Christmas Gift

Cindy woke when the ceiling lights went through their dawn sequence. She froze as she felt the prick of the straw, and then let out a long sigh as the events of the last few days cascaded through her mind. She sat up, feeling the gentle slither of the chain from her collar on her skin, and looked at her abdomen. There, in brilliant purple and green, were the two tattoos that marked her as a slavegirl and a ponygirl. She stood up and tried to shake some straw out of her hair. At least, she thought, she felt wonderful. Yesterday’s fever, headache and slight touch of nausea seemed to be past. Now where was the food?

Then she caught what she was thinking and laughed at herself.

“Think you can handle it?” Shelly asked Fidor. Shelly was the older of the two, possibly in her mid to late 30s, and dressed in a ranch hand’s weathered blue jeans and shirt. She wore her coal black hair in a single braid down her back, where it contrasted with the red of a Goodwife Ribbon around her neck.

Fidor, in contrast, was in his early to mid 20s. He also wore the faded blue jeans, cowboy boots and shirt. His close-cropped blond hair surmounted a classically angular face, complete with jutting jaw. One hardly needed to see the quirt coiled at his belt to know that he wasn’t going to wait to take no for an answer.

“I certainly hope so, Shel,” he answered quietly.

“You ought to be able to. Not having doubts the first time you’re lead trainer for a new girl is a very bad sign: the last five I remember all ruined their girls.” She grinned. “You’ll do well.”

“Oh, I know I will, it’s just stage fright.” He gave a friendly wave as he walked out of the lead trainer’s ready room, crossed the street and strode into Training Stable 6. He walked down the corridor to the stall with his graduation assignment: PPO-2033-926. A minute later he stood in front of her stall with his arms crossed and considered what he was seeing.

About 5’8”, blond hair in what would be a fetching bob once they got that far in training. Breasts a bit on the small side, but that was actually good; they wouldn’t break down quickly with vigorous exercise, and the breast regeneration procedures would work well to keep them perky for many years. Measurements about 34-26-36, but that was going to change as the DNA mods took hold. She’d probably wind up about 6 foot even, around 36-24-40. The breast size change would be due to expansion of her rib cage to hold larger lungs and get more oxygen rather than expansion of her breasts, and the waist contraction would make it easier to use a saddle harness. The hip expansion, of course, was part of strengthening her pelvis and rearranging the geometry a bit to provide more power. The fact that the exaggerated waist-hip ratio would make her much more attractive to males was a side benefit.

She’d scrambled to her feet and started looking him over at the same time. He caught her attention and looked her in the eyes. Nice shade of blue, he thought. She dropped her gaze first.

He took the arm binder off the wall, held it up and made a twirling motion with his hand. She took a step back. He kept her gaze and brushed the quirt. She shook her head with a violent ‘no’, but then turned around and put her hands together.

He slid the arm binder up on her arms, bridled her and attached a lead rope. He considered briefly and decided not to hobble her. Then he opened the door and tugged gently.

She followed nicely, he thought as he took her to Basic Obedience Training Arena 5.

Cindy suddenly became aware that there was someone standing in front of the stall, looking down at her. She scrambled to her feet and gave him a good looking over. Around 6 foot, compact muscular type, buzz cut blond hair and what looked like a coiled up whip at his belt. The guy, whoever he was, just oozed the kind of masculinity that expected mere women to fall at his feet panting ‘take me, master.’

“Like Hell,” she thought. She tried to return his gaze, but felt herself break eye contact first. He took that damned arm binder off the wall, and made a gesture. Probably he wanted her to turn around so he could put it on her. Like Hell. Then he brushed the whip. She shook her head, but something about the gesture, almost like he was making love to it, stirred a primitive part of her mind. She turned almost without thinking and brought her arms back.

He slid the binder on her waiting arms. He snapped a lead rein on her bridle and tied the other end to a post using one of those knots that was solid from one end, but would come apart at a tug from the other. Then he detached the chain from her collar, opened the door and tugged at the lead. She followed, slightly bemused at how easily he had made her obey.

