It doesn't take much. Yesterday evening I had picked up this sleek blondie at that new dance club in South Beach, offering a little fun at my country estate. Much later, in our afterglow by the flickering fire, the blondie had asked me, all the while teasing me with that wonderful hair, "Do you think it would look better as a pony?"
I never even blinked at its seeming ability to foretell its fate. I had just smiled, bolted at it and captured it by that hair.
In no time, it had been outfitted, collared, bitted and pierced, and its nether holes were being stretched for its control dildo and for its tail. It had spent last night practically hanging, precariously supported by its toes, fingers and dildos. "Indeed," I had thought to myself when I left her there, "it is already looking better as a pony."
Early this morning, still without a word of explanation, I started its pony trot regimen, with only my riding crop doing the talking. "It still had to learn," I thought to myself, "that it is not enough for it just to look better as a pony. In order to fetch the right price at our upcoming ponygirl auction, it had to also be conditioned to perform better as a pony." And as it watched and heeded my riding crop - so had many others before it - I had no doubt it would, soon enough. It doesn't take much.