I didn’t sleep well. My sexy new piercings made my flesh throb constantly, and the blanket hurt whenever it rubbed across them. Half the night I lay awake, listening to the tossing and groaning from the other bunks. The morning wasn’t noticeably better, giving the crying fit I had upon seeing my septum-ringed face in the mirror. It didn’t instil much hope for the rest of the day, especially with pony training lurking at 09:30.
“Ah, there you are,” Kendrick greeted me as though we had arranged to meet for lunch. He pulled me out of my group as soon as I had taken my clothes off in the tack room. Then the lead handler also grabbed Ten and Fifteen for good measure.
He shoved us around the corner and against the tack room’ s short outer wall, only to run back into the storage to fetch our cussed hoof boots.
“Here, put these on. The combination. It’s all about the combination!”
Kendrick was clearly excited about something. The arrival of Slacker Boy brought some clarification; the youngster was carrying the cardboard box Sixteen had been hauling about yesterday. It bore traces of that mysterious water attack I’d heard of. Finished booting ourselves up we got clumsily on our hooves, only to be rearranged by Kendrick. Now we three ponygirls were standing in line, backs to the wall, naked except for our intolerable footwear. With dainty Fifteen to my right and lanky Ten to my left I arrived at the conclusion that the lead handler had chosen us for our heights. For reasons soon to be revealed he insisted on a range from barely 1.6 to shy of 1.8 metres.
He ripped the box open and pulled black leather stuff out, which in my equine experience always equalled more bondage. At first glance it was another three pairs of hoof boots. They sported artificial hooves, so much was for sure. But the leather tubes seemed a bit wobbly and ill-fitting for legs. Kendrick handed the first pair to Slacker Boy and helped himself to the second one. Geared up like this they approached Fifteen and me, respectively.
“Arms out, loves!”
Of course. All about the combination. Hoof gloves.
Kendrick was quicker than the stablehand, which meant I had the dubious honour to be the first pony in the short yet proud history of the Deepfuck Advanced Correctional Centre to be hoof-gloved. I could have done without. My hands, forced into fists, were stuck inside the rigid hoof-shaped ends (of course with horse shoes). From there leather sleeves ran up to my elbows, tightly laced by the lead handler. He also had fastened the integrated leather cuffs around my wrists. They sported D-rings, should the filly be in need of further restraints.
After rigging Ten as well Kendrick took a few steps back to examine our latest upgrade. The gloves were evidently a one size fits all affair. On Ten they ended well below the elbow joints, Fifteen was wearing hers as opera gloves.
“Hold them out and do some prancing for me.”
We did as told, moving our arms as a rearing horse would do with its front legs. Very quickly the hooves became very heavy. Due to the obligatory armbinder during pony training I hadn’t gained strength in my arms, whereas my leg muscles had already built up quite some stamina.
Kendrick, stroking his musketeer beard, observed our efforts with the highest sobriety. Somehow he wasn’t pleased.
He turned towards slacker boy, who kept gawking at us.
“Dunno. Looks a bit ridiculous, don’t you find?”
Slacker Boy opened his mouth, but didn’t know how to reply. Consequently, he closed his mouth again. To be fair, I wouldn’t have known how to reply to that, too. Professionally fitting up girls as ponies and then lamenting parts of it are looking ridiculous revealed a strange view on things. Not that I was complaining. One pair of hooves was more than I had ever hoped or wished for.
“Okay,” Kendrick took the initiative again, “let’s see how they work on the ground. Everybody on their hands and knees.”
He didn’t lose time making us stand on hands and feet, a pose of debatable aesthetical value. Being on our knees was a bit more comfortable, but not less debasing. It also raised the question about the existence of hoof kneepads. Ten muttered something in disagreement upon placing herself in the desired position, and a minute later all three of us had tongue bits in our mouths. Thanks, Ten.