After a number of twists and turns, he led her into a circular arena. This was about 20 feet across, with a couple of dozen posts around the sides. The posts had little lights on them.

A young woman, probably in her early 20s, stood there holding a mare on a lead. The woman, Cindy noted, was dressed in faded blue jeans, ranch work boots and a shirt. She wore a red ribbon around her neck with a ponygirl cameo.

“So that’s 926,” she said as Fidor walked up.

“Yup. You’ve got her for the next hour, Marge.”

“Piece of cake, Fi,” she answered. She took Cindy’s lead and looped it over a ring. Then she walked into the ring and gave her mare’s lead a shake. The ponygirl walked to the center, and then started walking toward whichever pole was lighted, all the while Marge held onto the lead.

Cindy nodded. What she was supposed to do seemed to be obvious. Too obvious, but then asking questions didn’t seem to be on the agenda.

Marge tethered her mare, and took Cindy’s lead. She attached it to the box she was using to keep the lead taut without pulling. One of the poles flashed, and Cindy walked toward it. She noted that the lead on her bridle provided a slight drag, but it didn’t really pull. The light on the pole went out and another one flashed. She walked toward that. Then another, and another, and another. She lost track of time or where she was.

Finally it was over, leaving her as confused as ever about why they’d have her doing that exercise. She became aware that crew cut was watching her. He took the lead and took her back to the stable, where he groomed her before putting her back in her stall.

Some time later he came back to take her from her stall again. This time he led her to an equipment shed, where he fastened a very strange harness around her hips. It looked something like a bikini bottom, although it came higher to fasten around her waist, and it was cut to cover her hip bones. The bottom seemed to have strategically placed holes.

He backed her in between the shafts of some kind of a rolling gadget that looked somewhat like a cross between the fabled R2D2 and a cart. Then he put reins on her bridle and attached them to a pair of toggles on the top of the machine. He adjusted the tension until he had it the way he wanted, and then gave her a swat on the ass.

At the same time, the machine tugged the reins. She decided to be a good little ponygirl, and tried to walk forward. To her surprise, the machine rolled behind her with almost no effort. The biggest problem she found was that she wanted to push, or at least feel some drag, with her upper body and there was nothing to push against, even if her arms hadn’t been bound behind her.

The next 20 minutes or so were sheer confusion as she tried to sort out the various tugs on the reins to what they wanted her to do, and avoid the jolts from her control collar. Once she’d gotten them sorted, the machine guided her from the yard she’d been crisscrossing onto a relatively pleasant path and stepped up both the drag and the pace, varying both at random intervals.

An hour later it guided her back. The nazi marine wannabe was waiting for her. He lead her back to the stable, groomed her and put her in the stall. She promptly collapsed and fell asleep.

Later that day, he led her out again for a session with what she’d dubbed the torture wagon. It ran her right up to the edge of her endurance, leaving her just enough to be led back, groomed and allowed to fall into her stall.

Cindy woke up and stretched in place. She felt the straw under her and the slight drag of the light chain that anchored her collar, and hence her, to the stall. The hope that when she woke up she’d find herself in her familiar bed, and all of this would be just a bad dream, had faded to a minor amusement.

She got to her feet and examined herself. The two tattoos were old news. What was more interesting was that her feet seemed to be shrinking at the same time her toes had joined and her toenails had started to thicken. She thought that was the first signs that they were transforming into hooves.

Also, while she wasn’t quite sure, she thought she had a short tail, maybe a couple of inches. The gloves on her hands kept her from investigating.

And the strange fact was, as she crouched and then sprang to her feet, that she felt wonderful. Physically at least she seemed to be bursting with energy. Now if there was just someplace to go with it, she mused.

As far as her training went, whatever they were doing with those lights was still confusing. The torture wagon at least made sense; she thought that she was making better time and hauling heavier loads, but there was no way she could be sure. She was more than ready for the next training exercise.

“Be careful what you wish for,” a little voice in her mind said. “Oh, shut up!” she told it.

“You’re puzzled about something,” Shelly said to Fidor.

