. When they started to wash the places where Raven had been whipped, they became surprisingly careful how they touched her. The men were gentler than they had ever been before, even during her first bath, when the welts had been raised by their master’s whip.

They carefully and thoroughly washed Raven’s buttocks, thighs and all the way down her legs, including her feet, and rinsed her with the warm water from the hose. With the washing done, they toweled her off, patting the painful areas dry. When they were through bathing her, they restored Raven to the way a ponygirl in training was supposed to look. First, they wedged her tail back into her ass, followed by strapping her bridle into place, including inserting the bit snugly between her teeth. With their chore done, the men left, depositing the rest of the tack in its usual place and carrying the damp towels with them.

After a few minutes of being left alone, her master returned. She was surprised at actually being glad to see him, and that feeling increased when he once more applied the salve where it was needed. It had helped alleviate the pain earlier, and Raven could see that the redness was already fading. Even immediately after the second application, she could feel how the medication was doing its job and making most of the residual pain fade away.

“We’ll go riding again tomorrow,” her master told her, standing beside her and hugging her waist. “Your dinner will be brought in at the usual time, and there will be something special for you. Goodnight.” He turned and looked back at her and smiled just before exiting and closing the door.

Raven stepped out of the shallow basin and walked back to lie down in the place she spent most of the time when she was by herself. The longer chain fastened to the ceiling track allowed her to do that, unlike a few days earlier when she had to kneel all the time. That place was near the low table where her food would be left, which made it as good a place as any in the Training Room, which she still called the place, even though no training was going on there anymore. She thought about her situation. It was terrible, but it was not as bad as it had been, except for the whipping today. She considered that to be an anomaly – a malicious act by a jealous woman.

Her master, and that was how Raven was thinking of him now, was not really as cruel or evil as he had seemed at first. She still wanted to escape what was nothing but enslavement, and she would still watch for her chance but, until then, she would make the best out of the situation and please her master by being the best ponygirl she could be.

Raven also thought about the man and woman who had been there that day, and the way they had tried to buy her. Until hearing it mentioned, she hadn’t even thought about that possibility, and she was certainly glad her master had been considerate enough of her to turn down the offer. The man apparently wanted her as a sex object and, assuming he had men working for him as her master did, he would probably want to entertain himself by watching them rape her. His wife would probably want to ride her as a pony some of the time and, at other times, she would take advantage of any excuse to use a whip again and take out her jealous spite.

Her thoughts were interrupted when the door opened and a man brought in her food. Although her day had not been as strenuous as most, she was still hungry, but wanted to wait until the man left. Before doing that, he emptied her drinking basin and refilled it with fresh, cool water, which he placed next to the tray of food. With that done, Raven sat still while he removed and set aside her bit, but she knew he would return and replace it as soon as he thought she should have been through eating.

Her master had promised her a treat, and Raven was eager to see what it was. There were actually two treats, chocolates cut into bite size pieces and fruit, also cut up. She bent over the tray, picked up a piece of candy between her lips and leaned her head back to let it drop into her mouth and melt there. It was delicious. She recognized it as Belgian chocolate, one of her favorites, and carefully consumed every piece.

She also had the usual vegetables and mush, and Raven decided to eat that next, and save the fruit for last. It was easily the best food she had eaten since arriving there, and the ponygirl took her time and enjoyed a meal for a change. A few minutes after she finished, the man came to retrieve the tray, and she had no hesitation in opening her mouth to allow the bit to be inserted and attached to her bridle.

That night, Raven slept better than she would have expected, lying on her back with her knees bent to keep the welts from rubbing against the rough carpet. She awoke when her master and two of his men entered, and urinated in the basin while they waited for her. When she finished, she joined them so the men could unchain her front legs from the ceiling and prepare her to give her master his morning ride. The pain had all leached from her legs and hips and ass, and the welts were little more than pink streaks.

It was a good ride that morning and, besides obeying her master’s commands, Raven concentrated on keeping herself stable and improving the way a ponygirl had to walk on all fours while carrying a passenger on her back. She increased her speed and was less tired than usual after returning to the training room for her morning feeding. Once again her master praised the progress she was making and fresh fruit was included with her food. After she finished eating, Raven was looking forward to her afternoon session, hoping she would please her master again, and be the best ponygirl she could be.

“You are really doing well, Raven,” he told her. “Your training is coming along even better than we thought it would, and tomorrow will be a special day for you. And on the day after that, we will start your training at pulling a cart with me on board.”

