Beauty's Release

IT WAS a giant stable like many another, I think, except that real horses had never been in it. The mud floor was strewn with sawdust and hay merely to make it soft and keep the dust down. Its rafters were hung with harnesses of the light and delicate sort fit only for men. And the bits and reins streamed from hooks along the rough wooden walls, while in a large open area drenched with sun from the open doors to the street stood a circle of empty wooden pillories. They were high enough for a man on his knees, with holes for the neck and the hands. And I thought as I glanced at them that I would know what they were for, perhaps, sooner than I wanted to know.
LAURENT: FIRST DAY AMONG THE PONIES
What interested me more were the stalls to the far right. And the naked men inside them, two and three to a stall, their backsides well striped from the belt, their very sturdy legs firmly planted on the floor, their torsos bent over a thick wooden beam, their arms bound in the small of their backs as they merely stood there. With few exceptions, all wore leather boots to which horseshoes had been attached, and in two of the stalls grooms worked—true stable boys in leather and homespun—scrubbing down their charges or rubbing them with oil, their attitude one of casualness and busyness.
The sight took my breath away. It was strangely beautiful and absolutely devastating. It made me realize in a flash what was to befall us. Words alone had not been enough.
After the white marble and golden-threaded fabrics of the Sultan’s palace, the tinted flesh and perfumed hair, this was shockingly real, the world itself, to which I’d been returned at last to pick up the thread of an existence for which I’d been bound before the raiders ever came.
Tristan and I were set down on the floor. Our bonds were cut. And I saw a tall stable boy approaching, a strongly built blond-haired young man, no more than twenty, with light freckles on his sun-darkened face and bright, cheerful green eyes. He smiled as he walked around us, his hands on his hips. Tristan and I stretched out our limbs, but we didn’t dare move any more than that.
I heard one of the soldiers say:
“Two more, Gareth. And you’ll have them the full year. Scrub them, feed them, and harness them up right away. Captain’s orders.”
“Beauties, sir, beauties,” said the boy cheerfully. “All right, you two. Up on your feet. Ever been ponies before? I want a nod or a shake of the head, not a verbal answer.” He gave my bottom a slap as I rose. “Arms behind your back, folded, that’s it!” I saw his hand squeeze Tristan’s backside. Tristan was still badly shaken, and he bowed his head, looking oddly regal as well as defeated, a sight that was heartrending even to me.
“And what’s all this?” said the boy, taking out a clean linen handkerchief and wiping Tristan’s tears, and then mine. He had a stunning face, the boy, big handsome smile. “Tears from a pair of good ponies?” he said. “We can’t have that now, can we? Ponies are proud creatures. They cry when they’re punished. Otherwise they march with their heads high. That’s it.” He gave me a good slap under the chin, snapping my head up. Tristan had already lifted his head properly.
The boy went round us again in a circle. My cock was pumping more madly than ever. A new form of debasement was being visited upon us. No Court and villagers to watch now. We were in the charge of this rough-hewn young servant, and even glancing at his high brown boots and his powerful hands, still on his hips, excited me.
But a shadow suddenly fell over the stable, and I realized that my old friend, the Captain of the Guard, had come in.
“Good afternoon, Captain,” said the boy. “Congratulations on the mission. The whole village is afire with the gossip.”
“Gareth, I’m glad you’re here,” said the Captain. “I want these two to be your special charge. You’re the best groom in the village.”
“You flatter me, Captain.” The boy laughed. “But I don’t think you’ll find anyone here who loves his work more than I do. And these two, gorgeous steeds! Look at the way they stand. They have pony blood. I can see it already.”
“Harness them together whenever it’s possible,” said the Captain. I saw his hand go up to stroke Tristan’s head. He took the white handkerchief from the boy and wiped Tristan’s face again.
“You know, this is the best punishment you could have drawn, Tristan,” the Captain said under his breath. “You know you need it.”
“Yes, Captain,” Tristan whispered. “But I’m frightened.”
“Don’t be. You and Laurent will be the pride of the stables in no time. There’ll be a list on the door out there of the villagers who want to hire you.”
Tristan shuddered. “I need courage, Captain,” he said.
“No, Tristan,” he said seriously, “you need the harness and the bit and stern discipline, as you needed it before. You must understand something about being a pony. It is not merely another part of your slavery. It is a way of life unto itself.”
A way of life unto itself.
