What’s it like? Really like? Well, a lot of the time it hurts. I expect the masochists amongst you are thinking ‘oh goody, tell us more’.

I used to be a young, reasonably attractive, slim and busy blonde. Heaven knows what I was busy at but I always seemed to be busy, without any actual outcome. Had the usual series of boyfriends, none very serious: I never liked sex much – my upbringing meant that I entered adolescence very well-behaved. Bits and pieces of life seemed fun or interesting, but only bits and pieces; there was nothing whole or complete and I merely went from day to day wondering what it was all about. If there was something in it for me, something that made the whole business worthwhile, what was it? I thought I knew who I was clearly enough, but I seemed like a cartoon or an unfinished painting. Nothing solid there. Then, when I was exactly seventeen and one month and one day, I discovered the Internet. When I was seventeen and eight months and twenty-three days ‘he’ discovered me – by way of the Internet.

Now I’m twenty-three and I’m his Pony; name of ‘Tips’ – short for ‘Tiptoes’. Pony-Girl, though I think that’s a horrid expression. I don’t wonder any more who I am or what my life’s about because now I know; I found what’s ‘in it for me’, what makes everything worthwhile. Oh, the ‘painting’ is still unfinished because every day I learn how to put another detail into it, but I’m in sight of the ‘real me’ and the real me is Tiptoes, my owner’s pony.

So what’s it like? And anyway, if I’m Tiptoes, how come I’m writing this? Simple enough; I broke a leg and an arm and I’m sitting up in bed in his house, being made a fuss of and poking away at his laptop with the fingers of one hand. It’s okay being treated like, well, a girl, but I’m almost mended and I can’t wait to get back into harness and be me again.

In the beginning, when I first met him, it was just sex, then it got exciting because he taught me that sex isn’t just two people ‘doing it’ but is really a whole range of different things, including some pretty odd ‘fetishes’. He tried, we tried practically everything, some of the things whether I was keen or not. No violence, just persuasion, which is something he’s very, very good at. So we tried the ‘Pony Girl’ thing and in a couple of hours I knew that was for me. That I could be a Pony, no trouble at all. It was a bit primitive then, but I stood in his big living room, all done up in off-the-Internet bit-gag, scrappy harness and such and just said to him, through the bit and not very clearly, ‘I want to stay like this. I mean be like this.’ He looked at me for a long time, very serious, then said, absolutely clearly: ‘I know.’ Just that, but hearing those two words was like sensing the beginning of some sort of thermonuclear orgasm. He sent me away from him for two whole months, not a word, not an e-mail, nothing but the parting words.

‘I will send for you when I’m ready for you.’

I went through a fairly awful time waiting but I knew something about the comfort of obedience even then, so I waited. Oh, I surfed the net for ‘Pony Girl’ material, not that there’s a lot of the real stuff, but almost all of it was about dressing-up in harness and stuff, pulling carts, play-acting. I wasn’t going to play-act, I was going to be a Pony for real. Then, one evening when I was about to sign up to a pay-site – Pony Girls of course – I got the e-mail.

‘Thursday the 19th, 11am, steps of the National Gallery. Shirt, jeans, canvas sneakers, no underarm or pubic hair. Head hair pulled back in a band. No underwear. No luggage of any kind. You do not greet me and you do not speak until you are at Paternosters.’

‘Paternosters’ is the name of his great big old place, this place. Was I nervous, scared – as I should have been, young woman ‘going away’ with a big, strong, dominant man? No. I was just fantastically excited and found seven different ways to make my PC count down to the 19th of June, washed and pressed my best 501 jeans five times, bought three different shirts because I couldn’t decide on which, bought four different pairs of canvas sneakers and paraded in front of my mirror until I was reasonably happy with the whole me. Shaved every morning until I discovered depilatories on the net and, despite the ‘ouch’ factor, became as smooth as the proverbial ‘baby’s bottom’ just about everywhere except my head. Told my pals and the landlord that I was going to explore the world and not to worry; and no, I didn’t want a send-off. On the 18th of June I was a wreck with the anticipation and the waiting.