“Well, yes. I’m wondering if it’s time to send her out to pasture.”

“Why would you?”

“We’ve been training her for five days. She’s doing fine on the strength and stamina route, and she’s reacting to her collar’s prompts before she sees the lights on the post most of the time. We haven’t moved her to the next stage there yet.

“It looks like her skin has regenerated completely as well. Her bones are beginning to shift, and she’s got a cute 2 inch tail.”

“That’s pretty standard for this time frame. Why wouldn’t you?”

“Partially because I don’t have a really good feeling that she’s ready to learn pasture discipline yet, and partially because the other ponies in that row of the stable aren’t ready, so having her go to pasture while they’re still in their stalls would confuse things.”

“Those seem to be two very good reasons. So why do you want to do it?”

“Mostly because she’s ready for a new challenge.”

“A new challenge. Hm. How about either a 50 pound pack, or start extinguishing the desire to talk?”

“Extinguishing the desire to talk has to be done, but it’s not what she’ll think of as a challenge. If she was being recalcitrant, yes, it would emphasize that I’m the one giving the orders and all resistance is doing is hurting her. 926 is being reasonably cooperative, and that might kick her into resistance.”

“Good point.”

“I’d really like it to happen without her noticing. In fact, I’m not even sure why we’re bothering any more; the muffler is adequate and we’re certainly not suppressing sign language. If anything, we’re encouraging their learning it.”

“There’s a contingency,” Shelly said. “Otherwise I’d agree that it’s no longer needed. You should know the reason we’re not that concerned about sign language.”

“Yes.” Fidor thought for a minute. “I think I’ll do both. I’m going to start the conditioning program in gentle mode; I won’t go to major jolts unless that doesn’t work. The pack should distract her from the anti-talk conditioning, and that will let me delay putting her out to pasture for another three or four days. By that time the other three should be ready, and possibly some of the others.” He nodded decisively.

This time the trainer had her mare with her again. She went through what looked like the same exercise as the first day with Cindy watching. Except. Cindy narrowed her eyes. Some of the moves that the trainer’s ponygirl was doing didn’t seem to have anything to do with the lights on the posts. She didn’t seem to be giving instructions, either.

She shook her head slightly. Stranger and stranger.

The trainer stopped her girl, and brought Cindy into the middle of the arena. The lights started, and then Cindy found herself moving toward an unlighted pole. She hesitated, and then let herself go. The rest of the session continued the strangeness: it seemed like she knew what direction to go. At least, her trainer kept praising her. Of course, she thought during one of the rare breaks, she couldn’t tell if her trainer was really praising her or reciting a recipe for pepperoni pizza; it was the tone that counted.

She was taken directly to the conditioning arena. This time was also different: they put a harness on her, and then put a pack on her back. She staggered a moment before she got it settled where she wanted it. Then they harnessed her to what she still thought of as the torture machine, and sent her out.

She’d managed to hold up during grooming. Barely. She was quite sure that she was asleep before she hit the straw.

That evening she thought about the day, as she usually did. That weird set of exercises seemed to be training her to get directions somehow. The how wasn’t particularly obvious, but she couldn’t see how it mattered. Network, collar, voice, whatever, it did seem like she was being trained to go where she was told without having to understand spoken directions. She shrugged. It did seem like it would be useful to train a ponygirl to do that.

“Doesn’t make much difference,” she started to mutter, but then she got sidetracked.

Once she got back on track, she thought about the stamina course. They’d put a weighted pack on her. Again, it seemed like that might be to condition her for riding, and she had certainly seen enough ponygirls being ridden, both on her first day and later. “Figures,” she started to say, but then got sidetracked.

When she came back, she started to wonder. Getting sidetracked like that wasn’t at all like her. What was she doing? She thought back and suddenly her thoughts were derailed again when she got to talking to herself.

She came back again, and thought some more. Could it be? She tried to say “Damn!” and got sidetracked.

