Emma awoke slowly, to discover that she had a splitting headache and a feeling that she was about to be sick. As she began to heave, someone held a bowl for her and supported her head. A woman's voice said, "It's alright, it's just the anaesthetic."

When she had finished and lain back for a moment or two, she ventured to open her eyes. She was lying, naked, on what was evidently a hospital bed in a windowless, white painted room. A nurse, in uniform, was sitting beside the bed.

Emma tried to speak, to say, "Where am I?" but no sound came.

"There there. Don't try to speak. It was a bad accident and the operation was a long one but it's over now. And you're going to be all right. Try and get some proper sleep. If you need anything we're close by."

Emma relaxed and fell back into a deep sleep. When she awoke again, the lights had been turned out and she was alone. She tried to orientate herself and to take stock. She was lying on her left side and she hurt. Most of her body hurt. The top of her head hurt, the back of her skull hurt all the way down to below her shoulders, her nose hurt, her throat hurt, her breasts hurt, her sex hurt, her right buttock and her hands and feet hurt most of all. Gradually she realised that the lights may or may not have been turned out but the reason she could not see was that a mask had been placed over her eyes, she could feel the slight pressure of the edge of the mask on her forehead and cheeks. Then she found that her wrists were fastened together and to the bed. She found that she could move them slightly but when she tried to touch one hand against the other, all that she felt was thick bandages and padding.

She began to panic. She cried out but somehow could make no sound. She started to kick and to shake, so far as she was able, her hands. After a minute or two she felt a hand on her shoulder and heard the nurse's voice again. "Now then my dear, you're all right. You've had a bad accident. You'll have lost your voice. It may be some time before you get it back. Try to relax and leave everything to us. We've had to do a lot of work on you and we need you to keep from sudden movement. Your eyes are all right but we need you to be in the dark for a day or two. Now I'm going to give you a tranquilliser injection so that you can have some more sleep. When you wake next time we'll see about some food.

Emma felt the prick of a needle, but before she drifted off to sleep she tried to think what had happened to her. Accident? What accident? The last thing she remembered, she had been at a party. Her friend had introduced her to a most attractive older man and she had spent the end of the evening with him. She had told him about her home life and how unhappy she was with her stepfather and how she was planning to leave home, get a flat and start a new life. He had been so sympathetic and had said… and had said…what… what was..it……

She awoke again and this time she remained still, trying to make sense of what was happening to her. She remembered now her conversation last night - or was it last night - she no longer had any sense of time. Her companion, did she ever know his name? Was it Cliff or something? Anyway he had said that he might be able to help her. And that was it really. She remembered leaving the party with him or someone - who? - and being in a car - and then waking and a nurse speaking to her. She racked her brains but could remember nothing more.

Now she tried to take stock of herself. She still could see nothing, the mask or blindfold was still there. The pain was less but also still there. There was pain on both sides of her head and on the back of her neck down to her shoulders; rather like a scraped knee or a graze. Her nose hurt, but less than when she woke last. There was something hard against it and some bandage or cotton wool; she could not breathe except through her mouth. Her throat was very painful. She had had her tonsils removed when she was at school and the pain was like that only worse. Perhaps that was why she couldn't speak. Then her breasts both hurt, near her nipples - and there was a feeling of something metal lying on both of them. What on earth was going on?

She must have moved or shown signs of being awake for the nurse's voice came again. "Hello, awake now?"

She tried to say "Yes" but no sound seemed to come.

"Nod your head if you are."

She did so.

"Good, I know you can't speak. Your throat is damaged but don't worry. You're coming along wonderfully. Now we're going to lift you out of bed and sit you on a special toilet. You need to have a bowel movement and you're all blocked up so we'll give you an enema. Don't worry about the other, you've got a catheter in and that's all taken care of."

The nurse, or perhaps she was a doctor, called "Nurse!" There were footsteps and then another pair of hands helped lift her onto a rail or something. A new, female, voice said. "We can't put you on a proper toilet because of the burns on your bottom. Just lean back against this rest."

Burns? - Had she been in a fire? The 'rest' seemed to be just another bar, padded this time. It came at waist level and she was glad that there was no pressure on the scraped area on her neck and between her shoulders. Emma leant back as she was told, indeed she could not help doing so, for there seemed to be no strength at all in her back muscles. She felt the nurse remove a plug from her behind, and felt the blessed relief as she cleared herself. No wonder she had felt congested 'down there'. Then there was the business of them giving her an enema and replacing the plug. Not nice, but probably necessary, she decided. The two nurses gently washed her with a flannel. Footsteps, and then a third voice, this time a man's.

