Pony Boy

The story so far...

Ben, when desperate for a little extra cash, discovered that there was good money to be made running in races as a 'ponyboy'. Despite being assured that the worst he would be subjected to would be a 'certain amount of groping' he has found that this led, inexorably, to a life as a prostitute. Moreover, Andy Mason, his pimp, along with Archie, Mr Mason's enforcer, has made it quite clear that, as long as there is money to be made from renting him out, quitting is not an option.

Among the many indignities Ben has been forced into performing in a sex show where, cross dressed as naughty schoolgirl "Belinda Bombshell", he is caned and sodomised for the entertainment of the punters. The show, and Belinda in particular, is such a hit that Mr Mason has seen yet another money making opportunity and he is keen that Ben should perform as Belinda as much as possible. But, more than just the stage show, he is now looking to make even more money by renting Ben out as a transvestite escort.

But, for all Ben is finding this demeaning and degrading, he is also discovering sides to his sexuality that had previously lain hidden. He may loathe Belinda and all she stands for but that doesn't stop him getting a certain frisson of pleasure whenever he puts on her panties.

And, all the while, there's the complicating factor of his growing relationship with taciturn and secretive Jed, at first his arch rival but, latterly, his lover.

And now there's a new kid in town. Jack, racing as Little Angel, has been recruited a ponyboy and is being drawn further in using exactly the same tricks that they used on Ben. And while Ben is sympathetic, Archie has warned him not to do anything that would hinder Little Angel's 'training'.

Now read on...

As job followed job followed job my life began to turn into a bit of a blur. The more tricks I turned the more Mr Mason earned so he did everything practical to ensure I was out as often as possible. Any pretence of doing college work had long gone by the board and I had to phone my parents and tell them a story about how, as the new boy in the call centre, I was the one who had to cover for the Easter break and how I would see them in the summer. Whether I would or not was another matter but I had no choice but to file that one under 'cross that bridge when I get to it'.

I was becoming one of Mr Mason's top earners as the jobs kept coming, thick and fast. Belinda was getting more and more hits on the web site which meant that, as often as not, I was putting on a dress before heading out of the door. I was earning lots but I was spending lots. The specialised clothing store I bought Belinda's dresses from was far from cheap and keeping them looking smart was hard work. They got to know me quite well at the local dry cleaners. Meanwhile, practice was making perfect and with each outing I got a little more proficient at putting on the make-up and a little more thick skinned about the looks I got from those who disapproved.

And, sure, I got plenty of weirdoes and met far, far more than my fair share of spankers but, mostly, my clients were sad, lonely middle-aged men who were after what the web site coyly described as the 'gfe', the girlfriend experience. Mostly all they wanted was a little ego massaging and the pleasure of stepping out with a pretty 'girl' on their arm before going back to the hotel where they would, to the best of their ability, have sex with me.

More often than not the best of their ability wasn't very much. If my job in the restaurant, or theatre, or nightclub, was to flatter their ego, once back in the hotel room it was to flatter their libido. I got far too used to coaxing orgasms out of semi flaccid pricks, or feigning satisfaction after thirty seconds of frantic pounding. I got far too used to assuring the less that well-endowed that size isn't important and that it's what you do with it that counts. And I got far too used to assuring every man, and they were all men, that they were the most exciting, most well endowed, most virile, lover I had ever met.

But it wasn't all sweetness and light. Whenever I started thinking that the customers weren't that bad, whenever I let myself slip into a false sense of security, I would inevitably come across the punter whose confused sexuality would turn into a violent anger, whose self-loathing would turn into loathing me. It wasn't just that Belinda was, in their eyes, a tart, a slag, a whore, it was their reaction to what was between her legs. Sure, they all knew what they were getting, there wasn't the slightest pretence on the web site but, as a 'tranny', I was, as far as they were concerned, the lowest of the low and undeserving of anything except vile abuse and I ended up having to use blusher to hide the bruises. Why did they hire me if I wasn't what they wanted? The answer, I suppose, is that beating up the tranny was what they wanted.