She came back again, and decided to try one more time. Yup, something was shifting her awareness whenever she tried to talk. Not good. What could she do about it? After thinking a while, she decided that there wasn’t a whole lot: it was probably running off of something in her brain waves. Should she do anything about it? On due consideration, she decided that it probably didn’t matter.

About then, the lights started their evening sequence, and she lay down and fell asleep.

“Now I’m really wondering,” Fidor told Shelly during their daily meeting.

“More about 926?”

“Yes. She’s figured out the Go To It conditioning, and let Marge direct her all over the arena without any of the lights today. She’s reacting the same to network and voice commands. Marge says she’s done. That’s a couple of days faster than average.”

“You know what it is about averages. I take it that isn’t it.”

“True. The no talk conditioning is acting weirdly. It’s been three days, and the number of attempts isn’t going down as fast as it should. The curve isn’t right.”

“Well, you know that ‘the curve’ is more myth than reality. Let me see the data.” Shelly looked at the data and pushed it around a bit. Then she laughed.

“Oh?”

“She’s on to you, and she’s doing something. What, I’m not sure.”

“Show me?”

“See what happens if you remove the last two hours before lights out from the data set?”

“Now it looks like a textbook curve.”

“Well, closer. It’s those two hours that are the outliers. The rest of it’s going according to plan, so either she’s letting it condition her out of muttering to herself, or she hasn’t figured out what to do about it. She might not have noticed it, either.” Shelly shrugged slightly. “Most people regard talking out loud to yourself as a bad habit, so she might have decided to let it work. No way of telling yet.

“What’s interesting is what she’s doing before lights out.”

“I’m not sure I’m up to analyzing it.”

“Well, I can’t say I’m 100% sure either, but it looks like she’s wiring around it so that she doesn’t lose focus when the collar jolts her awareness.”

“I’ve never heard of that.”

“I haven’t either. Looks like you’ve got a real interesting challenge for your first solo trainee.”

“Gee. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Cindy came awake as the ceiling lights played the dawn sequence. She brought her bound hands up under her head and looked at the ceiling thoughtfully. She’d been here, what, two weeks or so. She frowned. She wasn’t at all sure of the exact number of days. She did know that her hands had been unbound three times so she could have them deep massaged and perform flexibility exercises. Those exercises had hurt! They were probably necessary, though, at least if they wanted to keep her hands functional for some unknown reason.

Should she wish for something different to happen? Well, the last couple of days she hadn’t had the exercise with the lights on the posts, which probably meant they thought she was done.

About then she heard the feeder trundle into action as it came down behind the stall wall and dispensed its measured amount of water and pellets into the bowls. She laughed quietly; she could tell who was awake by the sound of munching right after the pellets stopped.

It came to her stall and dispensed what was probably carefully measured to be just what she needed. She rolled over and stuck her head in the opening. She didn’t really care what it looked like: chow time was chow time.

After she’d exhausted the food, she stood up. Several of the other girls also stood up as well as the stallion in stall 7. He began his usual routine of eying them. She eyed him back and let herself daydream a bit about what she could do to get them together. As far as she could tell, the answer was: pretty much nothing. Not that it didn’t keep her from fantasizing what he’d be like.

Once they’d finished eating and were all looking around, one of the grooms walked in, followed by an older mare on a lead. Cindy stared: she had her hands and arms free. Then three of the trainers walked in, including her wannabe nazi. The trainers walked to the three ponies that had given them the most trouble and just stared, as if to say, ‘you’d better not cause any trouble.’ Cindy nodded.

Then he did something strange. He pointed at her mouth and made a motion as if inserting a key and locking it. She furrowed her brow. Then he turned the lock the other way and winked! Her head came back: he knew.

He mimed holding a stick, turned it for best effect, and then mimed breaking it. He was good, she had to admit; his muscles had bulged as he mimed the breaking motion. The message was crystal clear: he wasn’t going to pursue how, or even whether, she’d gotten around the no talk conditioning. However, that came with a price tag: she’d better behave or else he’d break her. She looked at him and nodded.

Once the trainers had gotten their messages across, the groom walked down the row of stalls and unbolted each one. Then he threw his mare’s lead rope over her shoulder and made a gesture that seemed to mean: follow her.