To be fair for the second time that afternoon, Kendrick would have bitted us nonetheless. How could one decide whether hoof gloves looked good on a ponygirl without all the other major tack items in place? In this spirit the lead handler asked his squire to fetch a suitable number of “straight tails”. I had no idea what straight tails were, but I knew this should be good. The stablehand returned with three horse tails, each fitted to a stainless steel plug. Unlike the models normally used on us, these didn’t emerge from their bases in an arched fashion. Hence the name, I concluded. The young handler didn’t bother to lube us up as he engaged in the most satisfying task of tailing a trio of nude ponygirls. The plugs were small, in size and form comparable to an average strawberry. The pain they would cause during dry insertion was therefore defined as negligible – as long as you weren’t the one on the receiving end.
To my right Fifteen whimpered as the youngster set to work on her. Then a cute gasp marked the wicked moment when the bulb fully entered her rear. I was next. Slacker Boy put one arm around my hips to hold me steady and nudged my tender anus with the plug’s cold tip. I groaned in prospect of pain, but more so in humiliation. The reality that the little bugger was now entitled to shove torture toys up my arse was unbearable. Far worse than if Kendrick had done it. As lunatic as it might sound, he was most likely the only one on this funny farm who knew what he was doing. Who had some actual competence in breaking fillies in. The original weird turned pro.
Slacker Boy, impatient and untutored in the art of tailing a ponygirl, didn’t give me a chance to relax, which made the plug insertion all the more painful and invasive. The degrading object slid in without remorse, only to lock itself cold and unwelcomed behind my sphincter. The plug was small and smooth enough for me to dislodge, but to what end would I do that except for being fitted with a bulkier one?
Ten endured her upgrading in utter silence, apart from a sharp breathing in at the end. Kendrick had us turn halfway around, which provided much needed explanation of why the straight tails were his variant of choice. Between Ten’s marked buttocks the plug’s gleaming base was visible. In our current position the tails emerged from it in an angle slightly above the horizontal. Gravity then gave it the desired natural arch. Again I was disturbed by the richness of details created for this venture. Somewhere, somebody had actually gone to their superior and said: “Harry, I’ve given that tail topic some more thoughts. We’ll actually be needing two separate versions to get pony-conform curvature.” – “Fucking A, Bob! I ring up R&D.”
Kendrick eyed us over once more, even had us “walk” with our forelegs on the spot. That, too, became strenuous surprisingly quickly. Plus, I kept being brushed in the face by Ten’s ersatz tail.
“What do you reckon, son?”
Slacker Boy looked like something premature was about to happen. Three nude, arse-up’d girls in pony paraphernalia can do that to you.
“Who ordered them, anyway?” the lead handler continued without dwelling on his companion’s input. “They look clumsy on two-legged fillies. It’s better on all fours, yet I can’t see any usage practicable.”
S.B. nodded sagely upon these words of wisdom from his mentor. Aiming for ultimate consensus, Kendrick hunched down whilst addressing us three.
“Anybody else thinks these gloves are unsuitable?”
Not waiting for Kendrick to have second thoughts on that topic, I performed an innovative stomp with my new forehoof. Fifteen immediately followed my lead. After a delay based on averseness to act more pony-like than absolutely necessary rather than actually pondering about her choice Ten clapped on the ground also. And people said grassroots democracy was dead.
“Great. Up, up, up!”
Awkwardly we rose back on our feet, staggering on our rearhooves in the process. Unlikely that we could hold a vote about them, too. Hoof boots: sexy. Hoof gloves: clumsy. I believe we all have learnt something here today…
“Are you done yet?”
Kandrin was leaning against the corner of the tack room, accompanied by Ten’s handler. They were waiting to take their thoroughbreds for a spin. Especially Miss Cuntling wasn’t pleased with the academic quarter added to her starting time. We were freed from the hoof gloves, which were stowed back in the box by Slacker Boy. Ten was fetched by her handler and led into the tack room, Kendrick did the same with a red-faced Fifteen. Miss C. hooked a finger underneath my off-the-shelf bridle to walk me through the door as well, albeit to the large wooden table. Draped on it were my standard bridle, harness and leather yoke. My first reaction to a sight like this was to check which bit was fitted to the head gear – everything else had to come second. A curb bit with twin shanks. Which meant stud chain. Which meant yanked septum ring.
