From Barranquilla to Ushuaia and Prudhoe Bay.

CONTENT NOTICE AND DISCLAIMER:

1.FANTASY AND ENTERTAINMENT: This story is a work of fiction and recreational fantasy for adults. It is intended solely for the entertainment of mature individuals. The author does not endorse or recommend engaging in these activities in real life.

2.ADULT CHARACTERS: All characters in this story are fictional and 18 years of age or older. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental or they live in a parallel reality.

3.EXPLICIT CONTENT: This work contains scenes of an explicit sexual nature, submission, and simulated harm. If you are under 18 or are offended by these themes, please do not continue reading.

4.SETTING AND 3D ARTWORK: Geographical environments are used solely to set the plot in the near future or in a parallel world or reality. No real people or events were used in the creation of this story or for the 3D-generated images. No models suffered actual damage in the process.

5.TRANSLATION: The author’s native language is Spanish, NOT English. An automatic translator is used to share this work internationally. We apologize for any inconsistencies in language.

Chapter 1

After going through the worst year of my life, in which my parents had died in a traffic accident the previous year, in that accident I was very seriously injured and for the next 12 months I was hospitalized in a medically induced coma.

Attorney Jiménez did everything in his power to help me recover. He didn’t hesitate to use a small but significant portion of my family inheritance to keep me alive against all odds, defying the constant objections and cold insistence of the medical director of Hospital México, who had given up on my case. When I awoke from that dark abyss of unconsciousness at the end of November, the light in the room stung my eyes like a punishment. The doctor stood beside my bed and delivered the final blow with that heavy pity I hated from the first second: he told me I was a true miracle just for having opened my eyes after twelve months in an induced coma, but that because of the severity and the number of wounds the metal from the accident had left in my flesh, it would have been a thousand times better for me to have died instantly, right there on the road, just as had happened to my parents the year before. His diagnosis in my homeland was a death sentence with no right to appeal; She declared that I was destined to spend the rest of my existence bedridden, useless, and withering away on the sheets of a hospital bed.

That doctor didn’t understand, but I really wanted to live. I wasn’t going to stay and die in that room. It was then that the lawyer, Jiménez, sat down with me alone and told me about another option he had secretly prepared, an alternative that changed my destiny completely. It was a delicate surgical operation in which they were going to transfer my mind into a cloned body created from my own stem cells, a biological vessel that had been mass-produced in industrial incubators for the Ponygirl line . Jiménez explained that this new body was factory-enhanced and would grant me superhuman physical abilities; I would become a tall, athletic, slender, and muscular woman, a girl with breathtaking beauty. I would be a beautiful creature, light years away from what I was before the accident—short, ugly, and fat—and infinitely superior to the shapeless, deformed mass that the wreckage of the road had left me in after the crash. Faced with the option of being an immobile vegetable, choosing the inexhaustible strength of the draft animal was the most liberating and fortunate decision he could make.

I asked attorney Jiménez to authorize the procedure… when I woke up in my new body, I was shocked to see my old one. It was deformed, more of a shapeless mass than a person. When I asked what they would do with my body, they told me it would be taken to a meat processing plant and used to make feed for livestock and pets. I thought it best to erase any trace of what had happened to me! This was because transferring a human mind to a cloned body was considered immoral in my country, unless, as in my case, it was clearly for medical reasons; otherwise, it was practically illegal. Attorney Jiménez told me the best thing for me was to move to another country for a while. In other words, to disappear until everyone who knew me forgot me.

While I was recovering in the hospital, I started using the treadmill to get used to my new body. For a 21-year-old woman, 1.47 meters tall, pale Caucasian with straw-blonde hair, to go from inhabiting the body of a 17-year-old, 1.80 meters tall, Caucasian with tanned skin and golden-blonde hair, it would take some time to get used to this new me. The surprising thing was when I started running on the treadmill; the machine wasn’t designed to support my stride. So, I spent the next few days running on the athletic track at a constant speed of 100 km/h for 12 hours a day for two weeks.

These cloned and enhanced running bodies were a true biological marvel. It was astonishing to think that most people used these creatures only to pull heavy carts at ridiculous urban speeds, when their lean flesh was designed to devour asphalt.