The groom and three trainers watched as their nine novice ponygirls and one stallion followed the lead mare.

The mare led them down several paths into a large pasture and made a sweeping motion that seemed to mean: enjoy yourselves. Then she walked off.

While the rest of them were looking around, Cindy made her move. She eased back to stand next to the stallion and planted a firm kiss on his cheek. He turned around in surprise as she puckered up and tilted her head forward for a kiss.

After a moment of shock, he responded. One thing led to another, and pretty soon she was lying on her back, as he plastered kisses on her face while their more important bits got down to serious monkey business.

Neither one of them noticed the lead mare look back at them and laugh.

The pasture, Cindy figured out soon enough, was definitely a good deal. For one thing, it was huge. It had grass, clusters of trees, and a small brook.

The first thing she’d done was check the boundaries. To her surprise there was a double fence, the inner one set about 20 yards in from the outer one, and the invisible fence about two yards in from the outer fence. She figured out why soon enough when she saw horses moving between the two fences. It seemed there was something that the managers of this place wanted to do with their horses. After reflection it didn’t seem like it mattered a whole lot, except that the horses weren’t getting in the way.

The next thing she discovered was that there were several games going on, involving either soccer balls or plastic plates. Without hands she couldn’t join in any of the groups throwing the plates around with wild abandon, but the soccer groups seemed to be more enthusiasm and energy than plan and strategy. She wasn’t quite sure what happened when a ball went outside the fences until she saw it happen. Some kind of an insectoid robot came to life, retrieved the strayed object and heaved it back into the pasture.

Then she found herself heading for the path out of the pasture. She found she took the turns automatically, until she arrived at the equipment shed with what she still called the torture robot. One of the grooms put her arms in a binder, harnessed her to the robot, put a pack on her back, and she was off on another conditioning run.

When she got back, wiped out as usual, another groom led her to an outdoor grooming station. He did the usual efficient and passionless job of washing her down, and then swatted her ass and pointed. She found herself walking somewhere. Several turns later, she found herself in the middle of what looked like the runway between the pasture and the stable, and whatever had been guiding her quit. Totally. She had no idea what to do next. She stood looking back and forth for a moment, and then tried to go on.

Oops! Now there were invisible fences blocking her from either going forward or retracing her steps. A little experimentation showed her that she could go to the pasture, or to the stable, but nowhere else. She wasn’t, she decided, really up for the pasture. She headed for her stall and collapsed.

This could be a posh vacation, Cindy thought as she sat in her stall. Grooms to attend to my every need, I’m fitter than I have ever been in my life, I can wander out to have fun whenever I want, there are at least ten stallions just waiting to service me whenever I’m ready.

Like hell, her mind replied. First, it’s not a vacation. They’re preparing you to be sold. To the highest bidder, probably.

Well, yeah. I know that. So what? It’s easier than job hunting.

You don’t get to pick your job.

With my grades I wouldn’t have any of the choice jobs anyway.

Yeah. You were going for your Mrs. Look where that got you.

Here. And whatever they’re doing with hand training sucks. If they’d just tell me what they wanted, I’d do it. But no, they’re conditioning whatever it is into me. And mistakes hurt.

It’s not that bad, her mind replied. You know it leads to their leaving your hands free.

Yeah, right. Switch sides in the argument. Again.

Now what the fuck are they doing to me, Cindy thought angrily. I’ve been standing here for hours, and nothing’s happening.

Trying to drive you mad? her mind replied.

Nah, can’t be. There’s lots easier ways of doing that. And probably a lot more fun for them.

Well, then just do what old 1-482 suggested. Look at what’s going on in front of you.

But that’s boorrrring.

So? You’re going to be standing at hitching racks a lot. For the rest of your life. You need to learn to amuse yourself.

Cindy sighed. She hated losing arguments with herself.

That chick can sure bounce, Cindy thought as she reviewed her disastrous first attempt at being ridden.

Just as well, her mind replied, the number of times she fell off.