He stepped over to me, and I felt my cock stiffen as if it were possible for it to get any stiffer. The stable boy stood back with his arms folded, watching all this, his yellow hair falling down on his forehead a little, freckles very pretty in the sunshine. Such nice white teeth.
“And you, Laurent? Tears from you?” the Captain said soothingly to me. He wiped my face again. “Don’t tell me you’re frightened?”
“I don’t know, Captain,” I said. I wanted to say that I wouldn’t know until the bit and harness and the phallus were in place. But that would have been asking for it. I didn’t have the courage to ask for it. It would come soon enough.
“Chances are,” he said, “that this is where you would have been placed if the Sultan’s soldiers hadn’t raided the village.” He put his arm around my shoulder, and it seemed suddenly real, the time we had spent at sea, when we had both whipped and played with Lexius and Tristan. “It’s the perfect thing for you,” he assured me. “You have more will and strength pumping in your veins than most slaves. That is what Gareth calls pony blood. And the pony life will simplify everything for you; it will quite literally and symbolically harness your strength.”
“Yes, Captain,” I said. I stared in a daze at the long row of stalls, the backsides of the pony slaves, their horseshoed boots on the hay-strewn earth. “But will you ... will you ... ?”
“Yes, Laurent?”
“Will you let me know now and then how it goes with Lexius?” My dear and elegant Lexius, who would soon enough be gathered into the Queen’s arms. “And Princess Beauty ... if you hear any word.”
“We don’t speak of those who leave the Kingdom,” he said. “But I’ll let you know if there is any gossip.” I could see the sadness, the longing for Beauty, in his face. “As for Lexius, I’ll tell you how he fares. And you can be sure, both of you, that I’ll see you often. If I don’t see you trotting every day in the streets, I’ll come looking for you.”
He turned my face towards him and kissed me, rather hard, on the mouth. Then he kissed Tristan in the same fashion, and I studied the two rough-shaven faces together, the mingling of the blond hair, the half-lidded eyes. Men kissing. Such a lovely sight. “Be strict with them, Gareth,” he said as he let go of Tristan. “Train them well. When in doubt, whip.”
And then he was gone. And we were alone with this robust young stable-boy Master who was already making my heart trip.
“All right, my young steeds,” he said in the same cheerful voice as before. “Keep your chins high and move down the row to the last stall. And do it as ponies always do, at a brisk march, arms tightly folded against your backs, knees high. I don’t want to have to remind you of this ever again. You march with spirit at all times, whether shoed or not, whether in the streets or in the stables, with pride in the strength of your bodies.”
We obeyed, moving down the long line of stalls, and came to the last one, which was empty. I saw the feeding trough beneath the window, with its bowls of clean water and of meal, and the two broad, flat beams crossing the stall, over which we had to bend at the waist, one beam to suport our chests, the other our bellies. Gareth pushed us to the far sides of the stall so that he could stand between us, and he ordered us to bend over and we obeyed, resting our torsos on the beams, our heads right above the feeding bowls.
“Now lap that water, and do it with enthusiasm,” he said. “I won’t have any vanity here, any holding back. You’re ponies now.”
No soft, silken fingers here; no perfumed ointments; no tender voices talking in that impenetrable Arabic tongue that seemed so suited to sensuality.
The wet scrub brush hit my backside and started its vigorous work immediately, the water trickling down my naked legs. I felt a rush of shame as I lapped the water, hating the wetness against my face, but I was thirsty and I did as he said, amazingly eager to please him, liking the smell of his rawhide jerkin, his suntanned skin.
He scrubbed me well, ducking under the beams and coming up between them or in front of them when he had to, his movements firm and brusque, as he did his chores, his voice reassuring. And then he turned to Tristan, just as our food was brought to us, a good serving of thick meat soup, which he told us to finish off completely.
But I had taken only a few morsels when he stopped me.
“No. I can see we need some training immediately. I told you to eat it, and I mean for you to devour it and fast. I’ll have none of those dainty manners here. Now let me see you go at it.”
Again, I was blushing with shame to have to pick up the meat and vegetables with my tongue, to have the stew on my face, but I didn’t dare disobey him. I felt an extraordinary affection for him.
“Now, that’s better,” he said. I saw him patting Tristan’s shoulder. “I’ll tell you right now what it means to be a pony. It means pride in what you are, and a loss of all false pride in what you are no longer. You march briskly, you keep your heads high, your cocks hard, and you show your gratitude for the slightest kindness. You obey all commands, even the simplest, with enthusiasm.”
