My pony stands naked and bound on all fours, positioned on the bench as I circle around him, observing. His backside has been thoroughly punished, yet his back remains unnervingly pristine. I retrieve my riding crop, ready to begin my work. I strike hard and quicken my pace, his screams and wriggling filling the air. The marks on his flesh are immediate, bright red and raised, but as I continue, they merge into a dense web, eventually becoming indistinguishable in a single vast red spot encompassing his entire back. The color is now as I desire, but it will not be enough to satiate me. I will not stop until I have pushed him to his limit, and he begs for mercy, all while I apply pressure to his testicles with the tip of my boot.