Pony Boy

New readers – don't start here!

This is chapter six of Pony Boy. My apologies for the long wait. It won't make too much sense unless you've read the rest so, if you're new to this story then I strongly recommend you find chapter one and start there.

Usual stuff – we're all fictional and over eighteen.

*******

I didn't move, I couldn't move, nor could I call out for help. My jaw ached from the gag, my limbs ached from the straps that held them and, as for my arse, it was sore beyond belief. All I could do was stay there and wait for someone to release me. A couple of drunken guests staggered by and one of them commented on how my upended arse was just waiting to be fucked. He had his pants halfway down and his prick out before his mate insisted that someone called Frank was waiting for them and, if they didn't leave immediately, they'd miss their lift. Reluctantly he zipped himself up and left.

When it comes to realising exactly how gullible you have been there can be few bigger wake up calls than finding yourself strapped over a pouffe, your arse open and available to any that should want it, while another man's semen drips slowly down your face. I had thought myself so daring; it had felt so grown up to walk on the wild side but this brought home to me, more than ever before, just how far out of my depth I was. When he had first taken me on board Mr. Mason had seemed kind, fatherly, a protector from the violence around me. Now I was finding out that he was the one responsible for delivering me up to this violence.

In the end it was one of the waitresses who, as part of her tidying up, undid my arms leaving me to unstrap my thighs and take off the gag. It seemed that freeing the rent boy was as normal as collecting the glasses. I was stiff in every joint and barely able to stand but I managed to stagger to the nearest washroom where I rinsed off my face. The water was cool and fresh but it couldn't wash clean the memories. The face that stared back from the mirror was that of a scared little boy who just wanted to run back to mummy and have her make it all better. Still, it was time to get dressed and go home. I went back to the kitchen and found the bag containing my clothes.

When I got back to my room I stashed my takings for the night and collapsed on the bed, hiding under the covers, hoping it would just all go away. It was Friday, I was due down at the gym but I simply couldn't do it. I simply couldn't find the energy. I closed my eyes for just a minute, just one minute....

"Good morning!"

Suddenly my world was a maelstrom, the mattress heaved beneath me and I was tumbling, falling, crashing to the ground.

"Wakey, wakey! Up you get Ben. Can't have you lying in bed all day. That would never do."

I shook the sleep from my eyes to find myself lying on the floor with my mattress and bedding piled on top of me. All I could see from under the covers were two pairs of shoes. I pushed the covers back and there was Mr. Mason staring down at me. There was a crash from the other side of the room and I looked across and saw Archie rummaging about in my wardrobe, a growing pile of my clothes on the floor behind him.

"I missed seeing you at the gym this morning so Archie and I decided to drop round and give you a little visit, make sure you're OK. Are you OK?"

"Yes, Mr. Mason, just a little tired."

"Just a little tired? So why weren't you at gym this morning?"

"I... I overslept."

"He says he overslept," Mr. Mason said to Archie. "Do you think he overslept?"

"I think he's a lazy little runt who needs a good slapping."

"When you work for me you don't fucking oversleep, get it!"

"Yes, Mr. Mason, of course, Mr. Mason."

"So why weren't you down at the gym?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Mason, I fucked up." That seemed to be the easiest answer.

"If you work for me you don't fuck up either. You do what you're told, when you're told. You're mine, now. You belong to me now. Got that? Who do you belong to?"

"I belong to you."

"Well, don't you fucking forget it."

Archie had moved on from my wardrobe to my chest of drawers and the contents of that were joining the heap in the middle of the floor.

"Please, Mr. Mason, I'm sorry. I won't do it again. Please, please not my coursework!" I pleaded. Archie was now taking my files and folders and adding them to the ever growing heap.

"If you fuck up ever again then it won't be your coursework that you're worried about. You fuck up and I fuck you up. The only reason I'm stopping Archie from giving your scrawny little arse the slapping it deserves is because I need you fit for work this afternoon. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Mr. Mason, completely clear."

Archie had reached for a can of petrol from next to the door. He opened it and splashed petrol all over the pile. Then he pulled out a zippo and flicked it into life.

"Please! Please!" I screamed. "Please, I'll be good. Really I will."