I hold my arms up shoulder-high, allowing for an easier fitting of my harness. Kandrin took full advantage of this. She pulled at the belts with all might, soon achieving a corresponding effect on the buckled waspie. It wasn’t tight, not in the accepted sense. It was crushing. I felt like being bro-hugged by a grizzly bear. Ponies didn’t speak, so much I’ve had learnt. Obviously ponies didn’t breathe, either.
“This is a new one, so it may be a bit stiff at first,” she announced whilst placing the yoke on my shoulders. Indeed it felt even more restrictive as my old one, and not because of it never been worn before. An additional layer of leather reinforced it in the back, and an integrated high collar or brace wound itself around my neck. It rendered me unable to tilt my head in any direction.
“This will help with your head carriage, Seventeen. It adds a nice discipline aspect, too.”
For a woman who had been in a hurry earlier on she was very painstaking in lacing my brand-new discipline collar up in the back. I felt a leather flap being folded over to cover the whole length of lacing. Following DACC tradition, it was secured by two locks. I’d never been claustrophobic, but right then I might give it a try.
I was still struggling to come to terms with the leather neck brace when Kandrin went to work on my still outstretched arms. Strange fingerless mittens enclosed my hands. Like everything else they were made from high-grade leather. Build-in leather cuffs made sure I could not slip them off. Unlike in the hoof gloves I could not make a fist in them. My hands were trapped flat in the stiff pouches, unable to grab anything. Thanks to my bit-regarded concerns I hadn’t noticed the absence of my armbinder on the table. This, and those irritating bondage mittens made for quite the prologue to a nasty surprise. There it was again, that sinking feeling deep within my guts every time Miss Cuntling came up with something new to torture me with.
Kandrin pushed my arms down, rubbed and kneaded the muscles all the way up to the parts of my shoulders not armoured by the yoke.
“We talked about a different arm position the other day, didn’t we?”
Nope. She’d talked. Kendrick had managed to get some words in. I’d just tried not to be sick from exhaustion. I stomped nonetheless, just in case my memory was failing me.
I had expected my hands to be shackled palms facing out, just like they had been in the monoglove the last few times. But Kandrin bound them together in the small of my back with relative slack, palms down and fingertips touching. Then she hauled the chain between the cuffs up along my back. And up. And up. With the wrists forced to follow the pull, my palms created an ever decreasing angle to each other, like a hellish origami. I could feel the counterforce on my shoulders. Kandrin had hooked my binds to some sort of mini pulley on my yoke. My leather-clad hands, now pressed tightly together, kept gliding along my spine. Under the immense pull my forearms were folding in as well towards my inverted bicepses. I bit in the mouthpiece, a pathetic attempt to transfer my pain into the inanimate object. When the strain and stress in my overstretched muscles became too much, I pressed warning noises past my gag. Then desperate noises. Finally howls of anguish. My hands were now cramped between my abnormally protruding shoulder blades, elbows ready to snap, shoulder joints about to pop.
A metallic click in the nape of my neck startled me.
There was no release on my hands, but they weren’t dragged up further, either. Miss C. had stopped. I couldn’t even fully perceive the position my arms were in. They seemed to be twisted beyond any kinaesthetic logic, sending my proprioception into an utterly undefined state.