Interspersed with my dates as Belinda were my dates as Ben. Here the main differentiator was between those who bothered to remove their wedding ring and those who didn't feel the need. To be sure, all my customers were 'happily married' and not one of them thought of himself as gay. However, that didn't stop them wanting to fuck the rent boy. I was their secret indulgence pandering to the desires they'd rather not admit to. By its very nature these tricks were more orientated towards a quick fuck in a hotel room than any lengthy engagement and, if he could manage to arrange it, Mr Mason would sometimes have me turning two or even three tricks a night.

And then, on Thursdays there were always the race meetings and the party afterwards. Here I still maintained my slight ascendency. Sure, Little Angel could, and regularly did, give me a run for my money in the races and it seemed everyone, ponies and punters alike, were happier now there was more than one sure-fire winner. However, at the party afterwards, Jack never found his inner slut and always had an air of reluctance about what he was forced into. While this appealed to many at first, there are only so many times you can 'screw the virgin' and Belinda, camping it up and being outrageous, was more fun to party with in the long run. I certainly still had my fair share of punters and was a favourite with many.

True to his word, Mr Mason tried to get Jack and myself into performing as a sister act. However, whereas I had taken to cross-dressing like a duck to water, Jack could never quite get the hang of it. Oh, sure, he could wear the clothes and, with my help, put on the make-up, but he could never get into the soul of the thing; he couldn't find that hint of feminine mystique, the pretence that he wasn't just a boy in a dress. In short he was no actor. We spent quite a bit of time in Mr H's office parading back and forward, trying this and trying that but nothing seemed to work and it all came across as farcical, not sexy. In the end Mr Mason was, reluctantly, forced to drop the idea.

But, if the sister act was a non-runner, that didn't stop Mr Mason wanting to experiment with other combinations for the Belinda act. He was keen to try threesomes and, at first, had Jack and I as two naughty schoolgirls reporting to Jed's teacher. This simply didn't work. The main problem was that Jed could only fuck one of us at once and that left the other 'schoolgirl' standing around looking stupid. That, combined with Jack's inability to wear drag convincingly, reduced the whole thing to a farce and that was not what Mr Mason wanted.

The next combination he tried was Belinda servicing two guys. I had always assumed it would be Carl who would make up the third member but, instead of Carl, he got in Rog. For the caning part Rog and Jed would stand either side of me and take turns. After that I would suck off Rog while being fucked by Jed. That took quite a bit of gymnastics but eventually we got it worked out.

This time it was the punters who put the kybosh on the thing. Apparently, as far as they were concerned, they weren't getting any more of a sex show than the original so they couldn't see why they would have to pay more. As Mr Mason still had three sets of wages to pay he soon decided against it.

But, as we were back to just Jed and myself, we now had to find other ways to keep the act fresh. Mr Mason's answer was to ring the changes by changing the roles. Sexy nurse was a favourite but 'policeman' Jed suggesting he use his truncheon to sodomise 'traffic warden' Belinda always got lots of ironic cheers. After the show the traffic warden certainly spent a lot of time on her knees while entertaining the guests whereas the 'nurse' would be called upon to make lots of 'health checks'.

And, all through this, whenever we could be discreet about it, I would climb the stairs to fortress Jed. There, together, we would share the things we could not talk about. When I felt small, alone and lost I would find comfort in Jed's arms and, although I'm not sure exactly what I gave back in return, I know I made him smile. Maybe that was enough.

Later, as we lay together, squeezed into his single bed, I would tell him about my dream. A little bar, Belle's Bar, somewhere hot, somewhere far, far away. A stage in the corner where Belle would do cabaret, on stage, on show, but not for sale, not ever again. Jed just laughed and when I asked about his dreams he would clam up and get surly. I knew better than to press but, as I looked at the framed postcard next to his bed, I knew he had some dreams somewhere.

We were also lying in bed when he gave me the one bit of advice that saved my bacon later.

"Your stash, the one that's under the loose floorboard."

"How do you know where it is."

"I didn't know where it is, I guessed. And so will they if they go looking. It's always under the loose floorboard; first place they'll check. Do yourself a favour. Move it. Somewhere safe. Somewhere out of your house. Somewhere that you can get to in a hurry. Can you think of anywhere like that?"

"Well there's..."

"Don't tell me. I don't want to know. And it's not just your stash. Put your passport in the same place."

