NSFW Author

I never fitted anywhere. In school, I never really had friends, preferring to be alone. I know this must have sounded weird, but I was never the gregarious type.

Sure, I loved to meet people; I just didn’t want them to meet me. You’ll probably think I was abused, or neglected, and in a way, you’d be right.

I did get everything most kids wanted. Good loving parents, a nice circle of pre-school friends, a nice neighbourhood. My problem is that I simply always wanted to be left alone.

Most kids want to be famous at some point in their lives. My biggest dream was to be totally forgotten about.

My parents sent me to shrinks, who were of no help to my condition. I would barely talk to them, so they would speculate on my condition. They invariably thought I was either depressive or slightly autistic.

They just didn’t get it. I didn’t mind getting to know others, but in order to do that, you must open up to them, which I didn’t want happening.

Fortunately for me, my loneliness helped my studies. I was a grade A student is most of my classes, with lower grades only when team work was required.

Don’t get me wrong: I worked great in teams, but because of my introversion, all of the good students would avoid me thinking I was a loser, not realizing I possibly had better grades than they did.

By the time I was in College, I still had no ideas on what I wanted to do for a living. Finding a career with absolutely no human interactions was something hard to do, so just opened my horizons, hoping time would reveal a perfect solution.

With pure random luck, while a student I managed to get hired as a janitor for one of the office buildings near campus. It was an evening position and the only other person inside was the security guard at the front office.

With the money, I managed to find a small one room apartment where I could do what I liked the best: hide myself from the world.

I frequently visited the college library, hoping to find an answer to my condition. The first thing that I could find was that I might simply have a phobia of having others discover my inner thoughts, but it was superficial and provided no explanations what so ever.

Peering into the vast psychiatric department library, I browsed on two related illnesses: Depersonalization and Derealization.

In the first case, the patient is convinced that they are either not in their own bodies, or that they are in great danger of vanishing or being separated from their body.

In the second case, a little closer to how I felt, patients feel a sense of detachment from all environments. They feel it is foggy, as if a plate of glass had been put between them and the world about them.

It gave me hints on to what I could have, but it was still far from the truth. The literature indicates that in both cases, the subject has a distorted awareness of either themselves, in the case of depersonalization, or of their environment, in the case of derealization.

Except that it wasn’t that. I a way, it was the opposite. I did perceive the world around me correctly. I just didn’t feel the world around me could perceive me correctly.

Patients in extreme cases sometime obtain the bizarre notion that they are the only human being and that everything around them is one of their dreams.

In opposition, I felt that everything around me was real, but that somehow, I didn’t fit in that reality, or more adequately, that the reality didn’t fit me.

I didn’t have the depression associate with such deceases, I didn’t have the anxiety nor the emotional deadness described in most of the patients diagnosed. I am able to enjoy almost any positive experience. I just don’t want others to share those experiences with me, or rather; I didn’t want to share those experiences with them.

In my final year of college, I was forced to turn to the Internet to do a long research and since I preferred to avoid the computer labs; I bought and old computer and got my own ISP connection.

At first, I planned to do my research and later on cancel my account, but I decided to search more on my unique condition.

The Internet isn’t much use on a psychiatric condition when you have than a psychiatric library close, but one site listed two definitions for Depersonalization:

depersonalization:
1. The sense of loss of one’s personal identity, often involving a feeling of strangeness about oneself. This alteration in the perception of the self is seen in certain types of mental illnesses; it can also often result from anxiety.
2. In BDSM, a generic term for humiliation scenes in which a dominant requires that a submissive assume a role totally different from their normal role, usually that of an inanimate object (such as a footstool) or a lower form of animal life (such as a puppy or a pony).

I was fully aware of the first definition, but didn’t even know what BDSM was. Over the course of the following weeks, I knew everything about that sub-culture and in particular, about Pony Play.

I still couldn’t understand what caused me to feel how I felt, but I now knew how to fit in society, so to speak.

My problems were not too much about mixing with others, it was about showing my personality. Pony Play is about voluntarily creating a depersonalized environment for the Ponies, men and women who enjoyed spending a certain amount of their lives playing the role of a pony.

Pony slaves are typically used in three purposes: Show Ponies, Being ridden, and pulling carts. Most pony girls are also used as sexual slaves: unlike the rest of the BDSM world, pony play frequently involves sex. Ponies were also relatively kept nude, often wearing only harnesses and their various bondage equipment such as a bit in their mouth, blinders and of course, a pony tail usually installed via a butt plug.

I was neutral toward all these characteristics, save for two: the bit in their mouth prevented speech, and ponies are required to play a role, that of a pony. They lose temporarily the right to be human being and act as such. Being nude wouldn’t bother me since it would be another barrier hiding me. Even the sex wouldn’t be a problem since once again, I wouldn’t be myself.

The more I read about it, the more I became convinced of my role in life. I wanted to become a full time, permanent pony girl.

I started by ordering a few items, starting with the pony bit and tail. I also ordered some nipple bells, used to train the pony not to wiggle her breasts. With my 34B cups, it would be hard to learn, but I was determined to make the best pony girl ever. I knew many trainers like long hair, so I let mine grow from that point on.

I must have spent a full 6 months practicing the various pony steps until I decided to buy my own hooves, custom made. At first, I wanted to also buy mittens, but since I had no one to put them or remove them, it was clearly impractical.

I saved as much money as possible, placing most of it for the future, and once my college degree was secured, I contacted by e-mail a few reputed stables. There are only a few in the world, so my choices were limited.

I quickly turned down all of those that didn’t offer year long operations and got the list down to 2 establishments, one in Florida and one in California.

After a few exchanges, I selected California, and paid for a 2 weeks training session, requiring that I be silenced on arrival and kept as such during my whole stay. I didn’t mention yet the fact I was essentially buying a one-way ticket, not so much to California, but to their ranch in particular.

I cancelled my apartment and donated or sold most of my stuff, keeping only what I was bringing with me on the plane, which was very little. I was in effect planning on becoming a pony, and ponies do not have personal stuff.

I even donated all of my clothes save for the ones I would be wearing on the plane. Cindy was leaving this world for good.