Something cut into the bends of my elbows. Another strap! Tighter and tighter it became under Kandrin’s renewed onslaught on my limbs. I fidgeted in pain as my elbows were tethered to the point of touching. With my forearms now vertical and parallel, she got some more centimetres out of the wrist chain. Red-hot needles in the ball joints of my shoulders yelled imminent dislocation. Another pull which made me almost faint, then that metallic click again. The tips of my forcefully extended fingers were reaching the collar. A different steel-against-steel sound, this time more a snap, told me that the group leader had locked my wrist restraints in position. My new yoke came with an anchorage point for this specific arm posture – what a coincidence. Again a snapping sound raced through me like a shock as she locked my elbow bondage to the back ring of my waspie, tightening the strap just a wee bit more in the process.
I was crying freely as she spun me around.
“Looks like it hurts.”
No, I was practicing method acting here – of course it hurt to have one’s arms twisted in the most unnatural position this side of a strappado! The outrageousness Miss Cuntling had my upper limbs subjected to was called a full reverse prayer, one of the severest positions thinkable. Why was everybody hating my shoulder joints?!
“It’s a well-known yoga pose, quite relaxing, actually. Opens the shoulders,” Kandrin explained to me after identifying it by its name, albeit without the “full”. That innocent attributive was earned by my elbows touching. Maybe within here lay the difference between relaxing and excruciating.
Without any compassion she pushed onwards in my tacking, replacing the generic bit and bridle with my own ones. Already terrified by the rigging I’d just endured and its effects I would continue to suffer, the cruelty of the curb bit would have been enough to keep me docile for the rest of the day. Kandrin disagreed.
“You remember these?” she played the pronoun game as she produced a pair of martingale belts. Nipple reins? Sure I did (stomp!). What were they for again? Oh, right, to disencourage the pony from tossing its head or crap like that. As if the posture collar wasn’t overkill enough. My nips, just starting to heal from yesterday’s violation, didn’t take to well to Kandrin’s hooking the martingale to piercings and regular shanks. As predicted, the stud chain found its place between the auxiliary shanks and connected to my nose ring.
“Kiss the table.”
Leaning against the sturdy structure, I bent over with minimal help from Miss Cuntling and a very straight back. I feared the change in posture would put additional stress on my arms, but my urge to keep my upper body rigid only caused me to cramp up more. When my forehead was finally resting on the table top, the edges of my blinkers scraping at the wooden surface, Kandrin yet again out-bitched herself.
“Mr Nystrøm, if you would be so kind as to assist me…”
I couldn’t put the name to a face until I heard Slacker Boy’s insecure yet eager voice.
He grabbed my tail and yanked without subtlety or intuition. As if he were uncorking a stubborn bottle of wine. The sudden dilation of my anus left me gasping and nicely primed for the real deal to follow.
“Thank you. And not so shy next time. Always let those nags feel who’s in charge.”
The sole reason she had called him was to humiliate me even further, there simply wasn’t any other explanation. Except for one. Maybe it had been brought to her attention that I wasn’t exactly submissive towards him. Treating him as my equal, to put it mildly. Save to say this morning’s events would change the dynamics in our relationship. I squealed as Kandrin shoved my regular plug in where it belonged. Its smaller sibling had done nothing to prepare me after all. It was also just as dry as the last time. She ground it around until my tail was arranged correctly.
“Don’t feel sorry for yourself. Lube for performance. I said you were to apply yourself ‘today’, meaning the whole day yesterday. At no point I gave reason to believe that my demands expired once the bridle was removed. Doing a half-arsed job on that Patrol didn’t exactly qualify you for a remission.”
She was referring to my allegedly slipshod job on the air filter. I felt aggrieved, betrayed even. Also, “Lube for Performance” sounded like a line from a motor oil ad. The crotch strap, which she had saved for the finale, cut into my girl parts. The pressure right on my clit made me yip at last. Only then Miss C. buckled it off. I was ready to ride. As she walked me out of the tack room Ten and Fifteen gawked at me, aghast disbelieve visible even underneath their bridles. The sight of my vicious arm bondage was enough to make them wince and shudder. Nothing to see here, guys. Just a pony doing yoga. Namaste.
