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!"