She felt good about that, and about her afternoon training session, and even the usual fondling during the bathing that followed didn’t interfere with her relatively good mood. She had pleased her master, and he was going to do something special for her, and start more training. Once again, after her second feeding of the day, Raven slept peacefully, with dreams of being the best ponygirl in the world.

The next morning started almost the same as the previous one did. After Raven was saddled, she proudly carried her master down the hallway toward the veranda, accompanied by two of his men, instead of the usual single escort, either of them holding to a leash that was connected to her collar. When the ponygirl negotiated the doorsill, she smelled the pleasant aroma of charcoal smoke, and saw, less than ten feet away, what appeared to be a drum-shaped charcoal grill with a cooking tool of some kind sticking out from it. The third employee of her master was standing beside it as if cooking while he waited for them to arrive.

“Whoa!” called her master, pulling back on the reins.

Abruptly, he dismounted and backed away from Raven. The two men holding her leashes quickly began shortening up on them, until they had a grip right next to her neck and they were pulling her closer to the grill. The man beside it, whom she thought had been cooking something, hurried over, grabbed her calf and knee and lifted, toppling Raven onto her side, and clung tightly to both her legs, immobilizing the suddenly frightened ponygirl.

She was frightened because something that had been said by Ronald Graf and had been in the back of her mind suddenly surged to the front. He had said something about her not being branded. She hadn’t thought about what he meant, but she suddenly knew when one of the men who was gripping her collar wrestled her to the pavement and the other man went to the grill and seized the rod that was protruding from the side. It had not been a cooking tool. They were going to brand her!

Wide-eyed in terror, Raven gaped at the glowing red emblem on the end of the branding iron. It was a block M with a small backward “c” crossing the left leg of the larger letter. “Mc for McGillicuddy,” her brain suggested, and she knew that was what it meant. She tried to struggle, but to no more avail than her efforts on her first night in the Training Room. The man with the fearsome iron rod hurried over, not wanting it to cool. He paused for a fraction of a second, making sure the blazing, blistering hot metal was properly positioned, and pressed it firmly against the ponygirl’s helpless creamy white buttock.

Excruciating pain, like nothing she had ever experienced or even heard of, seared through her. She tried to scream, but the bit in her mouth kept her mute. Waves and waves of the most incredible agony poured through her body from where the red hot iron was pressed against her. To make the nightmare worse, she could hear the sizzle and smell the stench of burning flesh, and realized the sizzling, burning flesh was her own. Mercifully, from the pain and the shock, the agonized ponygirl passed out just as the smoking hot iron was pulled away from her tortured body with some small scraps of her charred skin hanging from it.

When she woke up, Raven was in the familiar training room, and the lights were on, but turned down low. She was lying on her other side, not the one whose buttock had been branded. Her saddle had been removed, but her bit and bridle were still in place, and her wrists, with the hoof-gloves in place, were cuffed to the chain that hung from the ceiling. Pain throbbed from the site where the red hot iron had seared her skin and flesh but, for some reason, it wasn’t as bad as it had been during the actual branding. She twisted her head and tried to look at the site, but it was covered with a thick pad of bandage.

She lay for a few minutes thinking about what had happened to her, and heard the door open and saw her master enter. He approached her cautiously until he saw that she was awake, and spoke to her.

“I know it’s very painful, Raven, but I had to do it.”

She turned and stared impassively at him through her bridle, but made no sound, and he continued.

“That salve is the same as I used where you were whipped. It’ll draw all the pain out, and you won’t even notice it after a few days. I didn’t really want to brand you but, if I didn’t, all the other ponygirl fanciers would want you, and one of them would have stolen you eventually. You’re a real prize, you know, so big and young and beautiful, but now nobody will want to steal you from me or even buy you. I never would have sold you anyhow.”

Raven considered that for a few seconds. The pain seemed to have faded, even since she had awakened, and what the man said made sense. She still didn’t like being where she was or what had been done to her, but she also realized it may have been for the better, if it was true that nobody else would want her. The visitors who had been there had wanted to buy her when they saw she wasn’t wearing her master’s brand, and she would no longer have to worry about them getting the chance to treat her any worse than they already had. She slowly got to her knees, feeling a shock of pain burst through her from where her seared flesh was still so tender.

“There won’t be any training for the next few days, not until you’re at the point where you can move around with that leg. I meant what I said yesterday about giving you a chance to be a cart pony, but we won’t start on that for a while. If you’re able to eat, I’ll have your food sent in.”

Raven stood shakily on one knee and her hands inside the hoof-gloves. She whickered softly and shook her head up and down. She was answering two questions, one of them she had asked herself. Yes, she was hungry and yes, she was reconciled to being a ponygirl for her master.