The rest of the group had long since set off, so Miss C. and I went for a private tour. “I take her south,” had her comment towards Kendrick been, followed by an encouraging…
“Move it, Fluffy-Tail!”
The swipe of the whip that came with it set me in motion. The ill-treatment of my still fresh piercings kept me compliant. Kandrin loosened the reins a fraction, only to work them harder the next moment. Her rein actions were utterly unpredictable. From personal experience I knew she was able to control a pony smoothly and with only the smallest hints of pain. Today she’d decided on another strategy. Thanks to my new posture collar I couldn’t lessen the pull on reins by bending my head back. Nor could I soften the strain on my nip rings by tilting it to the front.
“Looking a bit spent. What’s the matter? Exhausted yourself yesterday?”
There was no way she could know about my non-sanctioned orgasm! Yet here she was, on the lookout for a tell-tale reaction. The route she had chosen brought us way downstream along the eastern bank. It had quite an incline to it, to the point I was huffing and puffing in spite of the moderate trot. And for the better part of it Miss C. rein-raped me with her seesaw motions. A downright stimulating rhythm, pain aside. If this was meant to be a torture to make me confess to my naughty crime, I gave her points for creativity. She did appear more interested in the torture than in the confession, though. A public whipping for touching myself, five to eight days in the infirmary, and leaving it at that wasn’t her style. Miss Cuntling was thinking long-term anguish.
The strenuous path levelled out and widened, only to end between the mighty walls of a castle ruin overlooking the Deepfall River. The hollowed-out keep was still standing, but the western wall had nearly completely collapsed, thus allowing a breathtaking view across the valley. My handler brought me to a stop in the bailey, in the shade of an enormous ash tree. It must have been growing for several hundreds of years. No doubt this place would be a nice destination for a family day trip if it weren’t so hopelessly remote. For Miss Cuntling the recreational aspects might have not been the determining factor anyway. She was way more interested in dragging me down into some dungeon to have her way with me. But what exciting new torments could she come up with? Shoulders on the verge of being dislocated, my feet and calves crushed, whippings to the blood, red hot irons, rectal pear – been there, had that done to me.
Kandrin, wearing her posh sunglasses again, unhitched me from the sulky and ensured my hydration by means of her bicycle bottle. She did not hobble me, though. I was still struggling for air, and the cool liquid was a true mercy for my maltreated mouth. After making sure the circulation in my back-prayered arms was still existent, she checked the tightness of my bit. I understood it to be the main control instrument in pony training, but her obsession with it couldn’t be healthy!
“We normally don’t drive new fillies hither. It’s quite a distance, and the trail can be a bit tricky, especially downhill.”
I made a mental note to borrow that for my upcoming guidebook 100 Scenic Routes for Ponygirl Tours.
“Truth be told, I don’t even know how this castle is called. You like places like this? Castles and stuff?”
I stomped twice for “no”. It seemed to be the more promising answer to prevent her from droning on. I had come to notice a distinctive habit of hers to become somewhat chatty or even mawkish during our more intimate moments. It had been like that at the brook yesterday and, to a lesser degree, at the Foxpipe the day before that. The underlying psychological pattern would be real fun to fathom out, once she was securely locked up in a loony bin that provided regular electroshock treatment. Just for the records, I like castles and stuff. They’ve got something brooding, especially the razed ones. But I don’t wet myself over them like those “Lord of the Ice and Fire” fanboys do.
A tiny lizard was sun-bathing on the wall ruin. The stones must be warm by now, but the sun had struggled this morning to do her part. Slowly the end of the summer announced itself. I watched the little bugger for some minutes, then lost myself again in the view to the west. With my blinkers, collar and nip reins on duty that was all I could do. The pain in my arms had turned deep, had embedded itself in my muscles and joints, gnawed at tendons and ligaments. I wanted my hoof gloves back.
Kandrin, who was relaxing at the very edge of my visual field, casually checked her phone.
She jumped up and threw her stuff back in the sulky’s nylon pouch.
