His masters say he’s untrainable, but Master Iain could never resist a challenge. When he takes his new pony in hand and by the bit, where he leads is somewhere neither of them expects. An erotic tale of a master and his pony, set in a fantasy world of toys, pony play, and a master/slave dynamic.

I found him tethered a little away from the others, a sullen look in his eye, and I saw that his rope had been tied too short for him to seek the shade of a tent a few feet away. Deliberate, I thought, like his separation from the other ponies. It was hot even in the shade; sales were held in early summer and the final auction took place in the hottest part of the day. The ponies would have worked up a sweat by then, even the ones in the tents.

He was lovely, even with the sullen look: light brown hair with streaks of gold from the sun, like a flawed topaz, his skin nearly as brown. His cock was limp against his thigh, but I could imagine it jutting out proudly as a pony’s should. He would make a fine figure, along with all that defined musculature that marked him as a born pony.

“A fine pony,” I heard, a high thin voice next to me: the trader in charge of selling the stock for their owners. “A steal at ten silver.”

Ten silver was indeed a steal—it made me wonder why a boy like this would go so low. Most bidding for a pony his age would start at fifteen.

“What’s wrong with him?”

The man drew back as if I’d slapped him. “Wrong? Why nothing at all! He’s the picture of health—here, have a closer look.”

I planned to have a closer look, but now my curiosity was piqued. “Surely if he went to auction he’d fetch a much higher price.”

The trader’s face soured; his eyes when they scoured the boy were bitter. “He’s too well known in these parts to fetch any more.”

I was not a frequent patron of the sales myself, preferring to buy my ponies privately; it seemed I’d missed a slice of gossip. “What’s wrong with him then?” The boy was young, fit, and lovely to look at—clearly it was something I couldn’t see.

“He won’t be trained. I’ve had experts at him, and they all quit after a few days. The boy’s simple, too slow and stupid to learn how to behave. He’s headed for plough work, if they’ll take him.”

I didn’t think the gleam in the boy’s eyes as the trader spoke so blithely about him was a sign of stupidity. He seemed intelligent enough to me.

“Still, I think I’ll have that closer look.”

The trader shrugged, caught between his innate desire to sell and a clear frustration with the boy’s lack of marketability. As I approached, the pony followed me warily with his eyes; he even drew his head back when I rested my hand on his collar to check the fit. “Quiet now,” I said, as I would have to a horse. I stroked the curve of his shoulder, then gripped it tighter, feeling the muscle that spread across his back beautifully. But the real muscle was in his butt and legs from years of pulling a pony trap. He shivered when I gripped his butt cheek, digging my fingers in to see what he would do, but he stood still under my hand even when he winced in pain.

“Turn around,” I said, and he turned after a moment’s hesitation, long enough that if I’d had my crop with me I would have used it.

Lovely. His thighs and calves were magnificent. I trailed a finger down the curve of his back and he shivered again, this time in response to the pressure of my finger and perhaps a little of his body’s unwilling response to a master’s touch. I liked responsiveness in a boy, and didn’t care if it was willing.

This one would be wasted on a plough. I hadn’t come to the sales in search of a new pony; I had enough back on my estate. But something about the boy intrigued me—untrainable, the trader had said, but I’d never met a pony boy who couldn’t be trained if it was done in the right way, and by the right person.

“I’ll give you eight for him,” I said, my eyes not leaving the boy’s face.

I could hear the trader thinking furiously in his silence. He’d get less for him as a plough horse. But what I cared about was the boy’s reaction: he looked surprised, suspicious, not sure if he should be pleased at the pre-auction offer or offended by the low amount.

“Well…” the trader said.

“I’ll have to have my vet look at him first, of course,” I said, to forestall negotiation. “If you were so eager to sell him to the plough, perhaps there’s some deeper problem with him. A diseased or injured pony is no use to me.”

“He’s in excellent condition!” the trader protested.

It took a little more back and forth, but presently, I handed over four silver to hold him. The other four would be delivered once my vet, who was attending the sales for another of his clients, had had a chance to look him over.

I felt the boy’s eyes on me as we completed our transaction. With the authority of new ownership, I reached out to stroke his cock, hearing the boy’s gasp even as his cock began to fill. I stroked and rubbed my thumb over the head, watching the boy’s struggle to stay still as a good pony should, though perhaps it was more from shock than training, if the trader was to be believed.

