I was silently fuming as Marina worked the kinks from my lower back. Her oil slick palms and roughly digging fingertips worked the tension out slowly. The room was scented a deeply, rich with lavender and dragons breath from the incense burner cradled on a low bench in front of the massage table. I expelled a short “ugh” as Marina continued deeply stroking my sore muscles. I had over exerted myself in the conditioning pens this afternoon, trying to work off some of my frustrations. I had taken both Garret and Leaper through their full regiment in the small cart pen built into the northern hayloft, and then had taken it upon myself to work several of the real horses down in the big indoor arena.
I had been left as sweaty and grimy as any of the ponies or horses, but no less incensed over the new arrival that had been brought in by the Stables van early that morning. I demanded a bath and rubdown, attended in the bath by several of the pony fillies and a gelding, and then the rubdown by Marina. Nothing yet had worked to relax me.
Rolling over and staring at my Marina’s pretty brown hair as it waved around her shoulders with her motions, I gestured at her to continue rubbing, and work on the fronts of my calves and thighs. The deep kneading massage began again, and I kept working the situation over in my mind. The newest trainee I had contracted to bring into my pony program had arrived and I was pissed over his Mistress’s deliberate deceptions about his condition and gendering. The contract had been for six months of intensive pony training, beginning with a completely novice pony but a supposedly well experienced submissive. We had agreed that he was to arrive in good health and condition. He was also contracted as a Colt who needed gelding. The fact of the matter was that I had a rank Stallion pony caged up in my pony pens! He was at least 50 or more pounds underweight, and looking about ready to scream and bolt or else start attacking people, anything rather then submit to whatever had been being done with him up until now. So much for safe, sane and consensual, this man looked like he hadn’t consented to anything in a very long time.
I blinked my eyes rapidly, realizing that Marina had begun massaging my tense inner thighs, and was working up higher towards the center. I shook my head firmly no, and she bypassed any erotic stimulation to continue the massage on my abdominal muscles and ribcage. I had no idea what I was going to do with the man in pen five. He was currently being watched over closely by Kit, the pony gelding who I had to help me care for the other ponies, and who ran the real equine stables. He had made sure that all of the equipment the new Stallion had come in with had been removed. The man had come in wearing nothing but a collar that didn’t expand far enough and had left small scars in his neck, a set of cuffs that had been on and not removed for at least a week, and a muzzle style gag that kept him from speaking. His Mistress had said he was an arrogant, hard to handle, easily startled Colt; something that was so resistant that she needed a firmer hand to break him. I had dealt with many cocky, arrogant or nervous male ponies, who had made delightful geldings or even a few who remained colts, with a higher sense of independence and greater number of needs and limits. A colt will do everything you say to please you, but they also need more of a reward, and more personal satisfaction, then just pleasing their Trainer. They have a more demanding sense of personal needs. A Stallion is even less of a submissive, and most in any normal BDSM relationship would be much more likely to identify themselves as switches.
I had no idea what this man might have been before he got in with his current Mistress, but I could guess: maybe a switch who never got to express that other side of his desires, maybe a casual player who was taken in deeper against his will, or even a submissive who’s limits had been consistently ignored and broken. Whichever, he was surely not looking for ways to submit anymore. He was working entirely on fight or flight instincts. I had no idea what was keeping him in line at current, why he continued to be very well behaved now that he was away from her.
I reached down and grasped both of Marina’s hands where they were busy massaging my shoulders and chest. I used her arms to pull myself into a sitting position.
“Fetch me the cordless phone from my office, and the gray address book in the second drawer.”
Watching her trim tight ass cheeks as she walked through the small massage parlor and into the small connecting office, I slipped down off of the table and wrapped the cozy, raggedy blue cotton robe tight around my body. The sexy satin robe was just not going to do the trick tonight. I settled into the deep, softly upholstered chair in the corner of the parlor and waited for Marina to return with the phone. I needed to make some calls to get this mess straightened out.
