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.

Upon arriving at the rescue centre we carefully led Mirage out of the truck and into our barn. The poor thing flinched under every touched. Emma, the centre's veterinarian, had given her a very light sedative for the trip. It was not unheard of that traumatised ponies mistook their change of fate and bolted.

Our facility was rather small, but although we unfortunately did not have the means for quantity, we did pride ourselves on quality. Emma's office, integrated into the barn, was well-equipped, and soon she had performed a more in-depth examination on our latest intake. It confirmed what we'd already expected from experience and initial evaluation. Spiked bits and the brutal use of the reins had left Mirage's lips, tongue and palate messed up. Her anal sphincter was raw -- but luckily not fissured yet -- from too thick and unlubed tails and aggressive agents used to "frisky her up". The positive news was that her teeth and most of her body piercings, including the nipple rings, were in good condition. There was quite a soreness around the heavy-duty septum piercing, so Emma removed the large ring and would later replace it with a more delicate one.

Mirage was moaning softly during the exam, which she was free to do. But as her sounds became more intelligible I cropped her swiftly on her deeply bruised thighs. This may sound cruel, but I had to make it absolutely clear to her right from the beginning that all rules for a ponygirl remained in effect.

Ponies Don't Speak.

The sooner I broke her of any differing conceptions, the easier her future path would be for her. Whether Mirage had been ponyfied out of free will or under duress was of no consequence to our current situation. Although I found myself on the receiving end of some sharp glances, Emma was with me on that one. She never spoke directly to Mirage other than in comforting yet non-declarative phrases. Instead she communicated non-verbally and encouraged the ponygirl to do likewise.

We brought her to a tiled area where we cleaned her up and gave her a series of mild enemas. A soft inflatable plug helped her retaining the soothing liquid. All tidied up and dried, Mirage took her first insecure steps into her new stall. A blanked over fresh hay and natural illumination through a skylight were amenities she hadn't enjoyed in a long time. Dinner was an all-organic meal of rice, scrambled eggs, chicken and steamed vegetables (together with more liquids). She ate it without once trying to use her unbound hands, a fact I was glad of. I did not want to restrain her more than absolutely necessary. Running a shelter for abused ponygirls brought me in contact with all forms of maltreatment. The lesser cases often originated from carelessness or questionable customs, but really bad ones like Mirage's had their roots in pure sadism. Excuses always revolved around "proper training" and "enhanced dressage", and always they were null and void. More than once I had laid the lash to a ponygirl's hide myself or put her into harsh tack; but there is nothing blurry, unclear or confusing about the difference between stern discipline and mindless torture.

As it became late and Mirage was surely tired out, I fitted her with a night bridle. It hold a cloth were the bit would be if night bridles had bits. The cloth was drenched in a mild solution for the wounds in her mouth and was fixed to the cheek rings lest it be accidently swallowed. I locked the bridle's buckles so Mirage's hands could remain free without the risk of her getting herself in trouble. A sound flogging was mandatory for any pony manipulating her tack. Her only binding was a set of padded leather cuffs hobbling her ankles. They quickly turned out to be needless as Mirage fell asleep the second she hit the hay. I left the hobbles on only because I didn't want to wake her up.

The next morning was bound to bring pain to Mirage, but I had decided to schedule the unsettling event that early in her recovery out of administrative reasons and so she would be through with it. I had all the paperwork proving that the centre was now Mirage's legal owner, but the final step was yet to take. In Emma's office we secured Mirage to a sturdy steel frame in a bent-over position. Leather belts at wrists, elbows, at knees and ankles as well as across her torso and waist kept her restrained with her legs spread. She whimpered lightly behind the rubber bit Emma had put in her mouth, and I felt her trembling as I inspected the brands on the insides of her thighs.

"Easy now..."