We had finished our food, and we remained bent over the bar as our boots were put on, the laces pulled tight over my calves, the heavy horseshoes weighing my feet, so that the tears came to my eyes again. I had known these horseshoe boots on the Bridle Path at the castle, when Lady Elvera had whipped me alongside her horse. But that was nothing to this. This was a world of austere punishments, and, overwhelmed with confusion, I began to weep, making no effort to stop it. I knew what was coming.
As I remained in place, the phallus was pushed inside me, and I felt the soft brush of the horse’s tail, and I swallowed, wishing I was bitted already so that my crying would be less noticeable and might not make Gareth angry.
Tristan too was having a difficult time, and that further confused me. When I turned my head and glanced back to see the bushy horsetail in him, the sight of it enthralled me.
Meantime, the harnesses were being buckled on, fine straps that ran down over our shoulders, under our legs, through a circular hook on the back of the phallus and up to a strap around our waists, where they were buckled securely. It was a good and thorough job, though I didn’t feel the true panic, the true defenselessness, until my folded arms were strapped tight and connected to the rest of the harness.
With relief, I knew that my will wasn’t so important now. And a sob did break from me when the stiff rolled-leather bit was forced back between my teeth and I felt the reins against the sides of my face.
“Up, Laurent,” Gareth said, with a firm tug of the reins. And, as I stood up straight and moved backwards in the heavy horseshoed boots, I felt him attaching weighted clamps to my nipples, the weights brushing the skin of my chest as they pulled down on the nipples. The tears were a flood coming down my face. And we were not even out of the stables.
Tristan moaned as he received the same treatment, and I felt that doubling confusion again when I turned to glance at him. But this time, Gareth pulled hard on my reins and told me to look ahead if I didn’t want a nice collar to keep my head straight.
“Ponies don’t look around like that, my boy!” he said and swatted me hard with his open hand, jolting the phallus inside me. “If they do, they’re soundly whipped and fitted with blinders.”
When his fingers touched my cock, binding my balls against it with a tight cock ring, I could hardly stand the gentleness of the touch, the heat of the sensation.
“Now, that’s nice,” he said, walking back and forth in front of us. His white sleeves were rolled up to show the gold fleece on his sun-bronzed arms, and his hips moved enticingly under the leather tunic to suggest a comfortable swagger.
“And if I have to put up with those tears,” he said, “I want your faces held high for the world to see them. If you must cry, then your Masters and Mistresses should enjoy the sight of it. But you don’t fool me, either of you. You’re perfect ponies. And your tears will only make me whip both of you harder. Now march to the front of the stables!”
We both obeyed. I felt him gather the reins behind me, the phallus like a club forced into my anus, hard and unyielding as the bronze phallus had been, thick, and firmly held there by the harness. The weights pulled at my nipples. In fact, there seemed no part of my body that was left in peace, the cock ring tightening on my cock, the glove-soft fit of the boots rendering the rest of me shamefully naked. The harness seemed to govern me, contain me, to unify a thousand sensations and torments.
And as I felt myself dissolving in these sensations, there came the loud crashing smack of Gareth’s strap on my backside. Another blow rang out, and I heard Tristan wince behind his bit. We were marched past the pillories and through another pair of doors into a big stable yard where carts and carriages stood in their stalls, and a gate stood open to the east road of the village.
I felt panic again, panic that we were to be driven out there, panic that we were to be seen in this new livery of shame, and the more I shook with sobs and anxious breaths the more the harness constricted me and the weights danced as they hung from my nipples.
Gareth came up beside me and ran a quick comb through my hair.
“Now, Laurent,” he said, scoldingly. “What is there to be afraid of?” He patted my bottom where he had whipped it only moments ago. “No, I’m not tormenting you,” he said. “I’m quite serious. Let me tell you something about fear: Fear is only good when you have a choice in things.”
He jerked the phallus to make sure it was in well. It seemed to grind me harder, more deeply, my anus itching and throbbing around it. I couldn’t stop crying.
“But do you have a choice in things?” he asked honestly. “Think on it. Do you?”
I shook my head to admit that I didn’t.
“No, that isn’t how a pony answers,” he said gently. “I want a good shake of the head. That’s it. Again. That’s it.”
I obeyed, and each toss of my head tightened the harnessing, moved the weights, jarred the phallus. He touched my neck with maddening gentleness. I wanted to turn to him, weep against his shoulder.
