PONY BOY

by

Jennifer Jane Pope

writing as

Patrick O'Neill

Roger, Richard -easy enough to tell the difference between the two names, or so you'd be excused for thinking, but a moment of inefficiency from one of Constance Bellamy-Fraser's usually so dependable senior staff is the beginning of a nightmare for Roger Mason, for he finds himself experiencing the fate intended for his near namesake, waking from a drugged coma to find himself clad head-to-toe in skintight rubber, his legs and feet encased in heavy hoof boots, his penis rampant with a permanent, chemically induced erection.

He quickly discovers that real bondage is far removed from anything he might have entertained in his fantasies and that his personal needs and desires come very low down his captors' list indeed!

Likea good many men (I imagine) I had entertained fantasies where I was bound and at the mercy of one or more stunningly attractive women and I had even enjoyed a few mild games with those of my girlfriends who had expressed a willingness to go along with the idea.

However, nothing I had previously experienced, nor anything I could have imagined, could possibly have prepared me for this.

I did indeed come before the writhing Philippa, pumping copiously as she used her heels to spur me on, but fortunately she reached her own orgasm only seconds after. I did not dare to let my efforts flag, however and carried on my hideously humiliating bobbing action until the powerful Marla suddenly hauled me back. She saw immediately what I had done, but instead of the expected anger, she simply burst out laughing.

"Whoa!" she cried. "Sit up and take a look at this, Phil. He's come like a fountain. Must be a natural, I reckon. What do you think?"

Philippa levered herself into a sitting position and regarded me, then slid along the bench and stared down at the floor. My semen was dripping from the leather top into a growing pool on the tiles. My cock, meanwhile, refused to subside, though I felt physically and emotionally drained.

"I think," Philippa said, "that for a first effort that's not bad." She stared at me, a strange smile on her face. "Did you enjoy that, slave?" she crooned. "Did you like being made to use your fuck-face to satisfy my hot, juicy cunt?"

Exhausted though I was, I understood that a response was expected from me, though what was it to be? A moment's thought was enough. If I shook my head "no", these crazy, demented bitches would probably take it as an insult and the crop and cat would be used to extract revenge. Given the choice of being whipped, or of using any part of me - real or artificial addition - to satisfy their cravings, I knew what was preferable. Very slowly, I nodded, setting the black dildo, still glistening with Philippa's juices, bobbing comically.

"I think you've found yourself a new plaything," Marla chuckled. "But he's a bit too messy. Get that gag off him and have him clean up his mess."

And that was one difference between fantasy and reality. Still helplessly strapped, the gag was unbuckled and pulled roughly from my mouth by Philippa, who then reinserted the dildo end into herself and leaned back against the bench pushing it in and out an inch or so at a time. With her other hand she had retrieved the crop, which she waived threateningly at me.

"Clean this bench," she ordered. "Come on, snap to it. Get those lips and that tongue going. If you're quick about it, I'll forget the floor. You'll never be able to bend your knees to kneel, but if you don't do a good job of the bits you can reach, I'll knock you flat on your face and you can play snakes until those tiles are spotless!"

Curiously, it was such a relief to have that awful rubber ball out of my mouth that I hardly minded being forced to lick my own spendings off the leather top and after the taste of the rubber, I was not overfussed about the taste of this new iniquity. In fact, it was almost a welcome.

That relief, however, was not to last for long. No sooner had I licked up the last spot than Marla seized me and began buckling some sort of harness over my head. It did not take me long to work out what it was intended for when the steel bit was thrust between my teeth and I felt some sort of metal plate pressing down on my tongue. The woman had obviously performed this task many, many times, for in under a minute she had made all the necessary adjustments and clipped on a long set of reins which she handed to Philippa.

"You can take horsey for his first trot out," she said. "I've got that filly in box ten to see to. She's been getting a little too frisky lately and Madame suggested a couple of hours mounted on a punishment pedestal might calm her down a bit."

Philippa tugged on the reins and immediately the plate pressing on my tongue sprung up into the roof of my mouth, so that some sort of sharp stud dug painfully against the sensitive palate. I let out a noise somewhere between a grunt and a whinny, which amused both women.

"There'll be plenty more of that," Marla assured me. "Even the best trained ponies have to rely on a good guiding hand. Off you go then, both of you."

Another tug on the reins and I was forced to walk towards the door. I stared down at my peculiarly shod and heavily hampered feet and ankles, hoping that the hobble chain might be removed, at least whilst I was being moved from place to place, but no such luck. Indeed, Philippa seemed quite content to move around behind me and follow my painfully sedate progress at a leisurely walk, using it as an excuse to use the rein and bit to full effect, as well as dealing me a few light cuts across the rump with her riding crop.