"How's she doing sister? Let's see. What about the nose?" Strong hands carefully removed the bandages from her nose. She could breathe through it now but there was still something metallic there. "Ah yes. Very good, very good indeed. I think we can leave that now. How about her nipples?" His hands touched her breasts as he removed what felt like sticking plaster from the area that was still somewhat painful. "Excellent there too. She's healing very well. If the other areas are like this we should be able to move her in two or three more days. No, don't get new ones. We'll leave the plaster off the nipples as well. Now let's see about the hair."

Very gently he started to remove dressings from her head and the back of her neck. It was painful and he did not speak again until they had all been removed, one on either side of her head above her ears and a third from her neck down to between her shoulder blades.

"These are good too. Just look how well they are taking". She felt him indicate points on all three areas. What did he mean 'taking'? He spoke again. "Put new dressings on the head areas and we'll leave it at that for now. We'll take the one off her buttock tomorrow and deal with the hands and feet then too."

The nurses replaced the dressings on her head and then after a pause she heard the first nurse, evidently the ward sister, place a chair and sit down close to her. "Now my dear, you need to eat. You don't have the use of your hands so I'm afraid you must take it from a spoon, here try this." She felt the tip of a spoon on her lips and obediently took what was offered. It seemed to be little lumps or pellets of some kind. It tasted well enough though and she swallowed. After another two or three spoonfuls the nurse placed a tube between her lips. "And drink too, just plain water. This went on for a short while until she had evidently finished the food.

"Now we'll get you back into bed. That's quite enough excitement for now." They lifted her back on to the bed and placed her on her side again and fixed her wrists together again and to the bed. She was not happy about being restrained, but the nurses had been so gentle and the doctor so evidently knew what he was doing that it would have seemed ungrateful to resist. One thing was odd though, as she had been helped on to the toilet, she had felt the nurses' wrist touch her pubis. It was almost as though she had been shaved there. She had not felt her fleece at all.

"I'm going to leave you for half-an-hour or so and then give you another injection. You heal better when you sleep but you need to be able to use your mind for a while. It'll be better when we can have that mask off."

Emma returned to thinking about what had happened and trying to remember how she came to be in this place. It was no good. She could remember little about leaving the party and nothing other than being in the car. After that, just blackness until she had awoken for the first time and been told she had had an accident. But what sort of accident? A car crash presumably, but the effects seemed strange. What was this in her nose? Metal or glass or plastic? Something cold anyway. She could feel it in her septum, forcing the sides of her nose upwards. She could feel its weight on her upper lip too. She tried to explore with her tongue. It would move, but that hurt her nose still. It was almost as if it was a ring but that was silly. On the other hand the feeling was similar to that in her breasts, metal through her flesh just above her nipples and touching just below. That was like rings too. If she could only see. She dismissed the thought from her mind. Whatever these things were, they must clearly be something medical, drains or tubes or some such.

It was odd though, she thought as she turned her thoughts back to taking stock of her injuries. There was her right buttock for example, that was quite painful and had been more so the last time she was awake. There was a dressing on it but no feeling of metal or anything. Although, come to think of it there was metal in two or three places on her labia and they were sore but there was no dressing. Something had been done at the base of her spine too. There was a dressing there and it felt…well, odd. What puzzled her most, however, were her hands and feet. She could feel that she was holding something in each hand, a handle or something, about an inch, perhaps more, in diameter. She could not let go of it though for some reason, and she could not move her wrists. She was holding the thing as though, well as though it was a stick she was pointing with, but she couldn't wave it or move it at all. Her hands were bandaged, she could tell that and of course they were fastened together and to the bed. Why? And her feet: but then the nurse came again and there was the injection and sleep began to wash over her. Yes there was the matter of her feet…of her feet… of.

Again she awoke, again they helped her perform her toilet, her 'squat' they called it, not a term she was familiar with. Again they fed her. Then the doctor came again and removed the dressings. This time he decided to leave her head wounds, whatever they were, undressed and open to the air. He removed the dressing from her buttock. That hurt a bit but he seemed pleased. "Very clear." He said. "Excellent work. Put another dressing on but she can put some weight on it if she likes. Let her lie on her back if she wants."

