Ponygirl Rescue Centre
Mirage was in a bad shape when we rescued her. There was literally no spot on her that hadn’t been whipped, flogged or cropped savagely. And the beatings had only been one facet of the mistreatment the feverish ponygirl had been forced to endure at the hands of her former stable master. Her shoulders were sprained and inflamed from the reverse prayer bondage her arms had been kept in almost constantly. Her feet showed first signs of misalignment, and she obviously suffered from pain in her knees – both evidence to ill-fitted hoof boots. She was also dehydrated, sadly a very common occurrence. An isotonic drink from a bicycle bottle took care of the worst. Continue reading
We Interrupt this Ponyplay Porn to Bring You More Crap about Wood Elves
“You look like shit.”
“Yeff, ma’am,” I mumbled meekly.
No-one could argue with her statement. That Miss C. had brought it up during the group fall-in showed bad form, yet held nothing new to the other girls. More than once I had woken them up with my groans during the night. Having them witnessed the effects of my punishment fell in line with Kandrin’s “show, don’t tell” doctrine.
“You have my permission to see the doctor.”
“Fhank you, ma’am.” Continue reading
It is not without pride that I announce that with the last chapter, Part Forty-One, Pony Boot Camp has broken the 100,000 words barrier. According to my processing program, the current version including chapter headlines and so on is sporting exactly 102,520 words!
[pause for applause] Continue reading
I didn’t know how Sixteen was about to get back to the camp. I didn’t care beyond curiosity, neither. Even about my own fate I mused in a detached state of mind. In the wake of my fit of temper I was trapped in dark, almost self-destructive euphoria. I would be disciplined, that was for sure. Yet I hadn’t got the faintest idea about how harshly my actions would be dealt with. If I had attacked a staff member, things would turn extremely ugly. But another pony? I wasn’t even sure whose jurisdiction I was under in the case at hand. Kendrick’s? Miss Cuntling’s? The warden’s? Did they differ? Did it matter?
Maybe I would be long-term bridled like Eleven, maybe I would be hugging the whipping post. Continue reading