At the cloning facility, CO Ordóñez explained in detail the capabilities of my new body: he told me that under favorable conditions and without a load, my legs could reach a maximum speed of 120 kilometers per hour. In everyday life, I maintained a minimum speed of between 5 and 12 kilometers per hour, slowing down to 25 kilometers per hour or less when entering cities to blend into the crowds and respect pedestrian flow. Ordóñez indicated that on highways, normal cart traffic moved between 60 and 80 kilometers per hour, but that my musculature was capable of sustaining a constant speed of 100 kilometers per hour for 12 hours a day without me feeling the slightest trace of fatigue. Maintaining that 100-kilometer-per-hour stride on the major highways and rural roads of the continent was, in fact, the right thing to do to avoid moving too slowly on the roads. So that I could monitor the pace of my legs with total precision, he taught me to read the blue digital board that blinked translucently in the lower periphery of my eyes, allowing me to calibrate the exact rhythm of my gait with just a thought.

To start my life outside of Costa Rica, I traveled to Colombia where I planned to rent an apartment and spend a few months or years living in that country, mainly to get away from all the bad memories of my past, but I didn’t just want to live somewhere else, I also wanted to see other places; it wasn’t that I was looking to give myself a life of luxury, all I wanted was to live.

The Caribbean wind lashed against Barranquilla’s coastline with a force and heat that, in her previous life, would have quickly suffocated and exhausted María, but now barely stirred a strand of her golden blonde hair. Walking along the city’s boulevards and pedestrian areas felt like owning the space for the first time. Enough time had passed since that intervention in San José for the initial astonishment to transform into an overwhelming physical confidence. To the eyes of the people strolling along the sidewalks, she was simply a twenty-one-year-old tourist with striking genes and dazzling beauty.

For Maria, inhabiting this new version of herself was the greatest triumph of her existence. There was no trace of the former short, fat, and ugly young woman, nor of the shapeless mass the traffic accident had left her in on the hospital bed. This body was hers, a voluntary and pragmatic choice that granted her superhuman physical capabilities while keeping her mind clear and her individual rights intact under the guise of an ordinary traveler. Walking among people , using public transport, or walking barefoot on the ochre sand to feel the texture of the earth directly, was a constant pleasure.

In the lower corner of her right eye, the digital display flickered translucently with a faint blue glow, indicating that her current speed remained steady at a comfortable 22 kilometers per hour. Controlling the rhythm of her legs through the interface connected to the chip in the back of her neck was as natural as breathing. Although she knew her muscles were designed to run at 100 kilometers per hour for entire days without the slightest sign of wear and tear , without ever tiring , Maria enjoyed the leisurely pace. Passively yielding to pedestrians on the sidewalk wasn’t an obligation imposed by anyone, but rather part of her own game of self-discovery; a courtesy that such a beautiful and strong creature could afford while observing daily life from her privileged vantage point.

The Barranquilla sun tanned her smooth skin, free of the scars of the past, erasing any link with the disability that doctors had predicted for the rest of her natural life.

The afternoon heat in Barranquilla made the air near the docks feel heavy, like a damp blanket, thick with the scent of salt air. María walked slowly around the port area, enjoying the firmness of her steps on the hot asphalt, when she came across a large parking lot of gravel and ochre-colored earth, designated for the rest of tractor-trailers. Among the delivery carts and cargo platforms, a caravan stood out, its varnished wood and aluminum frames revealing thousands of kilometers of travel. In front of the vehicle, harnessed to the yoke by reinforced steel braces and thick leather straps tightened over the handlebars, a dark-skinned pony girl rested with her head bowed and meek, sweat glistening on her sun-tanned skin.

As she approached, Maria’s gaze met that of a middle-aged woman with a weathered face, calmly checking the trailer’s tie-downs. The owner of the camper, seeing Maria, smiled with the typical hospitality of travelers. The conversation began naturally, initially about the Caribbean climate and port logistics, but soon turned to the impressive journey the trailer had undertaken. The woman, with a gleam of pride in her eyes, recounted how she had crossed all of South America, starting in Córdoba and heading towards Tierra del Fuego in Ushuaia, Argentina, at the southernmost tip of the continent. She described the frosty mornings of Patagonia and the endless highways.

For the traveler, this journey was a transformative experience. She explained that she was currently in Barranquilla waiting for the ferry that would take her and her vehicle to the city of Colón, Panama, crossing the Darién Gap to connect with the northern highways and continue on to Prudhoe Bay, Alaska. When asked how long it would take to complete such a distance, the woman let out a soft, disinterested laugh, assuring everyone that she had no idea and wasn’t concerned about how long the trip would take. For her, the true richness lay in watching the landscape change at fifty kilometers per hour and in understanding that what truly mattered was the journey itself, as evidenced by the flags of South American countries on the side of her camper.

