You find each day the same routine as the last. Up at the crack of dawn. Feeding and body refreshing drinks of cool water. A round of urine and manure dropping for all in the box stall. Bridle, bit and harness hooked up and delivered to a coach and it's Coachman driver.
The crack of the whip means more that the call to "GeedyUp!" The whip brings a fear of pain and with that fear the instinctive desire is to run away from all fears. Yet harness together the six ponies must run in fear together or trip over eachother.
To walk and pull, trot and pull together, to gallop and feel the lag of the heavy coach coming along behind. Running you care not where but soon the strength is tapped and tongues loll over the bits in each ponies' mouth. A stop to cool down as sweat foamed on neck, sides, and flanks evaporates. At last the community bucket is passed from one thirsty mouth to another.
You look with great thirst at the bucket coming toward you. The sight of wet refreshing water brings a satified thrill. No thought or worry of the film of green saliva floating on the water, it's just wet and what you instinctively desire.
An afternoon of pulling the coach brings more sweat, more aches as muscles changed from human to equine firm up to strong senue and bone.
The last of you day sees you undressed of harness and brought one by one to the respective box stalls. As other volunteers niegh for pain and rest you walk quietly along. The door to you stall swings open and with the scent and memory of it's comfort you prance inside.
Turning to watch the worker who led you here see's the man offer a grin and shake his head at what stupid things people would agree to accept. As mare friend after mare comes back to the stall you crumple the forelegs and tucking in the hinds a tired pony long's for rest.
A short nap is broken and up jump to all fours. The evening rations of hay and grains being served is your que of head for the trough. A happy mouth gobbles up the grain, drinks from the tank, and leads it's ownered to the haynet for desert.
Milling about the sound of stomac grumbling at the load of food shoved down the gullet for it to do the final digestive work. Stallion and mares now so tired from the long day that even your naked desires of sexual play does not enter you minds.
Each to a corner of the stall and ponies' crumple down to lay and sleep for another day in beastial bondage.