Then her hands. He removed the dressings. Now she could feel that there were sticking plasters around her fingers, holding them into a gripping position. He held up her right hand. "Can you try and move your fingers please". She tried. "Hm. A little movement there, very little though. I'll give another injection to each joint. Now try to move your wrist. Did you try then? Nod if you did." She nodded. "Very good, fused nicely I think." He repeated the process with her left hand with a similar result. "Good. No more dressings there. I'll just put in a further injection." There was a pause, presumably whilst he set up his syringe. He then went round each hand putting an injection into each finger joint. The joints seemed to be exposed, either that or he was injecting through the plaster, she could not tell. She seemed to be losing sensation in her fingers. How she wished she could see or at least speak to ask a question or two. She tried and tried again but although she could formulate the words, no sound emerged. Tears came to her eyes. The nurse's voice: "The poor kid's crying." Her eyes were wiped. The doctor spoke . "There, there, I know it's unpleasant for you at the moment but you're doing very well and we'll soon have you out of here, a couple of days, no more."

He turned his attention to her feet. She hadn't had time to think about her feet yet. They felt alright but a bit sore. Clearly something was holding them still in a tip-toe position. She could not move her ankles at all. She could just move her toes slightly although they were rather sore and there were dressings on her ankles. The doctor removed the dressings and pronounced himself satisfied. As he ran his hands over her ankles, she could feel a scar that seemed to run from the bottom of her calves right down to her feet. It was the same on both ankles.

"You know", the doctor said, addressing the nursing sister, "This sleep technique is quite remarkable. While she was completely out during those first ten days after she went into theatre, the main wounds almost completely healed. The titanium splints that we pinned to the tibia and metatarsals have largely fused already, the same with the radii and the carpals and the arthritic solidification of the grip is ninety percent complete. I've given her the final injections so keep her still until tomorrow. Today's Thursday so if we apply the final prostheses tomorrow afternoon, I don't see why Barrett can't have her on Saturday morning."

They placed Emma on her back on the bed with her wrists fixed to the sides of the cot. Her buttock scarcely hurt any more and apart from a general soreness her body seemed to be calm. Her mind however was another matter. She was frightened and worried. Why did they not tell her anything? What was happening to her? Why could she not speak or sit up and why was she blindfolded with this dark mask? She shook her head from side to side and wept. The nurse or the sister shushed her and stroked her, kissed her forehead and told her how well she had done and that her ordeal was almost over. Emma was not consoled, for as the nurse was soothing her brow with one hand, Emma could distinctly feel that her other hand was fondling her breasts and there was now no doubt in her mind that two quite thick rings had been inserted behind her nipples.

The next afternoon she was roused and moved to a narrower bed. She was placed so that her arms hung downwards, one on either side and her upper arms were strapped to prevent her moving them. Then she could feel some sort of surround being placed round her each of her lower arms and then filled with some sort of plastic smelling liquid; evidently they were some kind of mould. The liquid felt warm to her arms, almost uncomfortably so and she realised that it was solidifying and attaching itself firmly to her skin. They left her and after about an hour came back and removed the moulds. She still had no idea what was happening but she could tell that somehow or other her arms had been lengthened, or rather that whatever had been put on to them made them seem longer. Then they repeated the process with her legs, she was made to hang her legs over the end of the bed and more moulds were fixed from her calves to the balls of her feet. This time, she could feel her toes pressing against the bottom of the mould, which was hard but not metal, wood perhaps. Then again the filling, the warmth and the feeling of the liquid solidifying.

When they came back they lifted her onto that toilet again and washed her and fed her. Afterwards, when they had put her lying on her back on to the normal bed and strapped her arms to the sides of it, they told her that this was the last time they would have to do so, for next day she would be able to get up and they would remove her blindfold so that she could see how she looked now. But they did not say what they had done nor what changes they had made. How she wished that she could speak, but still whenever she tried no real sound came, just a sort of wheeze. Would she be able to speak next day? They did not tell her.

The doctor came earlier the next day, while Emma was still unconscious. He looked at her lying there and examined his work. The strips of her scalp that he had transplanted to her neck (and replaced with the skin from that neck) had taken well. She would soon have a three-inch wide band of hair from her forehead down to her shoulder blades. The hair had been cut very short before the transplantation but when it had grown to about six inches long it would be combed and plaited to form a perfect mane. The remaining areas of hair on her head would easily be dealt with by electrolysis. He was also pleased with her nose-ring. It was set well up in the septum which had healed well. He had personally pressed home the pin that secured the ring shut and he was quite happy that it would never become loose. If the ring were to be removed then either it must be cut or it must be removed surgically. It was strong and would be an excellent control point when she needed to be led. He took his laryngoscope and examined her vocal cords. He had cut a deep 'V' into each of these and cauterised them. That would silence her very effectively for the years to come. The cuts had healed well, as had her gums where he had removed her main molars. The feed pellets that she would eat from now on would require no chewing and he felt glad for her that she would have very little dental decay from now onwards.