“Now, as I was saying,” he said. “And you listen to this, too, Tristan. Fear is only important when you have a choice. Or some control. You have none. In a few moments, the Lord Mayor will be here with his farm cart. He’ll be returning the old team, and you’ll be part of the new team to take the cart back out to the manor house for the afternoon load, and you’ve no choice in this whatsoever. You’re going to be marched out there and tethered to the cart, and you’ll pull it all afternoon and be whipped soundly as you do it. And there is absolutely nothing you can do to prevent it. So when you think about it, what is there to be afraid of? For a year you will do this, and nothing can change it. You understand me, you know you do. I want a nod now.”
Tristan and I both nodded. And to my surprise, I was a little calmer, the fear seeming to darken, become something else, something nameless. Hard to explain it—per—haps impossible—the feel of this new life beginning, just beginning.... All the roads I had followed had led me to this place, this gate, this beginning.
Gareth took a little oil in his hands from a nearby jug, and he rubbed it onto my balls, murmuring that it would make them “glisten,” and then he gave the tip of my cock the same polishing. I could hardly endure the stimulation, the chills crawling over my skin, and I shied away from his hand as he laughed and pinched my rump.
“When are those tears going to stop?” he said as he kissed my ear. “Chew hard on the bit when you cry. Chew hard. Doesn’t that feel good, the soft leather in your teeth? Ponies like it.”
It did feel good. He was right. It helped to chew on it, to work it between my jaws, the stiff roll of leather tasting good and feeling strong enough to take the clamping down, the chewing.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him polishing Tristan, thinking, “Any moment we will be out on the road; we will be marching and hundreds will see us—if they bother to look up, bother to take notice.”
Gareth turned to me again. A small loop of black leather was fixed just under the tip of my cock and this was adorned with a small bell that gave a low, brassy jangling noise with every movement. Unendurably degrading. Such a little thing.
Memories of the exquisite adornments in the Sultan’s world inundated me—jewels, gold, the multicolored carpets strewn on the soft, green, garden grass, the fine leather manacles—and the tears streamed down my face, but it was not that I wanted to be there! It was only that the dramatic change intensified everything!
Tristan, too, was being made to wear the bell, and every movement of our cocks brought some appalling sound from the things. And we would become accustomed to all this, I knew. In a month, it would seem natural!
I watched Gareth take from a hook on the wall a long-handled thrash I’d never seen before. It was a bundle of stiff but flexible leather strips, a sort of cat-o’-nine-tails, and with this he thrashed both of us soundly.
It did not hurt like the wallop of the strap, but the strips were heavy and they covered all of the flesh in each sweeping blow easily. Almost caressing they were, enveloping the naked skin in countless stings and prickles and scratches.
Gareth took our reins again and marched us to the gate. My heart came up in my mouth. I looked out over the broad road to the far wall of the village. On the top of the wall, the soldiers passed back and forth lazily, mere silhouettes against the sunny sky. One of them stopped and waved to Gareth, and Gareth waved back. A carriage appeared to the south, and it came on fast, pulled by eight human steeds, all harnessed and bitted as we were. I stared at it, stupefied.
“Do you see that?” Gareth asked. I gave as vigorous a nod as I could. “Now remember, as you march, that that is what you look like. And you belong to those who see you. Step high, step proud. I can forgive some faults, but lack of spirit isn’t one of them.”
Two more coaches went thundering past, slaves prancing, horseshoes ringing on the stones, leaving me all the more breathless, petrified.
For a year we would do this, this would be our lives. And, within seconds, the first excruciating test would begin in earnest.
My tears poured down, as freely as ever, but I swallowed the sobs, chewing on the leather bit, liking the feel of it as Gareth said I would, and when I flexed my muscles I liked the pull of the harness, the knowledge that I was bound too well for rebellion to make much difference.
In moments, the Mayor’s cart appeared, lumbering up to the gate and blocking everything beyond it. It was piled with linens, furniture, other merchandise, apparently to be taken out to the manor house from the market. And other stable boys quickly unharnessed the six dusty and windblown pony slaves who had been pulling it. Four fresh ponies were driven out from the stables and harnessed in the front places as we waited.
I wondered if I had ever known such tension, such a feeling of dread and weakness. Of course I had a thousand times, but what did it matter? The past did not come to my aid. I was on the cutting edge of the present. Gareth’s hand closed on my shoulder. The other stable boys moved in to help. And Tristan and I were ushered into place behind the first two pairs of steeds rather roughly.
