"STOP!"

Sugarmuff skidded to a halt, the metal shoes of the ponygirl's pony boots slipping slightly on the icy street. Despite the long journey from her Mistress' manor to the meeting hall in the English city, she remained as motionless as a Buckingham Palace guard as her owner dismounted, her only movement the heaving of her ample chest and the bursts of hot breath coming from her flaring nostrils. It was slightly below freezing, but Sugarmuff was naked except for her pony tack and a soft leather hood that molded itself to the contours of her head-- repeated hypnotic suggestions had made her mind and body impervious to conditions that would have incapacitated a normal human being. Her hands held firm to the cold metal shafts of her Mistress' sulky, even though short, thick metal chains linked the hollow aluminum tubes to snug leather cuffs on her wrists.

Mistress tethered the ponygirl to an overhead hook on a nearby streetlight, though this was unnecessary; Sugarmuff was so thoroughly brainwashed, she would have obeyed her owner's instructions even if it meant risking her life. Her eyes remained locked onto some vague distant object, and her mind fell into a blank meditative state, a condition she would hold until she was once more pressed into service. She ignored all the other ponygirls that soon arrived and were hitched or tethered along the curb. Though some were naked like herself, others were dressed in lingerie, leather, or latex. Botox injected into her Cooper's ligaments made her large breasts stand high and firm, and her warm flesh made the light snow melt and run down her full chest in tiny veins, which collected underneath and dripped to the ground.

The captive young woman was only dimly aware of the circumstances that had led to her present condition, but would not have cared even if she had known the full extent to which her mind had been manipulated . . .

It had started only a few years before. Due to the lack of non-violent video games for women, a seemingly innocent game called PONY RANCH, put out by an obscure company, was an instant sensation. Women everywhere, no matter how little money or time they had, could indulge in their love of horses by running their own virtual horse farm. Gaming soon consumed much of their lives, with upgraded games and online activity among excited gamers reaching unprecedented levels.

None of these women, however, were aware of the company's hidden agenda. A hidden code, which didn't remain secret for long, allowed players to assume the role of a horse. Suddenly, they could now gallop freely in the wild before being captured (and they were ALWAYS captured), undergo rigorous training and captivity, and compete online in races or equestrian events. Wendy, a shapely young lawyer in a prominent firm, was just one of these women who began to neglect their careers and social lives in order to live out their fantasies.

From there, it was just a short step to buying the pony tack and gaming station that suddenly appeared in stores. The gaming station was actually a six-foot-by-six-foot horse stall that had to be delivered. There she was, having never even picked up a screwdriver before, constructing this elaborate enclosure in her tiny apartment.

The smell of the fresh wood was intoxicating as she put the wooden sides together, attached the front gate, and screwed in the eyebolts for the restraints. Above it was a large control box that had two metal arms extending down from it, on the end of which were two realistic hands. She hung the reins, whip, feedbag, and other equipment on the walls and positioned the big-screen TV in front. Finally, she filled the food bin with nutrition pellets and the accompanying barrel with water. She was exhausted when she finished, yet she wasted no time in stripping down to an athletic bra and panties and trying on her pony tack.

She liked the feel of the boots, even though they had no heel, and the harness wasn't so bad, once she adjusted it so it was comfortable, but the hood-like bridle was going to take some getting used to. She had to comb her hair into a mane so that it wouldn't be crushed under the tight latex with the leather straps. And she didn't much care for the bit, either, as it was too big and hard and yucky-tasting.

She flipped the START switch and stepped inside before slipping on the latex hand boots. As she was doing this, the overhead arms suddenly came to life, lowering and slipping fingers through the D-rings at the tops of the boots. Startled, Wendy just stood there for a moment before pushing her arms forward and getting them all the way in the boots. Her fists were now held securely in place by the form-fitting latex.

The arms retreated, then took the reins from off the hook on the wall and clipped them to her bit. Wendy had just enough time to marvel at the wonders of computer technology before the reins were pulled behind her, two metal bars were clipped to the sides of the waist belt of her harness, and a commanding voice said, "Giddy up!"

Wendy jogged in place as a country road appeared on the TV. Not exactly Dance Dance Revolution, but thrilling nevertheless. A sharp pain slashed across her tender ass, jolting her out of her dream state.

"Get those knees up!"

Well, what did she expect? With her blinders on, she hadn't seen the hands remove the riding crop from the wall. She complied immediately, her legs pumping and her pony boots clip-clopping in place as the scenery crawled by in front of her.

As she cantered down the scenic route, Wendy was almost ashamed to admit that she liked her new submissive role. She was getting some good exercise, too, working up a sweat in no time. There were some minor irritations, though. Whenever they came to a quick turn in the road, one of the reins would be jerked hard, twisting her head sharply in the direction of the turn. And whenever she started to slow down, even if it was going uphill (the floor of the stall rose up in sync with the video), the riding crop would smack her in the butt. And how DID she stop this thing, anyway? Would she be forced to finish no matter how exhausted she was?

