She stands at the opening, looking over the locked lower section of her stable door, completely silent, for she hates the whinnying noise that is the only sound her surgically altered vocal cords can now make and the steel bit, which sits through the gap created for it by the removal of the four molars, would have rendered intelligible speech impossible anyway.
Her vision is hampered by the leather blinkers attached to her head harness, so she is forced to turn her head slowly from side to side, in order to watch the activity in the concourse between the two rows of stalls. What she sees is not pleasing to her, but it is a way of passing the time, before ultimately her groom will come to take her for her afternoon trot out.
Her name now is Fliss. It used to be Veronica Cummins, but she is not sure if she is supposed to remember that still, nor whether she is supposed to remember the alleged crimes for which she received this hideous sentence. Life, the judge said, but he did not say what sort of life it would be.
But then none of them ever told things as they really were. The judges, politicians, policemen, they were all the same, part of the great conspiracy and woe betide any ordinary citizen who dared to even hint that there was more. Sedition, that was called. That was what they had called it in Veronica’s case, though the real reason was that she had had the temerity to resist the advances of a particularly influential second grade consul and then be foolish enough to open her mouth about the episode.
Arrest had been swift and "justice" even moreso. Within a day she had arrived here, wherever "here" was and they had lost no time in getting started on the awful transformation.
Idly, she gazes across the concourse, to where a male pony is being harnessed to one of the light weight gigs. She can tell he is male, for there is a slack male organ hanging between his thighs. As for the rest of him, she can see that he looks very much like she does now, with long flowing mane, pouting lips parted by a driving bit and heavy breasts, from which dangle brass rings and bells that will jangle to taunt and haunt him as he trots.
His feet, like her own, are shod in the peculiar hoof boots, elevating the heels impossibly, whilst shaping the toes into the hoof form and beneath, checked and replaced regularly in the smithy, heavy iron shoes, that, when he moves off, will spark and clatter on the cobbled surface and then leave deep imprints in the soft mud of the tracks outside.
Fliss thinks he is called Goldie, presumably because of his golden mane, but she does not know why he has been sent here, nor whether he arrived before her or since. He seems very docile, but then so are most of the ponies here. They quickly learn, as she did, that the alternative is the whip.
She shuffles her own feet slightly - standing too long in one position can cause cramps, as she has found out from personal experience. The long boots, reaching almost to the very tops of her shapely legs, take much of the strain from the muscles, enabling her, like the other ponies, to remain on her awesomely shod feet for hours at a time, but the blood must still be encouraged to circulate.
Fliss knows she is much fitter now than when she first arrived here, some many weeks since now. She is stronger, healthier, sleeker, though she tries to put from her mind the sight of her buttocks when they showed her in the mirrors, for the drugs have caused them to grow much heavier, more full, rounding out to complement her flaring hips.
‘A good rump for a mare,’ the groom, Giles, had told her and twitched the tail that now hung down between her nates, grafted into the skin at the base of her spine. It would eventually start to root properly and even grow, Giles had assured her and at the same time she would begin to exert some muscular control over it, so that she could twitch it aside when performing her bodily fuctions.
Her waist is shrinking, courtesy of the steadily tightening girth corset that all ponies wore, a tube of unforgiving leather that reaches from her navel to just below her pendulous breasts, with thick laces to tighten it, a task which Giles carries out with regular precision.
‘We must get you into the proper shape for your master, when he finally comes for you,’ he has told her several times. ‘A small waist and a good rump are the signs of a pedigree pony girl.’ If she still had the power of speech, Veronica knows what she would say to that, but Fliss has to remain silent, her doe eyes cast down.
As a driver climbs into the seat of the waiting gig and flicks his driving whip lightly across the flanks of the bizarre pony boy/girl, Fliss wonders how long it will now be before she renews her acquaintance with her master. Yes, renews, for she knows that he is none other than the man who is responsible for her being here and this time he will have his way with her, whether she likes it or not.
Curiously, she thinks she probably will like it. She enjoys it now when Giles mounts her, entering her from behind and thrusting away, ejaculating freely into her temporarily barren womb. Sometimes she climaxes before he does, which she knows pleases him and he rewards her then, with those sweetly flavoured sugar cubes that make her light headed for the next few hours, so that when he drives her through the winding lanes, trees and hedges pass in a blur and the figures of the people in the village square, where he always stops and tethers her whilst he takes refreshment in the pub there, look distorted and less than human.
She hopes her master will be as kind as Giles. Hopefully, she thinks, he will have forgiven her, for surely this is punishment enough.
The crunching sound on the gravel causes her to turn her head to the right and she is rewarded by the sight of Giles, strolling languidly along the line of stalls on this side. He stops at some of the doors, reaching in to pet other ponies that she cannot see, for Fliss is not his only charge. Giles, like the other grooms, is responsible for at least half a dozen of the fillies and mares here.
She is sure that he likes his job, for he often whistles and smiles most of the time and his use of whip and crop is minimal. He prefers coaxing to coercion and has said so, kneading her swollen nipples to illustrate his point. When he does this, he knows that Fliss will whinny and nuzzle his shoulder with her face, for they have done something to her that ensures that she now needs little physical encouragement.
Giles has told her that she is doing well and already a very good "whorse", the pet name the grooms have for the most promising pony girls, those who have reacted to their genetic programming and training as Fliss does now. The slightest touch and she is immediately on heat, everything in her body coming alive as if a switch has been flicked somewhere. She knows that she should think this is wrong, but she knows, also, that she cannot, any more than she would resist him, even if she were in a position to do so.
‘And how is my pretty little Fliss today?’ he asks, gently, reaching in to fondle her right nipple. She lets out a spluttering neigh, shakes her head and leans towards him and he bends to kiss her forehead, to one side of where the crown strap joins the strap that passes just above her eyes.
‘I hope you’re feeling fit today, my little whorse,’ he chuckles, unbolting the door and stepping inside. ‘It’s going to be a long day for both of us. There’s a carnival in the village this afternoon and a competition for show ponies. You should do well and afterwards, we shall give rides to all the kiddies.’ He takes a hold of her short lead rein.
But the best thing is,’ he tells her, with warmth in his voice, ‘that there is a completely new tack waiting for you in the saddlery. Gold harness and girth and a plume for your pretty head.’ He steps behind her and his hand slips between her legs, feeling the wetness that has already collected there.
‘We’ll have to cover this today, though,’ he says. ‘Don’t want to give the youngsters the wrong idea, do we?’ He chuckles again and slips a finger inside her. Fliss trembles and whinnies again. The sound does not seem so hateful now.
‘But, before we do,’ he continues, and she hears the sound of his buckle, ‘we’ll just give it a reward, shall we?’ She whinnies again and tosses her head, her nipple bells jingling in unison. As his warm length sheaths itself into her more than hospitable tunnel, she snorts and her hooves grate on the hard flagstones.
If the bit allowed it, she would smile, for it is going to be a good day and she is going to be a happy little whorse.
© 2000
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