“We’ll be so effing late, Fluffy-Tail…!” she explained her sudden hurry as she manhandled me between the cart’s shafts.
Fluffy-Tail. A random name-giving, meant to belittle me; a witty put-down at best. But it kept me thinking. Were they pondering over actual names for each of us, like Ginger-Mane or Stripy-Back? Would such a nomenclature be more dehumanising than our numeric code? The latter was more impersonal, clinical in that it revealed the systematic disregard of us as human beings behind it. The former allowed one to remain as an individual, if a supposedly lesser one. But it would bind one more tightly to their assigned role. Bad Prancer.
Any further thoughts on that subject were delayed by Miss Cuntling’s whip. Out of the bailey and down the path we went. Hadn’t she mentioned this downhill part to be tricky just a quarter of an hour ago? She didn’t seem too concerned about this infrastructural shortcoming now. I hoped the sulky had good breaks – I couldn’t stop running if my life depended on it! And plain running it was. Only when the down-grade became more benign I was able to execute high-steps again. Kandrin’s whip saw to this by scorching the back of my thighs. We might be late as fuck, but that didn’t mean we would get sloppy in the gait department.
The group leader flogged a murderous pace out of me. Froth spew from my mouth. My lungs were filled with ground glass, my calf muscles tore themselves apart. Since I had discovered the pains a pony could be made to endure, I used the term “agony” very well-considered. On the way back to base I was in agony. Kandrin would pay for that. In my crazed mind I shouted it again and again. She would pay, mark my words! I didn’t know when or how. But pay she would. Dearly. I’ve heard promising things about bleach enemas.
Kendrick waited for us in the barn, tipping against the glass of his watch as I anything but collapsed through the door.
“I know, I know!”
Kandrin jumped off the sulky and unhitched it with quick moves.
“Put it outside, Seva. I untack her.”
A surprisingly meek Kandrin grabbed the cart at the shafts and was about to set off, pushing it like a wheelbarrow.
“No. Pull it.”
Kandrin gave him a wry look I couldn’t interpret in my deranged state. She repositioned herself between the shafts and dragged the sulky out. The picture was somewhat flawed by the absence of a sadistic bitch in the cart whipping her.
“May I speak, Mr Kendrick?”
After my de-tacking I had cleaned myself behind the barn and donned the white DACC outfit. I had howled as the feeling in my arms had set in again. It had taken me for ages to put on my clothes. The laces of my shoes I’d just tugged in. No way I could have tied them with the insane tingling in my fingers.
“Aren’t you starving, lass? What is it?”
Lunch break was over, but the lead handler had arranged for me to eat with the inmates on kitchen duty. They always ate later, when the mess hall had quietened down.
“I am not sure how much longer I can take this treatment, sir.”
Approaching Kendrick seemed to be the least bad idea because of his zen-like attitude and my beginning Stockholm syndrome.
“The way you are treated only reflects the way you are behaving, Seventeen.”
I knew something like this would come.
“I got that, sir. When I’m good, I’m treated well. When I screw up, I get screwed. But here, with Miss Kandrin, the screwing has become base setting. As if the gear ratio between behaviour and treatment has shifted to the worse.”
“Well, I’ve got but limited insight when it comes to Miss Kandrin’s ideas of screwing, but you must keep in mind that this programme focusses very heavily on effectivity. You’ve traded – what? Two years?”
“Two years for ninety days. You must have been quite naïve to think you wouldn’t be pressed to perform, no offence.”
“‘Pressed to perform’ is quite the euphemism, sir. No offence.”
I should have left out the last bit. There was nothing to gain here by antagonising him.
“None taken. It’s true you are under an adapted jurisdiction here, with medically supervised physical correction being the most delicate element. Escalating punitive measures are vital to the concept.”