Still, it was a turn-on, and she could feel her panties getting moist from her hot slit. What she didn't know was that a miniature computer was scanning her brain, analyzing the MRI images, and sending pulse waves down to stimulate the pleasure centers of her brain. It did not take long for the young woman's brain to become addicted to these feelings of pleasure, or for it to figure out that the best way to keep feeling pleasure was to obey the game. To enhance the effect, the forehead strap of her bridle sent short, disrupting bursts of energy into the cerebral cortex, short-circuiting her thinking so that she was unable to analyze her situation.

There were regular rest periods of five minutes each where she was allowed to rest and have some water and, as evening came, she was allowed an hour to eat the handful of bland food pellets that had been placed in her feedbag. During some of her rest periods, a small robotic vehicle like a roomba with long robot arms attached a plastic bag to the front of her harness, allowing Wendy to empty her bladder. It was embarrassing to relieve herself like this, but her need to piss quickly overcame her sense of shame. When she finished, the wheeled robot took the bag away.

After she ate "dinner", she assumed that her training was done for the day, and started to remove her hoofed gloves. Two quick swats on the behind-- hard enough to make her yelp with pain-- told her that this was not permitted. The lawyer stood there helplessly as the hands from the robot vehicle and overhead unit took turns holding her wrists and undressing her. The harness was removed, her panties were pulled off (she obligingly lifted each foot so that they could be removed completely), and her sports bra, even though it hooked in the back, was pulled up over her head and down her arms. And then, much to the young woman's relief, the bridle and bit were removed; but before she could close her aching jaws, though, an inflatable gag was shoved in her mouth and pumped up. The hoofed boots and gloves were left on.

The robot left and returned with a bucket of water and a washcloth taken from her bathroom, and Wendy was subjected to a thorough scrubbing down, which included her breasts and crotch. It was a bit rough in her sensitive areas, but she found she kind of enjoyed it.

As she stood there drying off, she heard the over head unit opening up, and an air mattress dropped down next to her and slowly inflated-- it was time for bed. The lawyer knew there was work she had to do, and things she wanted to watch on TV, but it didn't look as if she had a choice, especially when the overhead arms strapped a blindfold-earplug bridle to her head.

The woman, so strong and assertive in the courtroom, whimpered with helplessness and fear. Was there something she had to program, something that would customize the time of training or the various things she was subjected to? It was too late to find out now, as the instruction manual was now completely beyond her reach.

Perhaps she could just walk out . . ?

She stepped forward, groping blindly, and pushed against the front gate with her hoofed arms. Locked. As soon as her mind registered this, a cold rubbery hand from the robot clamped around her ankle. As she turned to shake it loose, an intense stinging pain shot through her crotch. The riding crop! It did not want her to leave!

A hand from overhead hooked a finger through the top D-ring of her bridle and pulled downward to where the robot could take over and guide her onto the mattress. Reluctantly, Wendy gave in, hoping that tomorrow would bring a resolution to her imprisonment.

And yet, as she lay there half-asleep, she realized that she had enjoyed her day much more than she had expected. Was this really a hidden part of her that she had refused to admit to? She fell asleep before she could arrive at an answer. During the night, the earplugs played soothing music and subliminal messages into her receptive ears.

The next morning, she was awakened by the subtle scent of peppermint, one of almost a dozen aromatic oils stored in the overhead unit to stimulate the ponygirl's senses, sharpen her concentration, and promote a sense of well-being. She would soon come to associate these sensual scents with her new life of total slavery. As she rose to a sitting position, still not fully awake, the robotic unit slipped a sports bra onto her arms and over her head. Though it was a bit awkward when it tugged it over her tits, Wendy was amazed at how it was able to find the drawer that held her sports bras, retrieve one, and put it on her. Whoever had programmed it had done an incredible job. Out of habit, the lawyer stood up and adjusted her tits inside the cups, unwittingly allowiing the hands from above to hook onto her bridle.

She stood there, resigned to another day of hard training as the robot and overhead unit put her harness on her. The blindfold, earplugs, and inflatable gag were removed, replaced by her bridle and bit. Plastic bags were attached over her crotch and butt, allowing her to relieve herself any time she felt the need. To her surprise, she found herself getting used to the convenience of it. She was allowed some water, and then it was back to the training.

What? No breakfast? Well, she wanted to lose a little weight, anyway, didn't she? She high-stepped out of the virtual stable and into the corral.

She was put on a training carousel. As her reins were held in front of her, she pranced along, her blinders fixing her eyes on the screen before her. The endlessly rotating and repeating scene soon made her dizzy, but she soldiered on, not knowing that her feelings of joy were being created by the artificial stimulation of her brain.