I felt straps looped under and over my bound arms and through the ring attached to the phallus. The reins were lifted behind me.
And, before I could resign myself, or prepare my spirit for it, the reins and harness were pulled, the phallus lifting me off my feet, and the team was suddenly galloping.
Not a moment to beg for mercy, for time, for some last touch of comfort from Gareth. No. We were lifting our knees, moving fast on the cobblestones of the road, passing into the stream of traffic that we had studied in mingled apprehension and horror.
And I realized in these harrowing moments that the harness and bit, the boots and the phallus, were unlike any devices to which I’d ever been subjected. They had a clear and useful purpose! They weren’t merely to torture us, humiliate us, make us malleable for the amusement of others. They were for the simple and efficient pulling of this cart along the road. We were, as the Queen had said, workhorses.
Was it less debasing or more so, that we had been so cleverly put to work, our tendencies as slaves so expertly channeled? I didn’t know. I knew only, as we pounded suddenly into the middle of the road, that I was drenched in shame, each marching step intensifying it, and yet I felt as I always did at the core of punishment: the coming of a tranquility, a quiet place in the very center of frenzy, in which I could surrender all the parts of my being.
The driver’s strap licked down with a loud popping noise at my legs. The sight of the ponies in front of me stunned me. The bushy black tails swayed and danced in their reddened rumps. Their legs pumped at the ground, their hair shimmered against their shoulders.
And we made the same picture, except that the driver’s long strap smacked us hard over and over again. And it wasn’t the maddening little sting of the Sultan’s thongs. It was a good smack each time the leather whipped us. And down the road we went in a loud clatter of horseshoes, the sky shining overhead as it had done on a thousand warm summer days, other carriages passing us.

I can’t say the country road was easier than the village road. If anything, there was more traffic. Slaves at work in the fields, small carts rattling by, a string of slaves bound to a fence, their bottoms being soundly whipped by an angry Master.
And when we pulled into the farm road, our brief rest in harness was hardly an escape from our new station. The naked and dusty farm slaves pushed indifferently past us, unloading the cart, then piling it high with fruit and vegetables for market. At the kitchen door, a scullery maid watched us idly.
The experienced ponies pawed the ground with their horseshoe boots; they shook their heads now and then when the flies came near; they stretched their muscles as though loving their own nakedness.
But Tristan and I were rather still, and it seemed each tiny variation of the country scene took more of the mental skin off me, deepening the sense of my lowliness. Even the geese pecking near our feet seemed part of a world that had condemned us to be rude beasts and would keep us there.
If anyone enjoyed the sight of our hard cocks, our tortured nipples, this wasn’t revealed to us. The driver of the cart, pacing up and down, whacked us with his doubled strap more out of boredom than inclination.
And when two of the other ponies rubbed against each other, the driver punished them with hard and cold annoyance.
“No touching there,” he declared. And the scullery maid slowly roused herself to fetch a wooden paddle for him. Stepping in front of us, he found plenty of room to punish the offenders, switching back and forth between the two rumps, jerking up the phallus by its hook with his left hand as he soundly whacked at the bottom and thighs with the paddle.
Tristan and I watched, petrified, the ponies groaning under the hard smacks, the muscles of their reddened buttocks contracting and releasing helplessly. I knew I must never make this mistake of rubbing against another harnessed body. Yet I felt certain that someday I would make it.
Finally, we were again driven out. We trotted fast, muscles tingling, backsides smarting under the strap, the bits pulled harshly back, the pace just a little too quick for us so that it soon had us crying.
Driven into the marketplace, we were again allowed to rest, the noonday crowd taking only a little more notice of us than the farm servants had, someone stopping to pat a rump here or slap a cock there, the ponies who were touched tossing their heads and stamping their feet as if they liked it! I knew when some passerby finally touched me I would do the same. And then suddenly I was doing it, tossing my hair and chewing hard on the bit, as a young boy with a sack slung over his shoulder stopped to call us fine steeds and play with the weights that hung from my nipples.
“It will take us over,” I thought. “It will become second nature.”
And as the afternoon passed in a succession of such trips, I grew not accustomed to it so much as profoundly resigned to it. Yet I knew that true understanding, true appreciation of the pony life, would only come with the passing of days and then weeks. I could not conceive of my frame of mind six months along. It would be an interesting revelation to me.

