Half an hour later, he said that strange word again: “Poniggiru’. In the old times in Genoa every quarter, indeed every fountain had its poniggiru’. By every fountain, my friend, and do you know how many fountains there are in Genoa? - by every fountain stood beautiful girl, naked, tied up, gagged and blindfolded, strictly attached to a small cart, a board on wheels with a rail to hold on. The girls in the quarter would compete for the honour. They would train drawing rocks through the hills. And only the sturdiest ones and the oveliest ones would be selected to take turns to stand at the fountain. That was in the time of the poniggiru’, my friend.”
I had been planning, considering - wondering if the rubber nubbed grooming brush in my hand would be the right level of sensation for pony play with the particular pony I would be meeting. In three hours, I would be trotting my first human pony on the end of a lead. My thinking was filled with leather and buckles, rings and leashes.