For the frequency of their appearances alone, there were a few of the expert witnesses who effectively qualified as regulars. Attorneys tended to pass around lists of those who would be willing to speak on a client's behalf and in any case, there were only so many ponies who truly knew about certain subjects. Those who would step into the witness stall to explain, in careful, common terms, exactly what had gone wrong. And some were simply authorities in established categories of sexual interest. Because things happened when ponies came up with the entirely new and chose to experiment -- but civil cases also arose when somepony viewed a known path for the first time and decided to get experimental.

They were ponies who didn't always know what they were getting into or, once the final strap had closed, how to get out of it again.

Take, by way of example, bondage. Quite a few ponies had taken the concept out of the stable for a test gallop. For those who hadn't done what was absolutely a required amount of studying, the path had mostly led through a number of shadowed back alleys in the hopes of finding a discreet locksmith at the other end.

The entire category of BDSM interests had a single aspect in common, and that was a dire need to put in the research. You had to understand where the limits were. How to put exactly the right amount of pressure on a joint, because this far was Pleasure and one degree past that was Hospital. A near-medical understanding of the pony form helped. Some added knowledge of materials science. Anypony worth their tail-mounted whip would understand how to work a buckle with tongue alone, and emergency release pullcords were effectively mandatory. A rookie had to be partnered with an expert, and the first few sessions would effectively be a classroom in the form of a pleasure dungeon. For those who'd had exceptionally poor school experiences, the greatest shock would come from discovering that learning could be enjoyable.

But when it came to such learning, the majority of ponies who underwent initial investigations tended to be those whose school book report style had been regrettably familiar: take any 800-page classic and force themselves to read through the entire back cover blurb. (It was theoretically possible to get through a full six mouthwritten pages with that much knowledge, although not without dangerously depleting the world's 'very' supply.) They would grow up to become adults who treated Do It Yourself repair books as something which had a subject on the front cover, a picture of the final results on the back, and just touching the spine would clearly absorb any additional information. In practice, this meant the interior of the book could be replaced with a list of qualified repairponies who were also capable of putting the resulting fires out -- but it wasn't as if the amateur was going to read that either.

It meant they experimented once, because they didn't bother with the little details like 'What kind of safeword can still be clearly pronounced with a ball in my mouth?' (Those who did more than skim the books would have also worked out ear and tail movement codes.) There was a subcategory which felt that proper gear just had to come with locks all over it: this group had full overlap with the ones who couldn't remember where they'd put the keys.

A lot could go wrong with bondage, especially for those who felt their personal learning curve didn't require an index. Too many of those bad results wound up in Sex Court. And that was why so many attorneys called upon Golden Harvest.

She'd been more than a little nervous, during her first time in the witness stall. It had taken an extensive review of the privacy contract to get her past the marble columns, because just about all of Ponyville knew Goldie solely as a carrot farmer. She didn't feel that they would understand if she told them how many other uses farming implements had, or... look at her the same way. There was something in Goldie which felt that so many would never look at her again.

(Goldie had been hired as an expert witness more than a dozen times. The gallery was now fully familiar with every possibility embodied by a tiller. Nopony had been able to make her talk about what was being done with the actual carrots.)

But she was an expert. She could carefully guide an audience through the basics: what went where, the points at which tolerances ran out, and all of the safeties which had to be in place because the illusion of danger could never be allowed to crash into reality. Show her a picture of improvised gear and she would immediately point out at least ten points of failure: it could take some time before she reached the detail which had actually gone wrong.

And she could even explain the dominant/submissive relationship. The paradox of it, because... ultimately, it was the sub who held the true power. The ability to say 'stop'. A true relationship was partially built around honoring that 'stop', and keeping it as something very close to holy.

A true relationship. Something Goldie had never known.

As an expert witness, she was a regular. As a defendant, Golden Harvest was an ongoing tragedy.

For those who knew what they were doing, the BDSM community in the district was small, loving, and just about entirely paired up. It left Goldie to scavenge among the curious. Those who had taken a momentary interest. And she did her best to teach. Nopony ever went into Goldie's playroom without having been told exactly what they were getting into -- along with what they had to say in order to be let out of it.

But ponies didn't always listen. Or they discovered that curiosity ran out at the exact place where sensation began, they panicked, forgot everything, didn't bother to signal because trying to kick was clearly more effective...

Goldie got hauled in for scaring ponies. She had explained the concept of 'saddle' a dozen times and ponies still broke for the hills when the tack actually came out. Because her partners hadn't understood, hadn't listened, hadn't been sincere.

But she was an expert dom. She always told them what to expect, and... not having the words reach their brains wasn't her fault.

She'd always been able to prove that she'd tried to prepare them. That they'd gone in fully informed. She was, in many ways, the anti-Rainbow: any partner of Goldie's always knew exactly what she was going to do -- or would, if only they had truly listened.

(There had been a case where Judge Impassi Heartstopper had simply asked Goldie as to why the farmer didn't draw up a contract, and the mare had bitterly said that she didn't need written evidence floating around. Also that it would have been a great way to discover that ponies didn't read either.)