***
The bright cheerful June sunshine streaming into my master bedroom was an early alarm clock telling me there we chores to get done and ponies to play with. I smiled the same giddy smile I had had when I was seven and playing with plastic My Little Ponies I received for my birthday; the smile I had worn when I won my first top level award exhibiting a World class halter horse I had conditioned. It was the same smile I woke up with nearly every week since starting the pony stable that was housed in the haylofts of the old dairy barn on my property. The horses were all stabled in a new facility on the other side of my property, and the owners and guests there are only ever told that the old dairy barn is now housing my farmhands, and managers. The equine facility only holds six show horses at a time, plus my breeding stock, and the pony pens can accommodate ten occupants. I believed that being able to devote quality time to each pupil, horse or pony, was more important then how many the farm could house at once.
I stretched and snuggled into the blankets for a few seconds, loving the feel of the heavy comforter wrapped around me, made possible by the arctic blast of the central air all summer long. My smile and pleasant disposition began to rapidly evaporate as I woke up further and sighed as I remembered the fiasco that still awaited me in the pony pens this morning. I completed my personal morning rituals solo, not wanting to take my growing bad temper out on any well meaning fillies. I walked into the kitchen to find Marina starting breakfast, and gave her a smaller version of my generally glowing morning smile. I used the intercoms between the house and barns to locate Kit and tell him that he had control of the horses for the day, and then left instructions with Marina to bring breakfast out to the pony pens when it was done.
The grass was still damp as I walked across the well-beaten path, listening to the high-pitched whinnies and nickers from the horses as they called out to their grooms for grain and alfalfa. The smells of pine shavings, summer sun, and a lot of sweat and work seemed all around me, almost enough of a comfort to bring back my enthusiasm. I opened the sliding door of the old dairy barn, and let the morning sunlight stream in onto the bare dirt floor. The lower part of the barn was sectioned off into the ten small pony pens along the right hand side of the large center aisle, and a long wall with only a singular door to the left side. The door was currently closed and padlocked. The ten pony pens lined a smaller aisle way that ran directly across from the closed door. Five on either side, with small doors that slid, much like the horses stalls, with the same grill patterns across the tops of the doors and fronts. The metal bars would have looked like something from a prison, except for the personal momentos decorating the outside of each, and the happy faces smiling out between them as they called out a chorus of good mornings and whinny imitations. The inside of the stalls where bare except for a small single bed and a closet in one corner that housed a toilet and sink. The ponies spent all of their time when they were not being trained, conditioned, or working in their pens so they needed private facilities. Each was nude, and their clothing and harness equipment was kept in a trunk on the outside wall of their locked pen. Pens one through four housed a fairly seasoned group of geldings, all of them having been with me nine months or more. Across the aisle were the three fillies who had bathed me last night, all on training contracts from a Master in California who wanted to drive a matched team of three, reminiscent of a Russian trike. The newest filly, a terribly untrained thing was in stall nine, and looked panicked still just to be here, and finally in stall ten was a mare that had been sent over from another farm, and was remarkably well trained. She was here to begin to develop her capabilities as a handler, as her desire to be assertive and independent had finally begun to wear at her ability to be a good pony. I really respected her Mistress for not trying to keep her as a docile filly, but instead was letting her mature into a more competent and individualized mare here with me. The badly abused Stallion occupied the last stall, stall five.
He stood in a rigid, almost military stance along the front of the pen, eyes staring at nothing; tension, anger, and fear radiating off him in waves that made all of the other ponies nervous when my attention landed on him. They were all waiting for a major blow up of some sort. The skittish filly almost directly across from him was beginning to get that slightly teary, confused look to her eyes. I went to her quickly, taking my focus off of the Stallion long enough to tell her that she could go cover up on her bed and not watch. Whatever happened, I didn’t need her spooked out of her mind over it. I rang a bell at the end of the aisle way and as I waited for the remainder of my staff to arrive I spoke to the mare.