Yeah, that was not my most sterling performance. I just hope it doesn’t affect my training program.

Shouldn’t, her mind replied. That chick can’t be more than five foot even and 90 pounds. And the way she bounces, she’s got lots of experience with novice ponygirls who can’t seat a rider.

Well, there’s always tomorrow, she thought disgustedly.

Her mind didn’t deign to reply.

“I take it everything’s working out,” Shelly half-asked.

“Yes. The boredom elimination program is working like a charm now that she’s decided to let it. She’s acting more and more like a ponygirl, not a college student who’s being forced into doing something she really, really doesn’t want to do.”

“Feeling follows action, and thought follows feeling,” Shelly said as if it was a mantra. “The pasture is usually the turning point: it gives them a feeling that they’re more in control.”

“She’s beginning to get her hooves under her with someone in the saddle.” Fidor laughed. “I have to say I’ve never seen quite as bad a start.”

“You’re still young.” Shelly laughed. “We’ve had a couple that just couldn’t find their balance regardless. Medical finally said it was something neurological, and acquisition added it to their filters.”

I am so going to kill that bitch! Cindy fumed.

So? She’s spastic, her mind replied.

She is not spastic. She’s messing up the pace deliberately.

Fidor’s wrist alarm buzzed. He sighed. What now?

It seemed that the pasture monitor said there was a confrontation brewing between 926 and 892. He decided to head for the lead trainer’s ready room; the stallions could keep them apart if it came to blows or hair pulling.

892’s lead trainer was already seated in front of the row of monitors that lined one wall. Fiona had a classic figure, flaming red hair and green eyes. She also had a temper to match. She could show a surprising amount of patience, but she only seemed to use it when she was training one of her girls. He liked her. A lot. Unfortunately, she didn’t reciprocate.

“So what are our two problem children getting up to, Fi?”

“It looks like 926 has had it with 892’s problems with keeping a pace. I can’t say I blame her, 892 has been screwing up at least once a session with every pony we’ve matched her, and nothing I do with rhythm training seems to be helping.”

“Well, let’s see what happens.” The two settled back to watch the monitors as 926 walked across the meadow, looked 892 in the face and screamed at her.

892 gave her a couple of signs.

“Oh, nice comeback,” Fiona breathed.

926 signed: ~You’re doing it deliberately~

~So? You can’t keep up with pace changes?~

“I get it. She’s bored.” Fiona said

“Looks like it to me,” Fidor said. “What do we do about it?”

“Basic pace changes are called for by the driver,” Fiona stated as an obvious fact. “We train them so they’re automatic. Neither pony should be having problems with driver signals. Neither seems to have difficulty synchronizing a pace change when the driver calls for it.

“Anything else is show stuff, and that requires a matched team and lots of training. The owners do that if they want a show team. We don’t. Hm.” She sat back and watched the monitors as several stallions walked up behind the two mares.

“I have to admit 926 isn’t at fault,” she said finally. “I can put a note in 892’s sales file that she’s high-strung and doesn’t do well with routine, but that won’t help here and now. I’m going to pull her from the Christmas catalogs and see if she’ll settle when she’s got some post-training time to just be a ponygirl.”

“I think some discipline is in order.”

“I have to agree. Let’s put it on the schedule. I’ll confine her to her stall until then. That might get the point across.” Fiona took over the screen with an almost unnoticeable twitch of her fingers and entered some commands. Fidor nodded. That was one of the advantages of being female: all the women wore control collars, even if they pretended they were Goodwife Ribbons, and they all knew how to use them.

He wasn’t at all sure whether being able to wear a control collar and con people into thinking it was a Goodwife Ribbon was an advantage or disadvantage of being female.

That, Cindy thought, had been like an ice water bath: it had woke everyone up. They’d pulled all of the ponies into the large arena, and stood them in rows while they hauled 892 up in front, strung her up in a rack, and proceeded to whip her. Cindy was no connoisseur of whippings; in fact she would prefer not to see one ever again, but it had been impressive. When they’d finished, the poor girl’s back and thighs had been covered with welts. A medical technician had come out and put some kind of healing gel on them.

