First thing after the big morning fall-in was corral training. For reasons nobody had bothered revealing to us we were to be fitted with full tack right from the start – which paved the way for another gratuitous dressing scene. As Kendrick pulled my crotch strap tight, I went on the tips of my toes – or, given that I was already standing en pointe, on the tips of my hooves. From another corner of the tack room our resident pervert glanced over whilst continuing the tedious task of lacing up Eleven’s monoglove. Creepy Chap might hold strange beliefs when it came to romantic interactions, but he knew a randy pony if he saw one. Continue reading
After an alarmingly short night’s rest it was the whistle once more that awoke me. I made it just in time to the washroom to puke into one of the toilets as the enormity of my situation hit me again. A nasty way to start the day, but it would pass. It had to. The same had happen to me at my very first stay in a holding cell, after I’d been nicked for the sacrilegious crime of dismounting pointless speed limit signs. Never been locked up before, I’d been overwhelmed by the consequences of my statement on traffic regulations. Apparently it hadn’t chimed with the opinions of the blokes who had ordered the signs to be put there in the first place. Being basically a bunch of hippies and communists, they couldn’t bear the thought that a) anybody would be able to drive faster than somebody else, and that b) anybody would excide the mind-blowing velocity of 30 km/h anywhere. Securing at least a moral victory, I’d never spilt where I had hidden the abducted signs (which had cost me an extra fine). But I digress. Back then the sickness had passed, and so would it do now. What wouldn’t pass was Kandrin’s hazing of us. That woman had a serious inferiority complex, judged by how hard she pressed her group to be the quickest and tidiest and most teachable. With the bile still burning in my damaged mouth, I stumbled outside for the little fall-in.
I forgot to introduce myself: My name is Seventeen. Continue reading
Stranger than Fiction
Like always they let us march lock-step, a circumstance we had got used to. Our handlers who walked to our left were holding the reins of their two or three respective girls with slack, at least for the time being. What made our way towards the corrals so challenging was our special footwear. When stilting on your tip toes plus eight centimetres of fake hooves you might be somewhat distracted from synchronising your moves with those of the person in front of you – who is teetering about just like yourself. Continue reading