I muffed it, of course. Went with trembly legs up the steps of the National Gallery, saw him standing there looking like he ruled the planet, and said ‘I’m here.’ It took about ten minutes of walking beside him before I was directed to the middle of the back seat of the Bentley, the door went ‘thunk’ as it closed and without turning his head he said:

‘You were clearly told not to speak. I expect you to obey me. When we get to Paternosters I shall punish you for disobedience.’ That was all that was said by anyone until we drove into the big-car garage here and he beckoned me out through the back door to what’d been the ‘small garage’. It had been transformed into a perfect ‘country-farm’ sort of stable, all wooden walls and fixtures, tack hanging everywhere and ... Well, I didn’t have time to take it all in and anyway I was having ‘oh my goodness’ sexual feelings at the sight. So I got punished, right away, then and there, in my loose box.

‘Turn and face the wall. Take off your right shoe and pass it back to me. Then bend down and hold your ankles.’ I did it all without really thinking about it, being too engrossed with the quick images I’d had of some very unusual things hanging or standing about in the place; I just bent, pulled off an immaculately new white Keds slip-on and passed it back to him. He beat me with it. I yelled. He said ‘Not a sound.’

He beat my behind until I was trying very hard not to do a frantic pain-dance and trying very hard to keep quiet and still. But I’d disobeyed him right at the start and I kept telling myself that, in between the whacks and the fires burning in the seat of my jeans: ‘you disobeyed, you have to be beaten.’ Didn’t help much and I blubbed well before he said, “Up. In future if you disobey me I will thrash you. Strip.”

Of course I’d had lots of exciting, stimulating fantasies of being put into harness for the first time and had wet various pants, nighties, and sheets in the process; but none of them included being beaten with a plimsoll first and I wasn’t at all sure whether I was very, very sore or had discovered yet another sexual-feeling-accelerator. So I stripped and stood there, arms-out-legs-wide as I was told.

I’d expected it to take days or even weeks before I got used to a Pony outfit. It took about twenty-five minutes, the time it took for me to go from naked to him taking my lead and saying ‘Into the house, I need photos for your records.’ I felt beautiful. I mean beautiful to look at as well as fantastic inside. Of course he’s had the stuff made for me but even then it felt like part of me, all of it. I’d once said to him ‘all lovely leather’ and had been a bit miffed when he said ‘rubber’. So I stood there in a fabulously thick, soft black rubber body-form, my breasts standing out of the openings like someone’s exaggerated wish-fulfilment breasts, nipples like fingertips and both burning because of the clips for my bells – I’m pierced now of course – wriggling my hips just a tiny bit to settle my dildo nicely; I should have been scared of my dildo, it being big, red and deeply corrugated all the way up, but when I saw him KY-ing it I just wanted it in me, right in me.

When it was in and I came down off my toes he did my tail-plug; bit of a shock as I’d forgotten about that and my bottom was much tighter then. I mean I saw the big blonde tail in his hand and the knobbly red rubber plug but it was in me before I registered it was coming. Crotch strap next, thick black rubber, locking at the back – I do the dildo and tail bit myself now of course, but it was nicer when he did it somehow. I still wriggle my hips and bottom when they’re in, just to get them both comfortable. All the buckles and locks and joining-chains are chromed and even in simple harness I jingle deliciously.

I remember I couldn’t work out what the very short, heavy rubber suspender things were for – six of them hung from my body-form: well, they locked to the top of my boots.

It was my first boots that changed the whole thing from me being dressed as a Pony into the feeling that, suddenly, I wasn’t that me any more; that quite suddenly I was an animal, a Pony, utterly. Those boots were pretty good, though, not like the boots I wear now: they were almost crotch high, thick moulded rubber of course, with the feet shaped to tiptoe by moulded-in steel plates which cupped my heels and formed the hidden soles. The boots ended in really quite delicate hoof-shapes – Pony hooves, not horse hooves – and had just slightly loose horseshoes, so that I ‘tinked’ a bit when I moved.