I was guided down a long, high-ceilinged corridor off which were several other doors set at intervals on both sides, but what lay behind them I had no way of knowing. The house, or whatever the building was, was eerily silent and even the sound of our heels was muffled by the thick carpet beneath our feet. All I could hear was the sound of my own breathing, which because of the thick rubber covering my ears seemed to be reverberating inside my head.

We came, eventually, to a heavy timber door and Philippa stepped past me to open it, revealing the outside world in the shape of a walled in courtyard paved with large stone slabs. Set into the far wall were a set of double doors and behind and above the wall I could see a sloping, tiled roof which indicated the presence of another building. Guided by the flicking crop, I led the way across, my "hooves" ringing on the hard ground. As we entered through these doors, I realised that we were now in what had originally been a stable. It still was a stable, in fact, but not one intended to house equine residents. One look at the assortment of bridles and bits was enough to tell me that the ponies who called this place home were of the human variety.

The building was long and wide, much bigger than I had assumed from what little I had seen of the outside, with a row of stalls on either side of a wide central concourse. From just inside the doorway I could not tell if any of these stalls were currently occupied, but I sensed that not all of them were empty. Philippa prodded me forward again, to where a small gig cart stood. I saw beyond it several other carts and chariot-style conveyances and saw also that all these vehicles had their shafts too close together to have ever been built to be pulled by real horses.

I was guided between the shafts of the gig and then Philippa raised them from the stone floor and began attaching me to them by means of steel spring-clips that locked each length of polished timber to rings set into either side of my corset. The ends of my mittens were then unlocked from each other and my lower arms pulled backwards and twisted around so that the ring at the end of each tapering point could, in its turn, also be clipped onto the shafts.

Next, I was blinkered, the two heavy leather flaps being buckled onto either side of my bridle harness. I felt something being clipped onto the very top of the harness strap and then suddenly my head was jerked up and back as the chain, or strap, was drawn down and secured somewhere in the small of my back. Philippa walked around and stood in front of me.

"I know what you're thinking," she said. "You're thinking that this can't be happening to you, that any minute now you'll wake up and find it was all a dream. Well, this is no dream - more a nightmare. But you'll get used to it in time and it's not that bad here. You'll be well fed and watered and kept well-groomed, though you have to earn your keep.

"Our pony boys and girls are famous in certain circles and Madame is very proud of these stables, so you have high standards to live up to. If you behave and don't give any trouble, it's quite an easy life. If you don't behave, well, all disobedient animals respond to a taste of the whip, we find.

"Of course, some days you'll be driven by drivers who like to use their whips just for the sake of it, but we don't get too many of those and Madame charges them a fortune if they mark you unnecessarily." She stepped closer and her right hand cupped my balls and squeezed. Beautiful and lithesomely feminine as she was, Philippa was one dangerous female, I could tell. She revelled in having men in her power. I could almost smell the sexual arousal on her as she tormented me.

"If you're really good, I'll let you mount one of our fillies this evening. We have a party of guests coming tonight who enjoy watching that sort of thing. They're a sort of society run by this Lord Something-or-other who come to us at least once a month. His wife likes pony trotting and then she insists we put a couple of stallions to the mares and fillies. Mind you, Lord whateverhisnameis likes to sort out some of that himself and he isn't fussy whether it's a mare, a filly, or a stallion he services. As you're new, he'll probably want to test the goods.

"Anyway, enough chattering. Time to start your schooling." She walked around behind me and I felt the shafts dip as she climbed into the trap. "We'll leave your hobble on to start with," I heard her say. "I don't want you getting too excited. Once you're used to the traces, we'll have the chain off and we can try proper trotting exercises."

I felt the reins tighten at either side of my mouth and the hinged bit-plate flew up into the roof of my mouth. At the same time, I felt the lightest of flicks across the top of my back.

"Walk on!" Philippa cried and gave another short tug on the reins. I grunted in discomfort, but nevertheless leaned my weight forward and began my first lesson as a human pony.

Pony Boy was originally published by Olympia Press and was available worldwide by direct mail order, but, to the best of my knowledge, it is now out of print and even the few copies I managed to aquire have now been exhausted. However, several of my out-of-print titles, all of which are copyright to me, will shortly (I hope) be available in electronic versions. Details and the appropriate site link will appear here when available.

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