Upon returning to her hotel, Maria’s mind became a whirlwind of images and possibilities. She lay down on the bed, gazing at the ceiling illuminated by the reflections of the street. The woman’s words echoed in her head with unusual force. She visualized the highways. The idea of undertaking that monumental journey on her own, devouring the continent from Ushuaia to Alaska, ceased to be a vague plan and transformed into a vibrant desire that quickened her heartbeat .

The morning in Barranquilla brought with it clearer air and the absolute determination to get moving. During breakfast in the hotel dining room, María approached the manager, a man accustomed to the constant flow of travelers crossing the continent. Upon hearing the colossal itinerary the young woman had in mind, the innkeeper nodded with natural familiarity; he explained that a good number of tourists arriving on the Caribbean coast ended up catching the road trip bug and deciding to make their journey by car. Without wasting any time, he jotted down the address of a large logistics company located on the outskirts of the city, a complex specializing in the sale and outfitting of RVs and trailers ready for long-distance travel. Furthermore, with the wisdom of someone who knows his geography, he recommended a change of plans: instead of heading south to Ushuaia along the boring and well-trodden Pan-American Highway, the ideal route would be to first venture into Venezuela, descend through the vastness of Brazil, and cross Argentina to Tierra del Fuego, leaving the return journey along the Pan-American Highway for the trip back north. That way, he would experience an infinitely greater variety of landscapes and countries.

Just an hour later, inside the enormous warehouses of the trading company, the place was a hive of activity, bustling with livestock and tourism. The air smelled of new leather, tack grease, and the whitish substrate of nano-paste. Among rows of gleaming trailers and corrals where the clones awaited, the distributor’s manager greeted Maria. However, as they discussed the vehicles’ prices, the salesman’s gaze drifted randomly to the base of the young woman’s neck, right where her golden-blonde hair revealed the metallic outline of the implanted hardware. An expert on the inventory, the man immediately recognized the exact design of the cortical neuro-spinal chip that controlled the Ponygirl line of units . Far from being alarmed or calling health inspectors, he displayed a purely professional curiosity. Maria, with complete composure and knowing that her legal status was supported by medical reasons, explained directly to him the accident in Costa Rica, the destruction of her former body, and how the lawyer had authorized the transfer of her mind to that splendid ponygirl body .

The man listened attentively, his gaze taking in the young woman’s imposing figure, and a pragmatic smile spread across his face. A high-end camper van with a pony for pulling represented an extremely high financial investment and, frankly, completely unnecessary for someone who already possessed the inexhaustible power of draft animals within her own body. Instead of selling her the expensive trailer, the man proposed a revolutionary and fascinating alternative for her adventure: a high-tech, ultralight travel trailer fully equipped with bivouac modules, solar panels, and survival compartments. And a complete collection of decals featuring the flags of every country in the Americas . The proposal was that Maria herself would be the pony for her own journey.

To ensure a comfortable journey, the trader included in the package two complete sets of harnesses designed for free movement. The equipment consisted of two pairs of high-top black patent leather boots molded at the base in the compact shape of hooves and metal horseshoes, ideal for protecting the soles of the lower limbs and ensuring a firm footing on highway pavement or gravel; two padded chest harnesses with reinforced steel bracers that would magnetically secure the wrists behind the back , locking the arms directly into the harness to channel all the muscle power into the legs without annoying swinging. To complete the aesthetic and functional package, he added two lightweight head and mouth bridles that required no external straps, and a pair of anal tails. The long tails extended braided from the sphincter plug to the waist, indispensable for naturally repelling flies and horseflies on the open plains of Venezuela and Brazil. The other plug was only for anal use to prevent the sphincter from closing every time the long tail is removed and stored.

The best part was the document the clerk printed and stamped at the automated terminal: a transit pass for a self-guided, free-roaming pony girl . With this commercial certificate, Maria could legally cross every border on the continent, presenting herself to the optical scanners as an autonomous asset carrying her own cargo. The idea of strapping herself in, feeling the real weight of the harness on her shoulders, and devouring the highways at the speed dictated by her visual interface ignited a wave of pure enthusiasm in Maria. She was about to embark on the freest and wildest journey ever recorded, the absolute master of her own power.