There were four, two on each side. Mirage had been broken in at the Wildfire Stables, as the upper crest on her left leg told me. Renowned for their show ponies, this hadn't been a bad start at all, but somewhere after that things went south. The last mark, the lower right one, was relatively new and belonged to the hellhole we had saved her from.

I suspected all four brands to have been applied with irons fresh from the coals, but far was it from me to put Mirage through such a physical and mental ordeal now. What I was to perform was a medical branding via an electrically heated element. I prepared the skin on her left thigh, halfway down to the knee, whilst the branding tool was heating up. When it signalled with three beeps that it had reached and evened out the temperature needed, I looked up at Emma. The vet had positioned herself next to our charge and was calming her down with a low voice and head petting. She gave me a nod, and I took up the tool. With my other hand I steadied Mirage's leg. Due to the restrains it wasn't necessary; my action was rather a hint to the ponygirl to get ready. I waited a couple of seconds, long enough for her to brace herself, but short enough not to put her in any more distress.

The metal, glowing with a very low intensity, made a hissing sound as it connected with her skin. With a jerk her body tried to escape the heat, but the belts were unyielding. Mirage shrieked, bucked, then bit hard on the rubber whilst emitting a long guttural sound. I concentrated on keeping the tool at a steady pressure and position and counted down two seconds in my mind.

"Done!"

I tricked Mirage a little with my exclamation, actually holding the branding iron a moment longer to her flesh. The psychological relief from my false statement helped her through that last bit. Finished for real, I took over petting the sobbing ponygirl.

"That's a brave filly...!"

Emma meanwhile applied an antiseptic ointment to the angry third degree burn. As soon as we were positive that Mirage would not rear or bolt, we released her and quickly moved her away from the branding equipment and the smell of burnt skin. She followed the lead rope without fuss as I walked her about in the fresh air, but I had to make sure she left the brand alone. I secured her arms in a box tie behind her back, a bondage restrictive enough for my purpose yet not putting undue stress on her shoulders.

The afternoon was far more pleasant for the young doe-eyed pony, with Emma thoroughly grooming her. Since Mirage's benign rubber bit was held in place by a half-bridle -- basically a combination of cheek strap and chin strap -- the veterinarian had little problems going all out on her untended brown mane. Emma decided on a shortish-sporty cut combined with some distinctive side braids. Needless to say I had very little to contribute to that topic.

I'm a friend of low-key medication, if at all, so Mirage had to make it through the day without painkillers. I did mix some Aspirin into her dinner to grant her a good night's sleep, though. Judging by her energy the next morning it had worked. I took her out on a leaded stroll around the meadows, encouraging her to high-step with some light flicks from my crop. This was done to see where we were standing and if the brand affected her gait (it did not). So from now on I would demand high-stepping whenever she moved, as it should be standard for ponygirls.

The next bigger step in her recovery came two days later. Mirage had already been fed her supper and was lying on her blanket. I had her positioned on her left side, right leg straightened out, left one pulled up and bent at the knee so I could check on her brand. It had come out nice and showed no sign of infection. After applying a fresh coat of Aloe vera lotion to the area, I brought my gloved and now slick hand around her rump. Mirage took a sharp breath in as my finger found her anus, but she did not clench or roll over. I put slight pressure to the entrance to her rectum, evaluating whether she could tolerate a tail again. She did not fight my action, but had difficulties to relax fully. Her sphincter had physically healed up, but emotional and mental barriers might still exist. This wasn't made easier by the fact that I did not know anything about Mirage's original disposition; some ponies shy away, some become excited when about to be tailed.

Escalating my palpating to probing, I gained a few centimetres of access. The filly had her eyes closed, chest moving with shallow but even breaths. Willed not to make the experience too invasive for her I changed to a circular motion. I could tell she was struggling. Her self-aware side objected to the rectal penetration, her animalistic one liked having her bum played with. It was of course the latter trait every handler would work on. I kept varying my technique, taking my time, until my index finger was finally fully inserted. Now and then Mirage squeezed slightly, but had overall loosened up well.