"Make fucking sure you are. Next time he'll light it. Come on, Archie."

Archie put the top back on the zippo, picked up the can and followed Mr. Mason out of my room.

Shaking like a leaf I went over to the pile of my possessions and started to look through it. Although Archie had splashed petrol about pretty liberally there was still a certain amount that had escaped and, by carefully separating it out, I could find enough clothes to wear and salvage the bulk of my coursework. I bundled the rest of my clothes into black bin bags. It looked like I was going to spend most of Saturday down at the laundrette. As I put the wearable stuff back in the wardrobe I saw both the Belinda Bombshell costume and the smart clothes that Mr. Mason had bought for me still hanging there untouched. Archie's mindless violence with my possessions hadn't been that mindless after all.

I was still shaking when my phone pinged announcing that I had just received a text. I opened it up and read that I was expected at the normal meeting point at one thirty for the outdoor pony racing. My heart sunk. I was exhausted and my backside was still pretty sore and, in a couple of hours time, I would have to do it all again. One thing was for certain, whatever my doubts and uncertainties, I would be there. There was no way I was going to risk upsetting Mr. Mason again.

When I got to the meeting point I was the only one there. However, when the minibus arrived, Carl, Rog and Al were already on board and after picking up Jed and Tim at the next stop we set off up the motorway. It would appear that there were only to be six of us on this little jaunt.

It was maybe an hour later that the minibus finally pulled up and, when we got out, I could see that we were at some sort of stables. I couldn't be sure but, if I had to guess, I would say we were somewhere out Newmarket way. We were led into the main stable block and told to strip down to just our trainers. Our clothes were bagged up in the usual way and, as there were no showers as with the Thursday night racing, we were led directly away and each assigned to a stall.

I stood there shivering slightly. It was quite cool but that wasn't the only reason. I'd lost the taste, the enthusiasm and I wasn't looking forward to whatever they had in store for me.

"All right, my young mucker. I do hope I find you bright eyed and bushy tailed and all ready for an afternoon's racing. It's time to get you all nicely harnessed up and ready for the gentlemen."

I turned to see Pete, my jockey, opening the door to the stall. Having a familiar face around made me feel a little better. Over his arm he had a bundle of leather strapping which, unsurprisingly, turned out to be my harness and bridle. He hung up the harness on a peg, turned to me and started to fit my bridle. He barely had the rubber bit between my teeth before he closed the blinkers and attached the reins. I found out why when I was gently tugged to one side and, from the feel of things, the reins were tied off. I assumed that my harness would come next but, instead, he fitted me with some sort of gloves, or rather, he had me ball my fists and then covered them with leather bags which fastened with straps around my wrists. My arms were still free but I was unable to use my hands.

He then set to with the posing oil. Whatever my qualms about what I was doing, that would always feel good. I loved the feel of his hands massaging the oil into me. I loved the way that every inch was covered. I loved knowing that, when he had finished, my body was looking at its very best. I was still scared and apprehensive but that didn't stop my prick from hardening as he rubbed the oil over me.

When I was oiled all over Pete pulled my hands behind my back and clipped my gloves together to hold them there. He then fitted the harness. It wasn't the same as the one we used for racing. Naturally there was a tail and, naturally, there was a plug that filled my backside but, beyond that, it was little more than some sort of 'g' string. In particular my prick was left free and not strapped up as with racing. And that was it; nothing around my chest or over my shoulders. The 'g' string was all of it. He gave my backside a friendly smack and then left me to my own devices.

There was a bit of a wait and all I could do was stand there, held in place by the way my reins were tied off. Any movement of my head risked being pulled up short by the reins and, even though the bit was rubber, that could be quite painful. I could hear the sounds of people moving around the stables but nothing that I could identify. But this all changed when I heard the sounds of a group of people entering the stables, chatting to each other. I couldn't make out the details but they seemed to be going from stall to stall, checking out the ponies. All the time they were getting closer.

Suddenly the voices were very close indeed. It was me they were looking at. Just as with Thursday nights I was discussed in terms of livestock, how fit I looked, whether I would be good at racing. Unseen hands felt my legs, my buttocks and played with my prick. Pete must have been with them because he was asked to unfasten my reins and lead me back and forth.