The Caribbean midday saw María finally leave the Barranquilla hotel, abandoning the comfort of the rooms with the firm conviction that that very night she would sleep under the clear sky next to her own fully equipped wheelbarrow. Life, however, had a much freer and more exciting twist in store for her journey of self-discovery. Just a few hours after strapping on the harness for the first time at the distribution center, she found herself traveling the highway that cuts across the Guajira Peninsula, the wheelbarrow itself becoming the engine of her own journey. The weight of the ultralight wheelbarrow on her shoulders was barely noticeable thanks to the immense power of its 100 kilograms of pure fiberglass, and the high boots with metal fittings that marked a cheerful and steady rhythm on the pavement. As evening fell, the translucent surface of her retina registered the accumulated kilometers as the silhouette of the Paraguachón border post, on the border with Venezuela, stood out against the twilight sky.

The arrival at customs was entirely smooth and courteous. María immediately reported to the control officers, who carefully examined the documentation verifying her individual status: her Costa Rican medical certificates, her passport, the legal deeds to her family’s property, and, most importantly, the self-guided transport permit issued by the Colombian company. All the paperwork fit perfectly into the automated system, validating her as a self-guided pony girl transporting her own supplies. However, due to the late hour and the Venezuelan offices’ nightly closures, the inspectors kindly suggested she spend the night at the customs complex. To ensure her comfort within the standard animal husbandry protocols for the route, they offered her a space in the holding pens designated for draft animals in transit.

Maria accepted the proposal with genuine enthusiasm, seeing it as the perfect opportunity to fully immerse herself in the physical experience of her new nature. She drove the equipped cart to the guarded parking area and proceeded to remove the chest harness and steel armbands that magnetically secured her hands to her back, also freeing her legs from the rigid metal hooves. Strictly following customs security regulations for autonomous units, she kept the light bridle on her muzzle and the anal plug in her sphincter. As she crossed the wooden gate of the large stock pen, the atmosphere that greeted her left her in awe; the enclosure housed dozens of animals resting from their respective days on the roads.

Watching her fellow cows was a fascinating spectacle for her human mind. They all shared the imposing height of six feet and hypertrophied musculature, but the phenotypic diversity among the lines was monumental: in the space coexisted specimens with Hispanic, Arab, Asian, jet-black African, and Caucasian features, with pale, golden backs like her own. Night advanced with a profound peace over the Paraguachón border. Although the wind from the Guajira desert caused the temperature to drop drastically as the sun set, María’s enhanced metabolism processed the environment with astonishing efficiency; her tanned skin barely registered the change in climate, remaining warm and vital without needing a coat.

During the hours of darkness, Maria experienced a slow, contemplative trot among the other ponygirls , feeling for the first time a real biological connection with the herd. When sleep finally claimed her, her body instinctively reacted to the vertical roosting patterns programmed into the chip on the back of her neck; she closed her eyes and fell into a deep sleep, standing completely upright on her hind legs, her torso swaying elastically with the same natural ease as all bipedal animals. The rest was perfect, restorative, and free of any trace of fatigue. At dawn, she approached the public watering trough to receive her liquid ration of white nanopaste , which the trough gently pumped toward her neck, filling her belly with the nutrients she needed for the day. With renewed energy, she put on her harness, slipped on her helmet boots and adjusted the shooting armbands on her back. After completing the entry formalities in Venezuela, she resumed her brisk march along the highway to the east, her gaze fixed on the horizon that would lead her directly to Caracas before the following night fell.

The map of Venezuelan highways faded into the distance, a succession of endless plains, scorching asphalt, and open skies that María devoured with the joy of someone who knows she possesses inexhaustible energy. The week-long journey from Caracas to the southern tip of the country unfolded in perfect physical harmony; she absorbed the effort without her back registering the slightest fatigue, and her high boots with hoof-like metal fittings proved impeccable on the pavement. As they approached Pacaraima , the border crossing that divides the two nations, the landscape began to transform, heralding the immensity of the great Brazilian savannas she had heard so much about. At the service stations and public watering troughs along the route, the drivers of the enormous cargo wagons—both the long supply convoys and the short delivery sulkies —had painted a monumental landscape of endless green plains where the ponygirls could march in harness, feeling the free southern wind.

Upon crossing the border and presenting herself at the Brazilian checkpoint, Maria prepared to hand over her self-guided ponygirl documents , anticipating the usual friction of having to communicate in a language she had never studied. Her native tongue was Spanish, and the Portuguese of the border loomed as the first real barrier of her adventure. However, the instant the Brazilian customs officer scanned the optical marking on her passport and began asking the standard questions about the contents of her lightweight handcart, an imperceptible vibration coursed through the base of her neck. The cortical neuro-spinal chip, which until that moment had only functioned as a marvelous interface to measure the speed of her stride and regulate the elastic rhythm of her paddles, revealed an unusual and profound technological dimension.