What had been even more impressive, though, was that the guy wielding the whip had started out with a two minute description of what she’d done, in perfect sign language. Both lessons had come through loud and clear. First, they probably knew everything that one of the ponies said to another one, and second, deliberately screw up and you won’t like the result.

Now what, Fidor asked himself as his wrist communicator buzzed at him. He checked. The meadow monitor said that 892 was headed for 926 with blood in her eye. He shook his head. Well, that could have been predicted. He headed into the lead trainer’s ready room to watch the confrontation on the monitors.

As he also could have predicted, Fiona was there ahead of him, watching the confrontation develop. He slid into a seat next to her. By then it had already gotten to the point where two stallions were restraining 892, and 926 was looking at her, hands on hips, as if she had gone crazy.

“This is one of those times,” Fiona said, “where I wish we could just turn a switch and listen to them hurl invective at each other.”

“We could,” Fidor countered.

“And destroy how much training?”

“There is that,” he acknowledged. “Now what are they doing?”

“Well, they’ve calmed 892 down enough that they’re letting her go. There she goes,” she said as 892 launched into a rapid-fire series of signs that would have made a contortionist blanch.

“Ooo. Nice attack. Now she’s standing back for a response.”

~I’ll bet you don’t know what you were punished for,~ 926 signed calmly.

~You got me into this.~

~Nope. What do you think you were punished for?~

~I don’t know,” 892 finally admitted.

~Well, everyone else does. I guess you had your back turned when the guy with the whip told us.~

~He told you? How?~

~They know our sign language,~ one of the stallions signed disgustedly.

~Oh.~ 892 wilted slightly. ~I’ll bet they’re watching this.~

~No bet. No way of knowing to pay it off.~

“Now there’s a stallion with his head on his shoulders,” another of the trainers chortled. “945, eh?”

892 snorted. ~So tell.~

~You screwed up deliberately. It was doing it intentionally that they got you for.~

~Oh, shit.~

The senior mare said: ~Yeah. Now kiss and make up.~

~Huh?~

~We’re going to stand here until you do.~

Cindy looked at the sky briefly. Why was she involved at all? Well, it didn’t pay to irritate the senior mares. Or the stallions. Especially the stallions. She motioned to 892 and pursed her lips briefly. 892 looked and then stepped forward. They nuzzled and then kissed. Then they kissed again. They backed off and looked at each other, startled. Then they pulled themselves into a hug and got down to some serious kissing.

Twenty minutes later, the two disentangled themselves.

Back in the ready room, Fiona noticed that one of her hands had migrated to Fidor’s leg. She pulled it back as if it was burned. Fidor managed to strangle a laugh.

“Now that those two have settled it, let’s take them out for a ride together,” he suggested.

Fiona looked at him. “Now that’s a good idea. A few rides, and then put them in harness together for a while.”

Cindy stood, arms behind her in a cross-arm binder and reins tied to the hitching rack, and calmly waited for something to happen. Her trainer walked out, accompanied by a peppery redhead. They’d been out together on rides before. This time the redhead was wearing a short skirt that flattered her unmercifully, rather than her usual faded jeans. They both carried packs.

Her trainer walked up behind her and fastened one of the packs to her side, and then freed the reins with a jerk. He put his foot in the stirrup and swung into her saddle as she automatically swung in the opposite direction to maintain balance.

He coaxed her backwards for a few steps, and then turned her in place. The redhead, riding 892, came up beside them. Cindy noted, with mild amusement, the reason for the really short skirt. Or at least one of the reasons: anything longer would have bunched up in front of her unmanageably.

The two ponygirls almost instinctively adjusted their paces to stay side by side so their riders could talk.

The two of them made a leisurely pace down one of the wooded paths that surrounded the training stables, and stopped in a little clearing. They tied their two ponygirls to trees and settled down to enjoy the picnic they’d brought in the packs. They they’d enjoyed each other. They were both extremely passionate lovers, Cindy noted, before her wandering hand ignited 892.