By lunchtime, she was already exhausted, and she was grateful for the long rest after eating her food pellets. As she stood there, watching a bevy of virtual ponygirls being trained and punished, the hands came down, one holding a pair of scissors.

Wendy watched with alarm as they zeroed in on a bra cup. What the hell was going on? As one hand pinched the center of the cup and pulled it away from her tit, the other hand snipped a hole in the stretchy fabric. The woman stood frozen in place, holding her breath and feeling the cold metal barely graze her nipple.

The other cup was similarly altered, and the ponygirl could see her pink nipples poking out of the ragged holes. Dammit! she thought. That was one of my best bras!

She barely had time to get angry when the hands returned with belled nipple clamps. Wendy yelped with pain as the rubber-coated pincers pinched her soft nubs of flesh. And then she felt the robot between her legs, fumbling at her labia. NO! Two more clamps bit down on her nether lips, and her body spasmed with pain, jingling the little bells that dangled from her cunt. But with that pain came inexplicable feelings of orgasm, and she found herself writhing in ecstasy, the bells tinkling to her sexual rhythm.

When she had recovered, it was back to the training. She was worked hard the rest of the afternoon, only dimly aware that her phone was ringing, and that concerned co-workers and friends were leaving messages. Back in the stable for the night, she was fed, stripped, washed down, and sent to bed.

Her training continued day after day. Each new sports bra was sliced open so she could be clamped. A hard tube was worked into her anus, forcing her sphincter muscles open so that she no longer had control over her bowel movements; a plastic bag attached to the end collected her feces during the day. Concerns about her previous life faded away.

She was barely aware of the knocking on her apartment door one day, or of the voices calling her name after it was opened. They must have heard her, though, as they came right over to the stall. A police officer looked in. "Are you okay, ma'am?"

A wave of blissfulness washed over her, and she just closed her eyes and moaned. "Just like the others," shrugged the officer. After the door closed, she was not bothered again.

After a week, she was put to bed with a penis gag and a waist belt with a crotch strap that held two vibrating dildos and a clit stimulator. She soon got used to sleeping with all her holes plugged, and was awaked not only by the aromatic oils, but the robot's hands gently massaging her tits, followed by all three dildos squirming and throbbing as her clit swelled from rapid stimulation. By the end of the second week, the highly-educated women with a genius IQ thought of nothing but her own pleasure.

For the third week, she was strapped down in a bent-over position at the end of each day. As the overhead hands gripped her hips, the robot pumped a dildo in and out of her slit. This was repeated several times in a row, the position of the hands and the thrusting of the dildo varying each time to simulate different men. Wendy didn't know it, but she was being prepared physically and psychologically for use as a breeding mare if she should eventually be found unsuitable for any other type of pony service.

For the fourth week, a breast pump worked her milk ducts three times a day, eventually producing decent quantities of milk, which were fed back to her. Hormone patches on her arms enhanced the let-down reflex which promoted the flow of milk.

By the end of the month, she was deemed ready for service. The overhead unit conducted tests to gauge her submission and compliance and, when she passed all of them, the unit signalled the nearest ponygirl farm. As a crew made its way to Wendy's address, the robotic hands shaved her head into a mane and branded her on the ass. This scenario was repeated all over the world, as brainwashed ponygirls were being collected and shipped off to farms.

Wendy was sold to a dominatrix in England, where she was renamed Sugarmuff, soon becoming the prize pony in the woman's stable.

On this particular day, she had no idea why she had to take Mistress into town, though it wasn't like she thought about these things anymore. Her mind had been so thoroughly conditioned that her highly-functioning brain only thought ponygirl thoughts, which mainly consisted of pleasing her Mistress so that she could earn special treats: a cube of sugar, some brief moment of affection, or-- her favorite-- a ride on the sybian. The old Wendy would have been shocked and dismayed to see how far she had fallen in life; the new Wendy could no longer comprehend even the basic idea of living as a free independent woman. Without someone to take care of her or tell her what to do, she would die if left to her own devices. And so she stood there, shutting out all external distractions as she waited for Mistress, even the bitter cold and the passage of time having no meaning for her.

Inside, Mistress took her seat with the other ponygirl owners and listened as the speaker outlined new ideas in ponygirl biotechnology: MRIs combined with microwave radiation that could selectively destroy unwanted parts of a ponygirl's brain, date-rape drugs combined with nanotechnology that could wipe out a filly's entire memory, Computers and nano-implants that could train and punish ponygirls while constantly monitoring their physical and psychological endurance so that they can be pushed to their limits, robots that could maintenance an entire stable by themselves, and genetic engineering which could create female centaurs. The possibilities were endless . . .