The answer flowed from her mouth with astonishing fluency, natural and devoid of any hesitation or foreign accent. Maria found herself articulating Portuguese with the same precision and richness as a native born in the savanna; the chip in the back of her neck not only controlled the impulses of her paws but also contained entire language libraries that automatically adapted to the logistical environment she was in. The customs officials listened to her explanations about the itinerary south with complete composure, processing her words with the respect due to a novice traveler learning to master the rules of the road. Her mind’s capacity for reasoning now blended perfectly with the chip’s language packs, eliminating any communication difficulties and opening the doors of the new country wide for her.

With the approved customs stamp on her electronic pass and the wheelbarrow securely fastened to her chest harness, Maria took her first strides across Brazilian territory, feeling a wave of pure happiness course through her. Knowing that her enhanced body not only bestowed upon her a striking beauty, free from her former disability, and immense strength, but also the ability to break down language barriers simply by stepping onto the asphalt, transformed the journey into something far more than a simple road trip. The vast savannas of Brazil stretched before her golden eyes like a colossal green canvas ready to be traversed. Maria smiled to herself, marveling at how perfectly she was driving her own destiny in a world that was beginning to speak to her in her new language, which she now understood as if it were her own.

The stretch between Pacaraima and Manaus became a succession of living postcards that María devoured with the untamed joy of someone who knows she is in control of her own movements. The road cut through the vast green expanse, and her muscles responded to every demand of the terrain with astonishing strength, maintaining her trot while the wheels of the light cart whirred over the asphalt. During the days on the continental route, the landscape unfolded before her golden eyes: occasionally she encountered riders traveling comfortably atop their pony girls , and on the heavy-load lanes, she greeted with a slight nod the convoys of long carts and short sulkies transporting supplies from one district to another. Each night by the roadside was an adventure in itself. Stopping in the clearings of the savanna, under starry skies she would never have seen from a hospital bed, María learned to master the reflexes of her improved body; He discovered how the chip on the back of his neck coordinated the mechanical movements of the anal tail that rose to his hip to scare away the desert flies and horseflies with instinctive precision, and experienced the purest pleasure of stripping off his gear to bathe in the cold waters of a natural pool, hidden next to a waterfall that resonated strongly among the vegetation.

The arrival in Manaus was unfolding in a tranquil atmosphere. Maria drove her fully equipped trailer to a large parking area designated for RVs and tow vehicles, securing her cargo in a guarded module. There, in the preparation area, she removed her tow gear: she untied the bracelets that bound her hands behind her back, unfastened her chest harness, and took off the heavy boots with hoof-like fittings that had protected her hind legs for hundreds of kilometers. She swapped the long-tailed anal plug for a tailless one. Opening one of her sealed luggage containers, she retrieved the clothes she had kept from her previous life. As she dressed and looked at her reflection in the windows, the transformation filled her with pride; her sun-tanned skin and imposing athletic figure made her look like an extraordinary tourist, an infinitely more beautiful version of herself, walking with a confident stride toward the center of the great Amazonian metropolis.

Settled in the city and enjoying the ease with which her chip allowed her to converse in Portuguese with the locals, Maria headed to the traffic control offices to plan the next leg of her journey south. It was there that the route inspectors informed her of a logistical update: the interior of the Amazon rainforest was experiencing a severe storm that had forced the temporary closure of the dirt roads of the greater Amazon region to prevent vehicles and pack animals from getting stuck in the mud. The system offered her two clear alternatives. She could immediately board the river ferry that would take her downstream on the Amazon River to the city of Santarém, allowing her to continue her journey smoothly towards Fortaleza and the beaches of the Northeast, or she could choose patience and wait a full week in Manaus for the weather to improve and the authorities to reopen the legendary jungle route.

The stories she had heard at the watering holes and campfires along the way from the veteran coachmen outweighed any sense of urgency. They had told her so much about the majesty of the Amazonian route, the challenge of crossing that green ocean, and the raw beauty of its landscapes, that the decision made itself. María preferred to stay the entire week in Manaus, enjoying the city’s comforts, exploring its markets, and resting with the wonderful certainty that the wait would be worthwhile. After all, just as the woman in the camper van at the Barranquilla dock had told her, what mattered was the journey and the freedom to discover the world on her own terms, and she had all the time in the world to watch the jungle unfold before her unstoppable stride.