I left him with a hard cock and a parting slap to his rump. He’d soon learn that my time and attention was a reward, and that rewards were earned. It was far too easy to spoil a boy these days.

Sol doesn’t want to be a show pony, but Master Iain has something even better in store for him. While Blaze gets ready for the show, Sol faces one of his most difficult challenges yet. Will he prove too headstrong to obey the reins? Or will he learn to be a good pony and submit to his Master’s demands? An erotic story of a master and his pony, set in a fantasy world of toys, pony play, and a master/slave dynamic.

I wish we could tell our masters how it feels to come home after a ten mile run under the trap, sweat-soaked and trembling, blood singing, lighter and freer than the dust motes in the stable. The last two miles are an agony, every step a battle between exhaustion and training, the ever-present whip a friend to spur us on. But then to be home again in the cool stillness of the stable, to be unhitched and taken to the wash stall to have all that sweat and road dust scrubbed away: it’s like being reborn.

I leaned into Master Alia after he hosed me down, earning a playful slap to my rump. None of the grooms are cruel, but they all have different ideas on the best way to care for a pony boy, and Master Alia is one of my favorites. He removed the bit from my mouth and soothed the sides with his thumbs where it had rubbed. I closed my eyes, daring to lean again into his touch, turning my head to nuzzle his hand a little.

Master Alia laughed. “None of that, Sol.” But I could see that he was pleased; he pulled my head down to give me a light kiss on the lips. “You’re a good pony,” he murmured, and my heart sang at the praise. I know that all the grooms and even Master Landon are slaves just as we are, but to us they are our masters, and they know it as well as we do.

One of the other grooms came in to fill a bucket: Master Graham, who was currently in charge of Blaze. “How is Blaze doing?” Master Alia asked him, turning his attention from me.

Master Graham shook his head. “It’s as if he’s forgotten everything we’ve worked on these last few weeks. I know he’s trying, and it hurts him every time he fails. But it might be better to pull out of the show altogether. It would kill him to embarrass Master.”

“I think it would kill him to embarrass you,” Master Alia pointed out, and Master Graham grimaced.

“I want this for him, but not if it costs him his confidence. A pony’s useless once that’s gone, fit for no better than cart or field work. I thought that I could train him, but perhaps I’m just not up to the task.”

“You’re too hard on yourself, Graham.”

A voice called from the tack room, wanting the bucket Master Graham had just filled; he gave Master Alia a distracted farewell and left.

I worried about Blaze as Master Alia led me back to the stall I shared with Buck. Blaze could be high-strung, needing a constant heavy hand, but I knew he was devoted to Master Graham and would never willingly do anything to disappoint him.

The other ponies were sleeping in this quiet time before the evening feed, but Buck was awake and restless. He never slept well when I was gone, and the piled straw against the sides of the stall showed the result of his pacing.

He was on me immediately once Master Alia had gone, pressing me back against the far wall and baring my neck. His lips were on my throat, nuzzling his scent on me. It was always this way, his need to reclaim me, but I didn’t mind; I liked to feel owned, and maybe even a little loved. His hands worked me over everywhere, except for the piercings in my nipples—I don’t know if it was because Master had put them there, but he never touched them. I wished sometimes that he would. Master thought I hated them, and I think it pleased him to think so, but there was nothing I liked better than the ache of having them tugged and played with, the thrill of nerve endings singing to my cock, down to my toes.

Once Buck was satisfied he’d laid his scent on me, he put me down on my hands and knees in the straw to fuck me. Buck is a large pony, his cock bigger than anything I was used to taking before, and I grunted a little as it stretched me nearly to a breaking point. But his cock grounded me, brought me back from the high of running under reins and whip, the sweetness of Master Alia’s kiss; brought me back to the simple homey smells of straw and old wood, the sleepy comfort of the stall.

Afterward, Buck’s hand curled possessively around my spent cock as he lay behind me on the straw. I felt his lips on the line of my shoulder next to my collar, nipping and nuzzling, then a bright flash of pain like a bee sting: he’d bitten me. He soothed away the bite with his tongue and lips before I could cry out, and pulled me closer to him with an arm across my chest. I slept, exhausted, glad to be home again.

