Giddy Up
Could you be, could you be loved?
Don't let them change ya, oh
Or even rearrange ya, oh, no
"Giddy up!"
The crop stings. Mistress likes to use it. The group starts to trot, pulling the cart along. Six butts bobbing up and down, six tails swishing gaily, twelve hooves clopping and clicking. Me in between. I bite the bit and try to fall in with the general rhythm. Mistress doesn't like chaos. I can't see much, just straight ahead and down. Not that there's a lot to see anyway. It's a drab industrial complex, the road uneven and in state of repair, with an occasional pothole to keep our senses sharp.
I don't know the pony in front of me. A straight back, long slender legs, not much of an ass. The arms are still strong and muscular, not the atrophied useless twigs one develops here after years of permanent bondage. No branding yet. He? She? must be new here, stumbling frequently, disturbing the inner harmony our little herd has developed. I hate it immediately.
The whip cracks, inspiring the leading ponies to speed up. I let out a loud whinny. Oh the joy to be running out into the green, exercise under the sun the whole day, then being doused with cold water and rubbed properly dry. Sometimes, when we are standing together in the stables, flashes of my former life come back to haunt me. The office. Going on business trips. Wearing a gray suit. Talking to boring people. Important decisions to make. Do I really want to go back? No.
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We have been running for half an hour now, give or take. The pony in front of me is sweating profusely. It lacks the elegance, the easy, fluid movements an experienced horse displays. I hope it will learn quickly, I'm not sure what happens to the poor creatures that don't fit in. They tend to vanish quickly. My guess is that they are used for work on the fields or sold to a petting zoo if they are lucky. If they are unlucky, they are probably sold to some pervert who keeps them as house pets, indoors, under totally inappropriate conditions and might even engage in some unnatural act with them.
I try to figure out whether it's a mare or a stallion. Work horses usually show only small sexual dimorphism, genitals securely locked away, breasts flat to nonexistent, and no traces of body hair left. Horses don't talk of course, and so you can't go by the voice, either. I bet that most of my companions have forgotten how to speak anyway. For some of them it's likely an improvement.
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We are going uphill now, the trot slowing down to a steady march. We must be heading to the neighbor farm. I get a little excited. It is breeding season, and sometimes we are allowed to watch a bunch of well-built stallions mounting a mare. I like the racing horses most. The males are usually thoroughbreds, not very large but with a huge penis that can probably pump a lot of sperm into the receiver in one go; the mares lithe, but with strong muscular legs and firm perky breasts. No excess fat or wobbly udders.
Most farms nowadays employ geldings for routine work, since they are so much easier to handle. I guess a lot of the new arrivals from elsewhere have been fixed, but it is impossible to tell what is inside the belts (or rather what is not). I consider myself to be very lucky to work on one of those "humane" farms where they don't go overboard with transformations.
Not that I have been ever allowed to use my member since I came here. How long has it been now? Ten years? Fifteen? Sometimes I wonder whether it is still there. At the beginning of my farm life, the mere presence of a hot female of the human species was usually enough to revive it and make it squeeze painfully against its tiny prison. When I was really in heat, even the scent of a juicy pussy could be enough to send me into blind, raging lust. There was a lot of talk that they were considering to neuter me after all. I can still remember very clearly.
Some of the girls liked to make fun of me and strip in front of me, play with each other or rub their wet crotches against my belt, even daring to lick my aching dick through the air holes. They really loved to torture me, see the frustration in my eyes, hear me snort and nearly go berserk with mad, unsatisfied rage. Which invariably ended up with me getting shocked with the cattle prod. Or worse. Those impulses have largely faded by now, and so the erotic display has also stopped.
Sometimes, when I'm in my box and wait for sleep to overcome me, I fantasize about mounting one of my companions in misery. But even those moments are very rare now and I never feel any kind of awakening between my legs anymore.
Once in a while one of the stable guys will use our ass if his girlfriend is "indisposed". Which is, of course, strictly forbidden, and not a lot of fun for both sides involved if anybody finds out. It is certainly very degrading, but since it is now the only way we can get some satisfaction, a lot of the ponies seem to be looking forward to it, prance in front of an attractive boy, wiggle their butts invitingly, stamp their hooves, trying to draw attention to them. Not me, though.