As the expert BDSM witness for the district, Goldie was in great demand. But she'd taken on that role because she'd been forced to explain herself from the defendant's bench, over and over, in front of attorneys who had decided she could now fulfill that function for them.

As a defendant, the farmer occupied a curious position: one even stranger than that created by her gear. Goldie had both always gotten off and never gotten off.

She was an expert dom. She would have been a brilliant, loving partner. But she had been forced to scavenge through the leftovers, her luck was horrible, she didn't have anypony...

When Goldie entered the courtroom as an expert witness... the gallery tended to nod respectfully, and did so as a herd. But today, she was present as a defendant. Again. And the spectators had gone silent, because that was one of the proper responses to tragedy.

"And what is your exact complaint?" Judge Heartstopper asked the plaintiff: a slightly-built light blue earth pony mare, all subtle curves and soft angles. The mane was slightly towards the silver side, and the mark claimed a talent for metallurgy.

"False advertising," declared a high-pitched voice.

Goldie's attention appeared to be focused on her desk. She didn't look up. Her ears failed to twitch in the general direction of the accusation. The farmer had been there before, been there too many times, and... she would typically speak when it was her turn.

"Which is generally filed against a product's manufacturers," the judge noted. It was possible to make the claim with a pony, but... well, there would have been thousands filing suit, along with a near-equal number of stallions trying to claim that somehow, 7=12.

"It could be argued," the small mare coldly said, "that bondage equipment is a product. Along with being part of a service. She failed to deliver."

Goldie? went through Impassi's mind. The judge's voice chose "And the particulars of that failure?"

The small mare pulled herself up to a rather minimal full height.

"I want to make a few things clear."

The judge nodded. Goldie's head dipped.

"There was nothing wrong with the snout gag." The little earth pony paused. "Well, it was clearly homemade. But she'd taken some care with it."

Another nod. The farmer's mane was starting to droop.

"The balance on the sleepsack..." The mare paused.

"You felt trapped," Judge Heartstopper said. "Confined. That you couldn't get away --"

A small frown creased attractive features.

"No. The balance was exquisite. And I've never seen anypony work the anal hook into the support grouping."

She went to the hook. And she would have explained it first. Every aspect.
She really wanted this to work.

"So you have no complaints about the sleepsack," Impassi checked.

The small mare shook her head.

"No. Although I didn't understand why the chevalet was in the room --"

"-- it's not a chevalet," Goldie whispered in the general direction of the table.

"Ms. Harvest?" the judge carefully asked.

"I was trying to make a queening stool which would work for a pony. Repurposing other things. It wasn't finished. I hadn't leveled the top yet. So it just looked like a chevalet."

Nopony asked what a chevalet was. Goldie had explained those before, mostly because ponies had to know why they should just about never be used.

"...oh," the small mare carefully said. "Well, I guess I can see where you were going with that. Even if it was homemade. Like the harness. And the hobble skirts. And the saddle. Obviously improvised. Well-made, but... not exactly purchased, were they?"

The farmer slowly shook her fast-dropping head.

"But I was promised something special," the mare announced. "Something unique. And that's why I moved here in the first place, to seek out what nopony in Drayton could truly deliver! Pain and pleasure, twinned and intertwined! I was expecting perfection, and I got a sleepsack and a hook and the saddle, she told me about what she was going to do and I was still waiting for that which never came --"

-- she just sniffled, she's never --

The little mare reared up, and slim forehooves pretended to slam against wood.

"-- because where were the spurs?"

Judge Heartstopper allowed herself the luxury of a single blink.

"How is it supposed to be special without spurs?" the sub demanded. "I was supposed to be her pony! Hers! How is she supposed to truly claim me without --"

Which was when judge, plaintiff, and gallery all realized that Goldie was crying.

For ten endless seconds, there were no words. Just soft impacts, and water being absorbed by darkening wood.

"...don't you have spurs?" the metallurgist half-whispered.

Goldie shook her head. Drops scattered.

"...I can't get ponies to stop running from the saddle. How am I supposed to bring in spurs? I don't even know where to find spurs, and I can't just make --"

"...I've been dreaming of spurs for six years," stated the little mare. "Ever since I realized what I wanted, and that... nopony in Drayton would do it. I thought... I thought that at the end, after everything you'd said, the spurs would just... be there."

The defendant's head came up. Just a little.

"And I was so angry about not getting the last part of my dream," the sub finished, "that I made you let me out of everything and I just... I just left..."

Nopony said anything.

The plaintiff looked up. Checking with the occupant of the highest bench.

Softly, "I want to drop my case. Right now."

Impassi nodded. The little mare dropped back to all fours, then slowly trotted over to the defendant's station.

"It's just about all wood and cloth for you, isn't it?" she quietly asked Goldie. "Because that's what you have available."

Which produced a tiny, sad nod.

"But I work with metal," the sub said. Took a slow breath, and followed it by taking a chance. "Mistress... may I please show you how to make my spurs?"

Goldie's head came all the way up. It was the only way to truly stare.

And then they were both crying.
Half of the gallery was crying...

---

They left together, Goldie and Braeö, because that was the paradox of bondage. Ultimately, the submissive was the one who held the true power. The ability to say 'stop'.

Or... 'start'.

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