At nightfall, we made our last trip, no longer tethered to the Mayor’s cart but to the refuse wagon that traveled about the deserted market to receive the sweepings. Sluggishly we moved, as the cart was filled, naked slaves driven to the work by their crude and impatient overseers.
The villagers, dressed for the evening now, moved past the deserted shops and stands towards the nearby Place of Public Punishment. And we could hear the paddles and straps at work there, the cheers and screams of the crowd, the general noise of festivity. From that too we were, for better or worse, excluded.
It was the stable world for us, the hearty young grooms unharnessing us with simple words:
“Easy now,” and “Steady,” and “Head up, that’s a good boy,” as they whipped us to our stalls, and over the beams for feeding and watering.
It was a good feeling to have the boots slide off, to feel the balls of my feet on the soft, slightly moist floor, to feel the scrub brush sudsing me thoroughly. My arms were unbound and I was allowed to stretch them for a moment before folding them on my back again.
No one had to tell us to eat or drink with enthusiasm this time: We were hungry! But we were also tortured with desire. And, as I lay over the beams, the stable boy lifting my head to clean my face and my teeth, I felt my cock a jutting shaft of pure hunger. It was nowhere near the rough wood that supported me. They were much too clever for that. And I knew what happened to those of us who tried to touch others.
I hoped against hope for some relief. Surely we were given relief. But, when the water and food dishes were cleared away, a large down pillow was laid in the trough and my head was pushed into it for resting. This had a remarkable effect on me. We would sleep in this fashion, I realized, our weight on the beams, head on the pillow. We could stretch our legs if we wished, or just let our feet rest on the earth. It was a good and completely debasing position. I turned my head towards Tristan. He was looking at me. Who would see if I reached out and touched his cock? I could do it. His eyes were two glittering orbs in the shadows.
In the meantime ponies were marched in and out. I could hear the sounds of the harnessing and unharnessing, the voices of villagers in the yard asking for this or that steed. The stable was darker but no quieter than it had been at morning. The stable boys whistled as they went about their tasks. Now and then they teased a pony with loud affectionate voices.
I continued to gaze at Tristan, unable on account of the crossbeams to see his cock. Bad enough to see his handsome face against the pillow. How soon would they catch me if I mounted him, dug my cock in deep and.... But they might have ways to punish us of which I hadn’t thought....
Suddenly Gareth appeared. I heard his voice at the same moment that I felt his hand stroking my sore backside.
“Well, the drivers did their work on you two,” he said. “And by all reports you’re fine ponies. I’m proud of you.”
The flush of pleasure I felt was just another extraordinary humiliation.
“Now, up, both of you, arms folded firmly on your backs and heads high, as if you wore the bit. Out there now, move quickly.”
He marched us past the doors to the wagon yard, and I saw another pair of open doors in the side of the stable. A beam like a bolt lay across the span of the opening at midpoint. A man would have to duck under it or climb over it to get through, the former being much easier.
“That’s the recreation yard, and you’ll be there for an hour,” Gareth said. “Now, down on your hands and knees, and see you stay down in the yard. No pony walks upright save to march to his Master’s commands or to trot in harness. Disobey and I’ll chain your elbows to your knees so that you can’t stand up. Don’t make me do it.”
We went down on all fours, and he swatted our rumps with his open hands to drive us through the doorway.
Immediately, we entered a clean-swept dirt yard lighted by torches and lanterns, with several large old trees against the far wall and naked ponies sitting or prowling about on all fours everywhere. There was a peaceful atmosphere until we were seen, and at once the other steeds moved towards us.
I understood what would take place. And I didn’t try to fight or run. Everywhere I looked, I saw naked flanks, long unruly locks, smiling faces. Directly in front of me a beautiful young pony, blond-haired and gray-eyed, smiled as he reached up and stroked my face and opened my mouth with his thumb.
I waited, unsure as to how far I would let this go, when I felt another behind me, the cock already pushing into my anus, and yet another had thrown his arm over my shoulder and was pulling at my nipples roughly. I backed up, bucked, only driving the cock in deeper, and I was caught in front by the beautiful one, who laughed as he sat back on his heels and pushed my head down towards his cock forcefully. My arms were pulled out from under me by another pony, and I opened my mouth on the cock even though I wasn’t sure I wanted to. I was groaning from the hard grinding I was getting in back. And I was also boiling over with excitement. I liked these steeds if only....