And did I move, that first day, that first moment when I became me. I had to move, had to use some of the surge of wonderful energy that filled me when I realised that it had happened, that I had become what I was meant to be. And the rubber was right, the feeling that it was my new, natural outside skin. I love the perfume of warm rubber harness.

‘Still, stand still,’ said my Master as I lifted and planted my wonderful hooves on the stone-slab floor. I couldn’t help it, I wanted to move, walk, feel myself moving.

‘Stand still!’ I couldn’t, I was exuberant, happy, liberated: even when I saw him reach down a thin stick, a curved switch, from the wall I still pattered my hooves on the stone, the jingling of my part-harness like music.

‘I will have obedience,’ he said and showed me the switch, just held it up; I don’t know what happened to me then, perhaps I was so uncontrollably into being the Pony me or something, but I wanted that switch, I wanted to feel it drawing white-hot stripes across my exposed bottom, a bottom with maximum cleavage because of my crotch-strap and therefore maximum presentation. I stamped a hoof and made my first head-shake – and got thrashed. Hands strapped over my head to a beam, my legs parted wide by a metal bar so that my lovely hooves were on their tips, I got a thrashing. I don’t know how many cuts of the switch he gave me, perhaps only twelve or so, but somehow it wasn’t the ice and fire pain I anticipated – the ice and fire and force of a whipping – it wasn’t agony, it was wonderful. Wonderful. I needed it, wanted it as I had so desperately wanted to become me, the Pony me.

I made him very, very angry when he thrashed me with that switch because I didn’t scream or yell; maybe I started with a yell or shout at the first cut, but then I heard myself, accompanied by the hiss and crack of the switch, the jingling of my harness and the taptaptap of my restrained hooves, heard myself calling ‘Yes. Yesss. Oh Yesss!’ louder and louder as he beat me. My Master told me, a long time later, that my crotch-strap and even the tops of my boots were gleaming wet when he’d finished, but at the time he was very angry indeed.

‘I – will – not – have – you – making – words,’ he growled in my ear and ‘Open wider’ as he put the deep bit into my mouth and strapped up my head harness. The deep bit then was just an ordinary steel fixed-bit covered in hard rubber, but the rubber sleeve over the bar had an extension backwards shaped flat to depress my tongue. For a second I thought it very uncomfortable with my mouth unable to close and my tongue flat against cold, smooth rubber, but such was my excitement at the beating and over everything, at my having found my true life at last that I would have smiled at him as he buckled me up – had I been able to. I saw the long blonde plume as he brought it to fasten to the head harness and held still willingly while he fitted it. In those days I wore a rubber head-hood over the harness, not, as I do now, my full head-helmet. Then, on that wonderful day, I twitched my head and felt the blonde plume whisk round my ears.

It was a glorious day with the sun illuminating blue sky and the rolling greens and browns of the Paternosters estate framed by my stable doors; I wanted to run out there, the buckles, rings and chains of my harness glinting and jingling, feeling the gravel and then the yielding turf under my new hooves, hearing my breast-bells tinkle, feeling the warm rubber of my dildo and tail-plug moving strongly inside me – I wanted to trot, I wanted to canter and I wanted to whinny, not shout my happiness but whinny. But I had to wait, I had to obey and I was told to stand still.

That was really only training-kit and harness that day, wonderful as it was. My hands were put into blunt ended heavy rubber mitts that strapped and locked at my elbows, not into hooves, and my arms then strapped further into a long back-sleeve.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘You are Tiptoe now. Come, walk behind me.’ He clipped the ends of a Y-shaped leading rein to my breasts. ‘Knees high, Tiptoe.’ I walked behind my Master all over the estate, my knees a little higher each time the switch kissed me, until he said ‘Good’ again and I was walked back to my stable. That was the first night I slept as I do now, supported in a head-and-body-harness suspended from the stable-ceiling, astride my sleeping-bar – a round six-inch diameter rubber-padded bar and with my hooves lightly shackled to the floor. My dildo and tail-plug are taken out and I just settle myself onto the bulb-shaped dildo moulded into the sleeping-bar. It’s good, being put to my sleeping-bar, because rest and ease and naturally comfortable sleep soon come.