"I'd like to have a look at how he does in the training ring."

"Of course. Pete?"

Still blindfolded I was led out of my stall and into what, by the feel of the wind on my body, was the outside. At first there was a hard surface underfoot but that soon changed to something softer, presumably grass. We had reached the paddock. I was told to 'stand', the blinkers were opened and I felt the reins pulling to one side.

"Walk on!" the order was reinforced by something flicking against my backside. I set off and immediately found myself being hit by a barrage of instructions. Hold my head up, stand up straighter, lift my knees higher, faster, slower. Each instruction, like the first, was accompanied by something being flicked against my backside.

As I walked, or ran, the tug on the reins kept me going in a circle. I was no great equestrian expert but I knew enough to know this is a method they use to train real ponies. As I went round I could see that I was being watched by a group of four men. One I recognised as Mr. Mason but the other three were strangers. Additionally, over at the edge of the paddock, were three of the 'ponies' tied up to the rail while their jockeys sat on the fence, also watching.

Eventually I was brought to a standstill but my 'training' was far from over. One of the watchers, I nicknamed him 'fat guy', wanted a go. As he walked to the centre of the circle I took the opportunity to glance over. Pete was standing about ten feet away, holding the other end of the reins and, in his other hand, a long carriage whip. That had been what I had felt against my backside. 'Fat guy' took over and, at first, Pete stood next to him.

'Fat guy' was far less expert with the whip and far more eager to use it. Ironically this was distracting rather then encouraging. It's hard to concentrate on your gait when someone is constantly flicking a whip at your backside and, as often as not, hitting your legs by mistake.

After 'fat guy' one of the others wanted a go and, after him, yet another and, by the time they had finished, my backside was quite warm and my mouth was sore from all the pulling on the bit. I was also quite exhausted so I was glad when I was led over to the side of the paddock, next to the other ponies and, like them, my reins were tied to the rail. It was time for the next pony to be brought out for training.

The next one out was Carl. When it came to the racing I knew I was the fittest and, in the long run, the fastest. However, this wasn't about speed or stamina; it was about presentation and Carl was, quite frankly, a lot better than I was. What's more, although I know that the thing about black guys having huge pricks is all bollocks no one seemed to have told Carl that and, as he pranced around the circle his prick flopped about in front of him in a very appealing fashion. If, as Mr. H had suggested, he were to join in with Jed and I in the Belinda Bombshell show I assumed he would end up fucking me and, if so, I wondered what it would feel like to have a monster like that inside me. I hadn't really got to know the guy, indeed, the only one I had really had time to talk to was Jed, but it looked like I would be getting to know him a whole lot better in the near future.

When the 'training' was over and all six ponies were now tied to the paddock rail there was a certain amount of chat as they split us up into three pairs. They had us stand next to each other; again this was an aesthetic, not athletic thing. In the end Carl and I were paired together and our respective jockeys led us back to the stables.

Here we were hitched up to a two wheeled buggy. It was a bit bigger than the sulkies we used for racing, the frame was much wider, a lot more solid and the single bicycle seat had been replaced by a bench seat that could take two. However, the biggest difference was that the two shafts on the sulky had been replaced by a single shaft with a crossbar so that it could take a pair of ponies, one either side. Attached to this crossbar were wide leather belts that went around our chest and, once the spiderweb of strapping was unknotted and the various clips and buckles fastened we were firmly yoked to the buggy.

While Pete held us steady 'fat guy' and Kev, Carl's jockey, got into the buggy. Fortunately it was pretty well balanced and, although we were taking a certain amount of weight on the crossbar, it was still reasonably comfortable. The reins were passed back to whoever was driving and we were off.

Because there was practically no give between the harness and the crossbar it immediately became apparent that Carl and I were going to have to move very much in unison. Any clumsiness resulted in painful tugs from the harness, not to mention complaints from those driving.

It also quickly transpired that it was 'fat guy' who was holding the reins as I could hear a constant stream of suggestions from Kev as he advised 'fat guy' on how to use them along with the carriage whip. In the meanwhile Carl and I were reprimanded for not keeping in step, for not moving in unison, for not keeping our heads up, for not being perfect.

