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? The erotic story of a master and his pony continues, 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.
The bite was discovered the next morning in the wash stall. By the murmuring of the grooms, I could tell they were unhappy.
Master Alia stood by my head, calming me as they waited for Master Landon. He’d put a bit on me, not knowing how I would react to the examination, and I mouthed it nervously under his hand.
When Master Landon arrived, I stood up straighter and stopped fidgeting. Master Landon was older than the grooms, older than Master, but his sharp eyes saw everything and he and I had been through fire together. I feared and loved and trusted him like no one else except Master.
Master Alia moved from my head so Master Landon could examine the bite. Picking up on his displeasure, though I knew it wasn’t directed at me, I shook my head and stamped.
“Quiet,” Master Landon said absently, taking me by the bit to settle me. He stroked the side of my mouth as Master Alia had done the day before, but his attention was focused elsewhere.
He sighed. “Send word to Master at the house. He’ll want to deal with this himself.”
I felt sorry for Buck, and hoped Master wouldn’t be too harsh with him—he’d only acted on a dominant pony’s instinct.
Master Alia resumed my morning wash down once the others had left. I was still tense from the examination and shied away from the scrub brush, even raising my foot as if to kick. I never acted this way, at least not since my retraining, and I could see Master Alia’s surprise. But he was quick in his correction. Putting the scrub brush away, he said firmly, “Bend over and take hold of the bar.”
Oh, how I hated this, and Master Alia knew it. Usually he was quick about it, knowing how uncomfortable it made me, but today I thought he might draw it out to reinforce the lesson.
I felt the greased nozzle enter me, then the rush of cool water. I hated how it filled me, the cramping and discomfort. I hated how it distended my stomach like some fat bloated pony. This time the water went on and on, past the time the nozzle would usually be removed.
When I was sure I couldn’t take any more, Master Alia withdrew the nozzle. But instead of leading me over to the drain, he pushed something else in me, something smooth and round: a plug.
I groaned, arms shaking as I gripped the bar. Master Alia’s hand rubbed up and down my back. “Shh. You can hold it a while.”
It was agony. Cramps took me as the water worked its way through me. Sweat broke out on my forehead. I hated the water and the plug; I hated even Master Alia, who had kissed me so sweetly yesterday.
I didn’t know how much time passed, but I knew that I was helpless and completely under his will. A familiar war raged in me: I wanted this so desperately, to be owned and under someone else’s hand, yet all I could do was fight against it.
It exhausted me, and I remembered too well those weeks of exhaustion when I thought it would be easier to give up than to go on, Master Landon’s whip keeping me going when I’d stopped wanting to myself.
I knew my head was hanging low beneath the bar. I was barely aware of Master Alia helping me to the drain, or the release of the plug and the long rush of water that emptied out of me. I leaned against him, my legs unable to hold me up. He brought my head to his shoulder and let me rest there.
I knew he’d done it to calm me, and that I was better now, but it was still so hard sometimes to obey, to endure what they asked of us.