And then I felt a wet, firm mouth on my own organ, sucking at it hard, as another pony’s tongue lapped fiercely at my balls, and I didn’t care anymore about who made the decisions. I was sucking the pretty boy, and being sucked, and my backside was being ground out hard, and I was happier than I had ever been in the Sultan’s garden.
As soon as I came, it seemed, I was thrown over on my back. The pretty one had had enough sucking and wanted to take me. He smiled down at me as he drove in harder even than the first pony had, and my legs went up and over his shoulders as his hands cupped me and lifted me.
“You’re a pretty one, Laurent,” he whispered between his panting breaths.
“You’re not bad yourself,” I whispered back. My head was being held by another pony, whose cock danced just above me.
“Not so loud when you talk,” whispered the pretty one, and then he came, his face blood-red, his eyes squeezed shut. He was pulled off me by one of the others before he was finished. Again a mouth was on me, arms locked around my hips. And my head was straddled, a cock dancing just above me. I lapped at it with my tongue, made it dance more, then it came down, and I opened my lips to receive it, biting it a little, stabbing the tiny hole with my tongue, then sucking it.
I lost track of how many used me. But I kept an eye out for the pretty blond one. He was on his knees at a trough, washing his cock in the fresh, flowing water. That was the way after it had been in another’s backside. You had to clean it before you could put it in another mouth, I could see that. And I decided I’d get into his backside now before he got away.
He laughed loudly when I slipped my arms under his arms and pulled him back away from the trough. I stabbed him hard and lifted him on my pelvis. “Like it, you little devil?” I whispered in his ear.
He was gasping. “Go easy!”
“The hell I will,” I said. I ground his nipples between my forefingers and thumbs as I rammed him, bouncing him up and down.
After I came, I threw him forward on all fours and smacked him hard over and over with my open hand until he scrambled away under the trees. I went after him.
“Please, Laurent! Have a little respect for an older steed!” he said. He lay on the soft earth looking up at the night sky, his chest heaving. I lay down on my elbow beside him.
“What’s your name, pretty boy?” I asked.
“Jerard,” he said. He looked at me, and the smile broke out on his face again. He was quite lovely. “I saw you harnessed up this morning. Saw you several times on the road. You’re the finest stock in the place, you and Tristan.”
“Don’t you forget it.” I smiled down at him. “And, next time we meet in this yard, you’ll introduce yourself properly to me. You won’t take what you want without asking.”
I slid my hand under his shoulder and hurled him over on his face. I could still see the mark of my hand on his bottom. And I rested my chest on his back and spanked him as hard as I could over and over again.
He laughed and moaned at the same time, but the laughter died out as his cries got louder and louder. He struggled and twisted in the dirt. His backside was so narrow and lean I could cup the whole span of it in my hand when I wanted to rest. But I didn’t want very much to rest. I spanked him harder probably than all the straps of the drivers who had used him.
“Laurent, please, please...” he gasped.
“You’ll ask for what you want—”
“I’ll beg! I swear it. I’ll beg!” he cried.
I sat up and rested back against the trunk of the tree. Others were resting in that manner. I could see that only standing upright was forbidden.
Jerard lifted his head, hair all tangled in his eyes, and he smiled, rather bravely, I thought, but good-naturedly. I liked him. His left hand went back timidly to his bottom and massaged the redness. That was something I had never seen before. “Nice to have a period of rest when you can do that sort of thing,” I thought. I couldn’t recall any opportunity in my castle or village or palace life when I’d been able to rub my bottom after a whipping.
“Does that feel good?” I asked.
He nodded. “You’re a devil, Laurent!” he whispered. And he bent forward and kissed my hand as it rested in the grass. “Do you have to be as rough as our Masters?”
“I see a bucket over there by the trough,” I said. “Get it in your teeth, and come back here and wash my cock, and then wash it again with your mouth. And hurry.”
As I waited for him to carry out the commands, I looked around. Several other ponies were smiling at me as they rested on their haunches. Tristan was wrapped up in the arms of an enormous black-haired steed who was covering his chest with rather tender kisses. Another pony came near them as I watched, and the black-haired steed made the smallest threatening gesture and the intruder was sent running.
I smiled. Jerard was back. He bathed my cock slowly and thoroughly. It was coming up again under the warm water.
I said to myself, as I played with his hair, “This is paradise.”