After a while it settled down and we were doing laps of the stable yard quite smoothly. The other ponies had also been paired up and it wasn't long before we had three buggies chasing each other around the yard. Mr. Mason and the three other jockeys stood in the middle and watched.

Once 'fat guy' and his friends were deemed up to speed with controlling the buggies we all stopped, the jockeys got out, and they were left to control us on their own. Immediately the reduction in weight made life easier and, as 'fat guy' had trouble using the reins and the whip at the same time, it was easier on the backside as well.

After ten minutes or so we were deemed ready for racing. We were taken out of the yard, past the training paddock and onto the track. As we approached my heart sunk. This was not going to be easy. It was going to be far harder to pull the buggy over the grass than the paved areas and the track seemed to disappear off into the distance. What is more, when racing on Thursday nights, a certain amount of trust had developed between Pete and myself and we could work together as a team. Carl and I had only been together a few minutes and 'fat guy' was a complete amateur as a jockey.

Mr. Mason acted as the starter. We were lined up on the start line, he took out a white handkerchief as a flag which he held up high, then dropped and we were off.

If I had been on my own I would have sat back a bit, let the others do the running, and use my greater stamina to overhaul them at the end. 'fat guy' was having none of this. He wanted to be out front from the off. The others, of course, had the same idea and for the first hundred yards or so the three buggies were neck and neck. It was hard to keep the rhythm pulling this hard and Carl and I lost our co-ordination letting Jed and Tim, or rather Dark Arrow and Thunderbolt, take the lead.

This enraged 'fat guy' and he was going crazy as he urged us on. I just wanted to tell him to calm down. There was a long way to go yet and tucked in behind Dark Arrow and Thunderbolt was fine until the last furlong when we could take them. As it was I was spending all my energy trying to find a rhythm with Carl so that we could work together, not fight each other.

The next stretch was a long uphill pull which slowed us all down and we seemed to find a natural order: Dark Arrow and Thunderbolt out front, Carl and myself next with Al and Rog just behind us. Gradually 'fat guy' began to realise that we were not falling back so he started to calm down and, as he did so, Carl and I began to work together. I think Carl picked up on the fact that I didn't want to go too soon and that, by hanging back a bit, we would be stronger in the end. Like myself, he seemed to be ignoring, as far as possible, 'fat guy''s instructions and was trying to work with me as a team.

And then, all of a sudden, it just happened. Everything got a lot easier. Carl and I found our rhythm and we were moving together, not just in stride, but jogging as one. The crossbar stopped thumping me in the chest and I could work on a steady push. This gave us a burst of speed and, as we crested the hill, so we pulled past Dark Arrow and Thunderbolt.

Now it was downhill and we were running free. If anything the difficulty was stopping the buggy from running away from us. I just knew we were putting quite a bit of ground between ourselves and the others.

The course flattened out and we settled down again. I could hear that Carl was beginning to suffer from being a smoker. He was breathing quite heavily and, if we tried to keep running at full speed there was a danger he would collapse before the finish post. Because of this we eased back, went from a run to a jog.

We almost over did it. With the blinkers we couldn't see behind us and we were all but ignoring 'fat guy' as we knew far more about racing than he did. We were just passing the last furlong marker when we became aware of the commotion beside us. Dark Arrow and Thunderbolt were overtaking! 'Fat guy' was going mental and we knew that we would suffer if we lost, not to mention a certain amount of pride in ourselves. We pushed back into top gear and, giving it everything we had, powered on towards the finish line.

I could feel Carl suffering beside me. He barely had the stamina to keep on running but Jed and Tim were smokers as well; they too were feeling the pace. There was only a hundred yards left to go, fifty, forty, twenty, ten... and still holding them off by half a length, we crossed the line.

'fat guy' was delighted. While we ponies all but collapsed, well, as far as the harness would let us, he jumped out of the buggy and crowed it over the others. Apparently there had been some considerable betting involved and he was busy collecting his winnings. Once he had done that he jumped back in the buggy and had us run him around the paddock for a while. Fortunately for Carl he wasn't bothered about speed. He just wanted to have a celebratory drive.