There’s a new racing pony in Master Iain’s stable, and it’s up to Landon to turn him into a champion. But gaining Mink’s trust proves harder than he expects. Can Landon train his pony to the track, or will Mink’s past keep him from racing to his full potential? An erotic story of a trainer and his pony, set in a fantasy world of toys, pony play, and a master/slave dynamic.

I knew I was lucky, to be a slave yet have the respect my skills and abilities deserved; luckier still to have a master who I respected in turn. I’ve known Master Iain for close to thirty years now, and time has reduced the gap between our ages. We were even, perhaps, friends, as much as a master and slave can be.

It was the quiet time before the evening feed. The ponies were resting and the grooms were cleaning tack or scrubbing down the wash stalls. My footsteps echoed down the row of stalls. I’ve lived here since Master Nicholas bought me as a young groom, and I can’t imagine not waking to the smells of fresh straw and polished wood, well-used leather and the earthy scent of the soap we use to wash the ponies.

I stopped at a familiar stall. He saw me at the door and made a pleased sound that was almost a whicker. He rose from the straw where he’d been resting and leaned against the stall door next to me.

I bit off a piece of the apple I’d brought with me, taking it from my mouth to hold to his lips. He took it carefully, chewing slowly, licking the juice from my fingers when he was done.

His hair had gone to gray now, catching up with mine, and the lines on his face were carved a little deeper each year. But he was as beautiful to me now as he was then, when I’d been a young groom and he a young pony. It was startling sometimes to realize just how much time had passed.

I fed him half the apple, bite by bite, eating the other half myself. He nuzzled his lips to mine when it was done, and I tasted the tartness of the apple. I would have liked to have lingered, perhaps whiled away some time in his stall—it had been months since I’d last been with him, with one thing or another, and I could see that he’d missed me.

But self-indulgence is a game for younger men. I left my Beauty with another kiss and the apple core in his feed dish to chew on later.

Graham is a rising star at Master Iain’s stable, but he’s never had a challenge quite like this. Can he break in Cosmo to be the stall pony Buck needs? Even more, can he crack the enigma that is his fellow groom Jonah, whose secret desires unlock a need Graham’s never felt before? A new erotic story of two grooms and their ponies, set in a fantasy world of toys, pony play, and a master/slave dynamic.

Strung out for my appreciative eyes, Blaze’s arms stretched above his head as he gripped the leather strap above him, balanced precariously on the balls of his feet. His mouth was bound by a rubber phallus he sucked helplessly as he fixed his desire-glazed eyes on me, knowing I would do what I pleased with him.

I fixed another weight to Blaze’s left nipple ring, then the right one, stretching and pinching the sensitive flesh and drawing another moan from him. His chest and ribs heaved under the tight leather straps that bound him. His hole stretched impossibly from the phallus deep inside him—I’d pierced him with the largest one in the stable, knowing Blaze could take it. He would take more if I demanded it, would obey me even if I broke him utterly.

“Keep your hands on that strap,” I commanded, knowing the suffering it would cause him, and how much Blaze craved that suffering.

Master Iain might own all of us, but Blaze was my pony in every way that counted. After seeing Master with Sol, I suspected he understood the bond between a man and his pony better than anyone.

His rich red hair was dark with sweat, and his pale skin showed the welts of my whip crossing his buttocks and thighs. A reminder to bring him back to himself, after he’d faltered on a series of movements he’d performed perfectly hundreds of times before. Blaze performed beautifully in deep submission, but was just as prone to shattering from self-doubt and anxiety if given the chance. Even after his success at the pony show, he could fall apart without a constant, heavy hand.

“I have something new for you,” I said, pulling a small metal screw from my pocket.

Fear and excitement warred in Blaze’s eyes. It was a groom’s job to know a pony’s true wants and needs, even the ones he kept hidden from the world, and for Blaze it was pain. Pain to ground and center him; pain to remind him that he served at my pleasure.

Earlier, I’d bound Blaze’s cock in a cage of metal rings, as forced chastity often helped to settle him. At the top of the cage, near the base of Blaze’s cock, was a small hole.

To this I fixed the screw. At the end of it were dulled points that would still feel excruciating against the sensitive skin of Blaze’s cock. As I slowly turned the screw it into the hole, I watched Blaze’s eyes as discomfort shifted quickly into pain.

“Tears won’t help you, darling,” I said when a whimper escaped him and the corners of his eyes showed wet. Blaze knew exactly how little mercy I would show him, because it wasn’t mercy he craved.