"Passport! What the fuck, Jed? Why would I need to do that?"

"Just do it."

"OK, for you, Jed, anything for you."

"I bet you say that to all the guys. Seriously, Ben, don't forget."

Spring turned to summer and summer turned to autumn and nothing much changed. I found ever more inventive excuses not to go home to my parents and, of course, I never went on the Malaysian trip that had been the start of all this madness.

And then, one Thursday, at the after race party, I spotted that Jed had been picked up by one of the more awkward customers. I didn't see much. I was, after all, pretty busy keeping my own customers satisfied, but, even so, there were bits you simply couldn't miss. The punter, a Barry Jameson, was drunk and violent and taking it out on Jed in such a way that the whole party knew about it. And then, when Mr Mason took control and eased him out of the party he insisted that he'd paid to fuck Jed and wasn't going to be cheated out of it. Mr Mason, more concerned over not disturbing the party than Jed's welfare, readily agreed that Jed should leave with him. As the fuss died down and I settled back to blow job I had been distracted from, I just hoped that Jed would be OK. We'd all seen our fair share of violence but Barry Jameson looked worse than most.

The next morning I was down in the gym when Mr Mason arrived with Archie in tow.

"OK, Ben, where the fuck is he?"

"Where's who, Mr Mason."

"Where's Jed, you little prick. I wake up this morning to find that Barry Jameson's in intensive care and Jed has disappeared off the face of the earth. I know the two of you are best mates and all so you must know where he's gone."

"I'm sorry, Mr Mason, I don't know. Have you been to his flat?"

"Don't get cheeky with me. Of course I've been to his flat. And if he's not there then he must be somewhere else. Maybe one of his friends is looking after him, someone like you."

"I haven't seen him, honest I haven't, not since last night when he left with Mr Jameson."

"Let me work on him, Andy. I'll soon have the little runt spilling his guts."

"Please! Please, Mr Mason, I promise, really I don't know anything. If I did I would tell you."

Archie came over towards me taking a Stanley knife out of his pocket. He reached for the waistband of my shorts and sliced through it. As the tattered remnants fell to my feet I couldn't help it, I wet myself with fear. With the urine trickling down between my legs I fell to my knees, shaking, waiting for whatever Archie was about to do to me.

"Hang on, Archie, don't go marking the merchandise. The punters won't pay for damaged goods. You, boy, stand up and come here."

I got up and stood in front of him.

"You wouldn't be lying to me now, would you?"

"No, Mr Mason. Please, I'm far too scared of Archie to do a thing like that."

"You are, aren't you. Come on, Archie, this one knows fuck all. And you, Ben, if you hear anything, the slightest rumour, you come and tell me. Is that quite understood?"

"Yes, Mr Mason."

"You've got a Belinda stage show tonight, haven't you?"

"Yes, Mr Mason. We're down to do the doctor and nurse routine."

"Not without Jed, you aren't. Dammit. Rog will have to step in. Mr H's office, four o'clock and we'll have a quick run through. Understood?"

"Of course, Mr Mason. I'll be there."

Once my gym session was done I drove over to fortress Jed. However, when I climbed the stairs to his flat I found the door hanging off its hinges. I looked around inside. Someone, I assumed Archie, had turned the place over. I went into the bedroom, the heart of Jed's hideaway, and it had been similarly desecrated. There on the floor was a broken picture frame and, knowing how much it had meant to Jed, I picked it up. The postcard, the one from Tenerife, was damaged but still mostly intact. I slipped it into my pocket.

That afternoon, when I got to Mr H's office, I was agog to hear more but if Tracy or Mr H knew anything they certainly weren't saying. As Mr Mason had said, Jed seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth. I went through the routine with Rog; the doctor's white coat was a near enough fit and, while it would take a while before we got it as slick as Jed and I had done, it was good enough to take on the road.

Even so, that night, bent over with Rog sodomising me, I really missed Jed. I'd got used to working with him and, somehow, even the ghastly bits weren't that bad. Now it was Rog behind me I felt more alone than ever before.