He ran his hands over her torso, gently massaging her breasts as he did so. The nipple rings he had inserted were set deeply back into the areolas and were removable in anticipation that she would at some time be lactating and need the milking machine's teat cups to be put in place over her nipples each milking without hindrance. He admired her flat belly, the sex into whose outer lips he had inserted three rings on either side and he ran his fingers over her pubis where he had tattooed her serial number 'C1026'. 'C1' was Lord De Clifford's code and Emma was evidently the twenty-sixth girl that he had sent for modification.

The doctor was the chief medical officer of the resort of San Plaisir and he looked after a stable of over one hundred girls. Each girl was owned by one of the owners or syndicates, which took advantage of San Plaisir's facilities to care for them and in most cases to let them out on a livery basis. Lord De Clifford was one of the bigger owners and kept a string of eleven girls. A string which Emma would make up to twelve.

The doctor nodded approvingly as he looked down at Emma's well-formed hips. As with all Lord De Clifford's ponies, when she came to breed, she would have no problems with the birth.

He untied one of her arms and half rolled her over onto her side. The scars where he had opened her to cut her back muscles had completely healed, as had the smaller scar where he had entered to snip the nerves that gave her control over her bowels and bladder. She would never stand upright again, her bowel movements would have to be controlled by a plug and she would pass water when she needed to, not when she wanted to. Although he thought so himself, he had had made a very clean and neat job of the brand on her right buttock. A large letter 'C' surmounted by a stylised earl's coronet. Lord De Clifford was proud of his ponies, they were never sold on, and they were kept and bore his brand until they had to be put down.

And finally the doctor examined this new pony's front and rear legs, or rather this girl's arms and legs. Her fingernails and toenails had been pulled and the hand-grips, which she had been holding, had formed the basis for arm extenders to allow her to stand easily on all fours. Her hands had been paralysed and the joints of her fingers fused into position so that she could never let go of the grips and would be able to take the full weight of her upper body on them. The now hardened plastic mouldings encased her lower arms and extenders and were modelled on a pony's forelegs, ending in two exact replicas of a hoof. Her legs, too, looked good. The titanium splints, placed within her legs and pinned to the tibia and metatarsals would hold her feet in the correct racing position. The plastic mouldings gave her feet support and lent her legs the appearance of equine rear legs. The doctor himself had been part of the research team, which had developed the new plastic. Over the next few months it would meld with the arms and legs, which it covered, until it was difficult to tell where skin, flesh and bone ended and plastic and bone began. The doctor was pleased with his work and felt that he had earned his bonus.

She was an excellent example of a new pony girl and merely needed Barrett the head groom to have the farrier fit her hooves with steel shoes before she went out onto the estate roads.

"Sister" he called. "You can ring Mr. Barrett now and ask him to send one of the lads over to collect her."

He removed Emma's blindfold and gave her a small injection to bring her round.

After a while she woke and responded with a smile to the doctor's gaze. She was so glad that the blindfold had gone and that she could now see. Then she looked down at her body and saw her arms and her legs.

And then she screamed.

Somehow she managed to constrict her throat to produce a sound even without the use of vocal cords and a strange shriek came out. The doctor held her free arm to prevent her damaging anything and the sister unfastened the other one. Between them they lifted her, the tears running down her cheeks, from the bed, placed her on her rear legs and, gently, let her fall onto her forelegs. Carefully the doctor removed the catheter from her, leaving her plug with its tell-tale orange ribbon in place until he heard the knock at the outside door. Then, while the nurse opened the door, he and the sister gently guided Emma out into the stable yard. She looked wildly about her. Opposite was the large stable building and outside she could see pony girls, some in four-legged mode, some in two. Some were harnessed singly, some in pairs and even a four-in-hand. By her side was a young stable lad. He clipped a lead on to her nose ring. The doctor pulled out her butt plug and then with a painful tug on her lead and a corresponding whack on her rump from the lad's stick she trotted off obediently to a stall in her new home and into her new life.

She was not yet really obedient of course, just shocked, frightened and with no alternative. Rebellion would come soon enough, but punishment, training, more punishment and more training would bring obedience in the coming months and years.