So what’s it like now? Well, it’s like all that but I’m trained. To be really well trained is a magical feeling. I don’t mean plain things like learning a special snort when I want to pee or drop, so that I can be led outside to the yard to stand and do it there: I mean the training that makes you feel proud and – well, a show-off – when ‘walk on’ becomes his tongue-click for ‘canter’ or the double click for ‘knees-high, dressage-do-your-stuff, Tip.’

I mean knowing instinctively how to draw the gharri – that’s a little, light Indian cart-thing for two – over my ‘little’ track that wanders over the estate, over little bridges and through two cool water-splashes. How to draw the ekka – Indian again and mostly used when he wants to move timber or other heavy stuff about - there’s a really different way to stand and move in the draw-poles if I’m pulling something heavy. My Master never uses a carriage whip, at least not when I’m working – there was one time, in the stable, when I was whipped – but he does have a six-foot rattan; I’m never sure whether it feels like a kiss or a cut! Visitors I quite like as they’re all from Pony Girl clubs and things like that and anyway I’m a Pony so rightfully superior to the so-called Pony-Girls that are brought.

And they come as girls and are changed here: I travel in my horse-box when my Master takes me visiting. Most of the Pony Girls who are brought are just part-time – as if that’s even possible - and are sex-objects, hopeless at being ‘ponies’ and in all sorts of amateurish gear. It’s all very boring, or it was until a thoroughly nasty Master brought ‘Moonlight’. He was trying to make her into a Pony, not a Pony Girl, and had absolutely no idea; poor Moonlight spent most of her time in cheap leather harness, no boots or hooves, chained to the paddock-rail and crying, really sobbing her heart out. I went and nuzzled her a bit because I felt so sorry for her. She clearly wasn’t one of the usual sex-object things – I think her Master was incapable – so she was neither would-be Pony nor sex-slave, just completely miserable. She peed over my Master’s best rubber riding-boots while he was examining her.

‘Naughty!’ was all he said of course, but Moonlight’s Master went crazy: my Master led him away, telling him very plainly to shut-up and that she couldn’t help it. We had one Pony Boy come once, emerging from being prepared with a huge and swinging black rubber penis which, of all things, his Master suggested should be put into me! He and his Master stayed just long enough to get him back into stupid tight jeans and a too-small tee-shirt.

My Master does give me sex sometimes, when he thinks I need it, but it’s beautifully done like everything he does: I’m scrubbed and hosed down and my dildo – or my tail-plug taken out – or both – and he straps me gently over the Servicing Stool and does it. It’s nice, quite exciting and makes my harness rattle and jingle marvellously but mainly it’s an honour, if you understand me.

I’ve been telling you just a little of what it’s like now but, right now, as I sit here in bed with my arm and leg in plaster, now has just changed. I heard the kok-kok-kok of hooves in the parquet-floored passage outside this room. A Pony Girl? Couldn’t be.

In comes my Master, trailing a lead-rein!

‘Morning, Tips. Birthday present,’ he grins, and stands aside to let in a glorious little Pony, not a Pony Girl, a Pony, dark-haired, graceful, in an all-over matte-grey rubber body suit – it’d be a ‘cat-suit’ in any other context, harness, bridled and bitted in gleaming stainless steel. Moonlight! He’s bought her and had given her the fastest training in history while I was confined to this bed. Moonlight! Eighteen years old and still crying, but now from happiness.

‘Soon as that plaster’s off and you’re back in harness, my pet,’ he said to me, ‘then you two can get to know each other. There’s this too,’ and he laid a package on my bed.