I removed my digit and picked up the tail I had brought with me. Mirage held her eyes still closed. She was trusting me. The tail's anal plug was not larger than a medium strawberry -- a variant one would use on an untrained ponygirl. It was heavy, though, made of polished surgical steel. The weight should not be a problem, for she wasn't supposed to move with it much yet. But the sensation of the tail plug warming up within her would be pleasant and support the perception of it becoming a part of her. Mirage gave a breathless gasp as the metal bulb seated itself. No ripple in her muscles, just clamping without cramping -- she accommodated far better than I had hoped. I playfully tugged at her tail to tease her, and she wiggled in response. With a feeling of content I kissed her goodnight on the forehead, right above the strap of her halter. Mirage would go to sleep sans any precautions to keep her anally filled. I had to put her to the test to know if I could trust her the way she trusted me. Losing her tail,

or worse, forcing it out deliberately was the biggest no-no a ponygirl could commit.

Things went well with our latest charge. She ate with growing appetite, and although yet a bit coy she had lost most of her anxiety about physical contact. When walked through the fields only small corrections were needed for gait and posture.

On day eight her body had restored itself with only the most recent and the most vicious injuries still visible. I decided to trigger the next step of emotional healing as well. Carefully I introduced her to Sagitta, a ponygirl we had rescued about two years ago and kept for therapeutic usage. I made Mirage kneel on her lair, facing her fellow filly who approached on hands and knees. Sagitta was not tethered, but I had bound Mirage lightly so she remained in the passive part. The latter followed the former's every move with her eyes, champing at her rubber bit in nervous anticipation. I stayed a few metres away, ready to intervene yet positive I wouldn't have to. Mirage was stiff but did not shy away when the blonde pony nose-nudged her as a greeting. Sagitta then put her head on Mirage's shoulder, animating her to do the same. More acts of tenderness followed. Slowly the convalescent pony relaxed and opened up to her new friend's caresses. Soon their bodies pressed against each other, and she even let Sagitta playfully push her over into the hay -- acts she would have baulked at a mere week ago.

Eventually the fair pony became more spirited in her petting. She was fitted with a plain snaffle bit that allowed her quite a bit of tongue movement, a circumstance she exploited with growing vigour. After a series of bridled kisses upon Mirage's lips Sagitta followed the recumbent form of the body before her. Her mouth brushed across the right breast, dwelled on its apex, then traced the line of the rib cage and the curves of waist and hip. Mirage showed a rekindled reluctance at first, but quickly gave in to the ministrations from her fellow pony. Her breathing, already peppered with sweet moans from behind her bit, turned more rapid as Sagitta advanced from her belly button towards the smooth, soft area below. Before long the healing ponygirl fell into a graceful yet determined bucking. With her tail still embedded, this motion not only drove her rhythmically against Sagitta's tongue, but also provoked unfamiliar pleasures in her rear. Pleasures she'd never known could come from being tailed. Under a final assault from Sagitta she shuddered in her tack, muscle strands tightening beneath her skin, then going limp.

I wondered when the last time had been she'd been granted release. It was an often-held belief that frustration in this regards kept ponygirls eager, and that the opposite would render them slow and less poised. I knew a good place for Mirage free of such notions. It was a stable I stood in general contact with for over a month, and from whom I'd received positive feed-back on taking her in. A reputable stud, both firm and caring, and a safe haven for Mirage. She would be branded one more time, and surely she would feel the whip again and experience a week, maybe a month even, without sexual relief from time to time. But she would have all chances to become a happy pony.

In the hay she and Sagitta had cuddled up close. Mirage's face was still awash with a telltale afterglow, and she had a thankful if sleepy look in her dark eyes. It told me that she was one step closer to overcoming her traumatic past, and that soon she -- maybe once again, maybe for the first time ever -- would embrace being a ponygirl.