Now Kendrick sounded exactly like Warden Navier or that Evaluatress broad, apart from the fact that he wasn’t denying the ill-treatment to be an integral part of the DACC programme. I began to suspect I was wasting my time. And escalating punitive measures – the fuck?! Never had I agreed to that! I had signed a single sheet of paper reading stuff about “educational techniques also used for the dressage of animals”. Who knew what else I had unknowingly accepted and what misdeeds I had confessed to by doing so…
“And my right of protection against torture?”
“What about it?”
“It’s being violated.” I couldn’t believe I had to spell it out.
“Have you been maltreated during your remand?”
“And has anybody forced you to confess to your crime as such, or made you ‘choose’ to join the programme?”
“No, but that’s not―”
“You are not here because of a coerced confession. The protection you like to claim is indeed elemental for any constitutional state, and you were under it – as a suspect. But you can’t abuse it as a pseudo argument against the right of a judiciary to correct and penalise after a legally valid conviction.”
“So from my legally valid conviction on I was fair game? All safeguards gone?” I called him out on his bullshit.
“Here are the same rules, the same laws, the same safeguards active as everywhere else in this country. They are applied differently here, more sternly, I give you that. And I reckon that’s your problem, Seventeen. You perceive rules as an inconvenience. You follow them so ‘it just will do’. And you expect those watching over the rules to show the same laissez-faire attitude. And that isn’t going to happen around here.”
I felt my ears heating up with blood.
“I follow rules when they make sense.” Wow. Great slogan. That would teach him!
Kendrick remained unimpressed on a fundamental level.
“Is that so? I would like to give you a practical example. Fetch that whip from over there.”
He pointed through the open door of the tack room. The object of his desire hung at the side of a harness rack, coiled up and menacing. Shit, I might have pushed it too far. With rapidly weakening knees I walked in and took it from its hook. I had never held a whip of any kind before. Fuck, it was heavy; a tightly braided bullwhip. The interlacing strands of leather made it look almost solid. Hard to say how long it was. The cruel device ended in a thin, partly frayed string. That last bit would reach supersonic speed, and it would maintain it till striking my flesh. It was not the black single tail used for corporal punishment – which, quite frankly, was a cold comfort. Would it be worse than the nightmare that had flayed 1105? Unlikely, but in my situation of purely academic interest.
“Take your shirt off, love.”
Kendrick took the whip from me, and I did as told.
“Hug that pillar.”
I slung my straining arms around the nearest beam supporting the roof. Over my blood pulsating in my ears I heard Kendrick shake out the whip behind me. He was going to beat me with that monstrosity! Almost hyperventilating, I expected the sensation of a devastating impact. The odd coldness as the blood was pressed out of the hit tissue. The screaming pain as the blood returned. The sickening sensation of skin exploding.
The crack of the bullwhip was deafening.
I screeched, felt the rush of air across my bare back. Nearly pissed myself. The highly accelerated tip had missed me by mere centimetres.
“You may let go.”
Not really sure where to leave my arms after un-clinging myself I turned around, knees trembling.
“You were positive that I would hit you, and still you exposed yourself to me. Care to share why?” asked Kendrick as he coiled the whip up.
“Because you told me so, sir.”
“Yes, but why did you follow my order?”
“I feared the consequences of disobedience.”
“Even though obeying would mean immense pain?”
I hadn’t the slightest idea what he was aiming at.
“If I hadn’t complied, you might have hurt me worse.”
“So you weighed up the risks and possible outcomes. And that is not acceptable. It’s ‘it just will do’ all over again. You play along. You suffer through to the finish line, counting the days. It’s not gonna work, not here. Forget the bits and bridles, and the hoof boots and the tails. Absolute obedience is what a ponygirl defines. Not the fear of the consequences of disobedience, but fear of disobedience itself. The need to obey. And only this need will truly alienate you from the whole concept of basing your compliance on your options. Only this need will turn you into a perfect pony.”
He handed me the coiled-up bullwhip.
“Put that back, will you.”
I made a last, feeble attempt.
“I don’t want to be a pony.”
“You would be weird if you did.”