I hadn't exactly ignored Jed's advice about moving my stash; I simply hadn't got around to it. Now I could understand some of the urgency. The problem was, even though I had money and a passport I couldn't run away, not without endangering my family. It was the thought of Archie simply being in the same county as my sister that scared the crap out of me and kept me working for Mr Mason. Still, if only as a way of saying goodbye to Jed, I knew that this was the time to do it. There was a place at the college sports grounds, around the back of the changing rooms where an old roller lay rusting gently. No one had rolled the cricket pitch in years and, if they suddenly decided to, they wouldn't be using that broken relic. On the other hand it was too big and clumsy just to put in the bin. That was why it had been left there and that was why it would always stay there. If I put my stuff in a Tupperware box I could slip it inside and no one would know. That would have to do. Just to be on the safe side I put Jed's postcard in there as well. It was my only memento of Jed, the only thing I had to remind me of the good times and was, to me, as precious as my passport or my stash.

The more time passed the more I missed Jed. Sure, there was Carl, and Rog and, to an extent Jack, and all the other ponyboys but, while we were all good mates on the surface, there was no real connection. None of them was going to invite me up to his room and, even if one had, I wouldn't have been interested in going. I ached, physically ached, just to lie with him again, just to see him smile, to hear his voice, to touch his skin, to be with him.

And then I started to hear the rumours. Knowledge is power and the punters at the after race parties liked to demonstrate their power by boasting of the knowledge they had. It said much about the way they treated us ponyboys that they tended to disregard the one knelt between their knees and more than a few spoke more freely than was wise. As such I got to hear quite a few rumours and the biggest was that some guy called Henry Applegate was due for release soon.

"And when Henry gets out Andy Mason needs to watch his back."

"And why's that then?"

"Story goes, Andy's the one that stitched him up. The exact details are all a bit hush-hush but a nod's as good as a wink to a blind man. Tell you something, I wouldn't want to be in Andy's shoes."

But, even without the rumours, I could tell that Mr Mason was nervous and whenever I saw Archie he seemed to be putting on the hard man image more than was necessary. Not that there was anything I could do about it. My job was to keep my head down and go out keep on earning cash for Mr Mason.

And I wouldn't have been involved at all if it hadn't have been for Mr H's mistake.

It was a Friday and, after my session at the gym, I'd gone to pick up my wages. I was busy settling up with Mr H when Tracy came into the office.

"Harry, where are the account books from last night?"

"The account books... I thought you had them."

"You mean you left them down at the warehouse again."

"I'm sorry Trace. I'll pick them up this evening."

"That's no good. I can't do the end of month up until I've got them and I don't want to have to explain to Mr Mason why they're late again. He was mad enough last month."

"Could you be and angel and nip down and get them for me?"

"Why is it always me. Anyay I can't. My car is in the garage. Why can't you go?"

"Because I've got Geoff Staples coming for lunch. I'll never get there and back in time. I know, if your car is in the garage then why doesn't Ben drive you."

"Ben?"

"Yeah, Ben; he could have you there and back in an hour, no problem."

Tracy took a long cool look at me, sighed deeply and finally nodded her head. "OK, but this is another one you owe me. Come on Ben. Off we go."

I was a bit pissed off at the way Mr H had commandeered my car but I knew better than to protest. What's more, I'd got to rather like Tracy. Sure, she took no nonsense from any of us ponyboys and no one would accuse her of being soft but she had always been good to me and her wicked sense of humour would make the journey through the London traffic go faster.

Although I had been to the warehouse plenty of times I had always arrived and left in the minibus with its darkened windows. Now, for the first time, I was seeing it from the outside. It stood in the middle of a semi-derelict trading estate. Tracy directed me through the maze of roads and the gate of the chain link fence that surrounded it.

Following her instructions I drove round to the back of the warehouse and parked up in the loading bay, Tracy got out and, out of curiosity, I followed. On race nights the warehouse was a hive of activity, Friday mid-morning it was quiet, empty, with no signs of what had gone on there a mere twelve hours previously. Tracy led me to the office which she opened up and had me wait outside while she went in and unlocked the safe.

And that's when I heard the cry.

"Tracy?"

"Yeah."

"This place is supposed to be empty, yeah?"

"Completely. It's a tax dodge or some such."

"Then come out here and listen."

She came out of the office holding a green accounts book. For a moment we stood there in silence and then it came again. A cry of pain from the other end of the building.