The week of rest in Manaus restored a vibrant lightness to Maria’s very being. Following the advice of an experienced long-wheelbase cart driver who had given her this advice at a watering hole along the route, she used her days off to take her fully equipped cart to a specialized workshop in the port area. The mechanics performed a complete overhaul: they greased the axle bearings, reinforced the bivouac supports, and calibrated the suspension to withstand the rigors of the roads ahead. With her gear ready, Maria set out to find the bridge that would allow her to cross the vastness of the Amazon River and venture deep into the heart of the Amazon rainforest. It was then that she discovered, laughing at her own naiveté, that no such structure existed and that the only way to reach the other side was to board one of the enormous logistics ferries that crossed the river’s majestic, brown waters.

Once the boat docked on the opposite bank, the disembarkation was executed with choreographed precision. The colossal long supply wagons were unloaded first, parked in neat rows along one side of the damp earthen causeway. Behind them, the drivers of short wagons and light vehicles like Maria’s came out onto the platforms, forming a conspicuous vanguard while they waited for the ponygirl riders to take the lead. The latter spurred their mounts and quickly disappeared into the dense vegetation, leading the way beneath the green canopy of the newly cleared jungle. Maria adjusted her chest harness, secured her wrists in the magnetic bracelets, laced up her boots, and with a burst of enthusiasm, set off down the compacted path behind the contingent.

For the next three days and nights, the journey along the legendary Amazonian route became a demonstration of her enhanced physical capabilities. Maria pulled her cart at full speed, letting the blue interface of her retina register the rhythm. However, the wonder and freedom of speed were firmly tempered by the region’s strict rules of survival. The wild environment was unforgiving: the mandatory rule dictated halting progress and spending the night only and exclusively within the shelters and corrals previously designated on the logistical map. Maria respected this rigor, knowing that lingering in the open meant becoming easy prey for the silent stalking of the dangerous jaguars and black panthers that ruled the jungle’s darkness. Likewise, she suppressed any desire to refresh herself in the area’s streams; the latent danger of being devoured by enormous crocodiles or mauled by dense schools of piranhas was ever-present at every turn in the trail.

As evening fell on the third day of their uninterrupted journey, the vegetation began to thin, giving way to the salty breezes that heralded the ocean’s approach. On the horizon, silhouetted against the twilight sky, she finally spotted the urban outline of the city of Fortaleza. Although the sight of the metropolis and its beaches was tempting, Maria preferred to remain true to the rhythm of the route, which had become part of her daily life and her psychological stability. She drove her wheelbarrow to a large transit parking area on the outskirts of the city and, after removing her harness and hobble boots, passed through the wooden gate to spend the night inside the large shelter. There, surrounded once again by the comforting presence of other pony girls resting upright under the northeastern Brazilian sky, she surrendered to sleep with the wonderful certainty of having conquered one of the wildest stretches of the planet thanks to the unstoppable energy of her own hooves.

She left her trailer safely parked in a trailer lot near the airport and dressed in her summer clothes to explore the city. It was a real culture shock for her to discover that many of the young women and teenagers in Fortaleza wore only underwear in the streets. Walking barefoot was completely normal there, and women of all social classes went topless daily due to the excessive heat, accepting it with complete ease. Maria spent a couple of days enjoying the beaches just like the local girls, walking around the streets and boulevards in just her G-string. Then she headed south to her next destination: Salvador de Bahia. It was during this journey that she realized how natural this custom was; both women and ponygirls displayed their breasts so freely that the only real difference between a free woman and a ponygirl in transit lay in the use of equestrian equipment or the G-strings of Brazilian swimsuits. That wonderful feeling of bodily freedom would accompany her throughout her journey across that great South American country.

Close observation of this environment allowed her to understand one of the country’s most fascinating visual paradoxes. On the roads of Brazil, the aesthetic dividing line between a free woman and a ponygirl in her natural biological state lay not in the covering of skin, but strictly in clothing. While travelers and locals sported skimpy thong swimsuits, the ponygirls marched harnessed, displaying the same nakedness, distinguished only by their use of equine equipment: the tight chest harness, the magnetic steel bracelets that secured their limbs to the horse’s back, and the high boots with hoof-like shoes striking the pavement. This profound bodily naturalness, where tanned skin and muscle fibers were exhibited without moral barriers, became Maria’s silent companion throughout her descent across the vastness of South America, reinforcing the glorious sense of freedom that her new body bestowed upon her with every stride.