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. Book One of the Recalcitrant Pony Boy series.
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.
He was delivered the following day, tied to the back of a trap pulled by another pony. If anything, his expression was even more sullen than it had been at the sales. He’d caught all the dust stirred up by the trap wheels and the heels of his brother and was filthy, dust tarnishing the brown-gold of his hair.
“Clean him up,” I said to my trainer, Landon, who’d come out to see the new arrival. “Put him on the same schedule as the others and let me know how he does.”
I wanted my new pony on a routine as soon as possible. I’d found that it was what they craved most: a pony boy had little stability in his life, never knowing when he’d be sold or to whom, and a routine helped to ground him. It would exhaust him, too, which was even better: less time to worry about an uncertain future.
Still, I was expecting some trouble. So I wasn’t surprised when one of the grooms came calling at the main house where I was taking a late lunch.
“Master Iain….it’s the new boy. He won’t be cleaned.”
“He won’t be cleaned?” That was startling—I assumed any boy would have a desire to be clean with the amount of filth he’d accumulated.
“Oh, he let us hose him off all right. But he won’t let us clean him…thoroughly.”
I required that all my ponies be cleaned, inside and out. It was a daily part of their grooming. No doubt his old master hadn’t had the same tastes. It didn’t look like he’d been interested in all a pony had to offer, or else he’d have kept the boy as a houseboy or pet if he was untrainable as a pony.
“I see,” I said. “Well, let him be for now, and I’ll be down in the morning to take care of it.” I wanted the boy to sleep a night knowing he’d misbehaved and not yet knowing the punishment for it.
The next morning I went down to my stable. It was a beautiful structure, carefully designed for the ponies I kept for my traps and to work the fields. I went through the main doors leading to an echoing space that housed the traps and where the ponies were harnessed. I could see the open door of the tack room behind it, the gleam of leather and metal cleaned daily by my grooming staff. To the right, a long row of stalls spanned the length of the stable on either side. Old polished wood and metal bars formed the four walls of my ponies’ homes—when they weren’t working or taken out for exercise, that was where they spent their hours.
I turned left toward the wash stalls. I had timed my appearance with the ponies’ morning ablutions. They were taken in rotation, four at a time tied up in the large stalls and cleaned by my grooms from hoses hanging in each stall. Each stall held a scrub brush with a long handle and blocks of soap to keep the ponies clean and free of disease.
I stopped by one stall to watch. The pony in it—Blaze, I called him, because of his shock of red hair—had been rinsed free of soap, the only step left the one my new pony was apparently balking at. Blaze stood bent with his legs spread wide, his hands gripping the waist-high wooden bar on the side of the stall. His groom had changed the nozzle on the hose and with a bit of grease, had inserted it into Blaze’s anus.
After a while, Blaze groaned. I could see where the water was distending his abdomen. The groom, a young slave I’d acquired a year ago, stroked the small of his back. I liked that bit of kindness—there was nothing I despised more than slaves who held their positions over one another. There was no petty jockeying in my stables. It seemed a long time before the groom turned the water off and slowly withdrew the nozzle.
“Hold it in,” he said firmly. Blaze moaned as a cramp from the water took him. I could see his cock jutting out redly; his balls were tight and pulled up. Some of the ponies reacted this way; others didn’t but endured the necessity. The groom continued to rub Blaze’s back in soothing circles. “There’s a good boy,” he said, and Blaze lowered his head, the tension in his shoulders easing. I was pleased to see my purchase of the groom had been a good one.
Finally the groom helped Blaze to stand, then squat above the drain at the center of the stall. Blaze expelled the water with a long breathy groan, his cock still rock hard and likely hurting. I thought the groom would have liked to have closed his hand around Blaze’s length, bring him to completion as his fingers oiled him inside. I waited to see if it would happen, but the groom just fastened a lead rope to his collar when he was done and wiped his fingers on a cloth. Blaze would either be led back to his stall or to the exercise ring, depending on the schedule.
Pleased that the groom’s discipline had held, I resolved to give him the reward of having Blaze for the night. It was a common reward for both the grooms and ponies—I never begrudged my slaves the comfort they found in one another. I would relay the order to Landon, as soon as I saw to this other matter.
My new pony was in the farthest stall. I could see already that they were having trouble with him. He shied from the scrub brush, requiring two grooms to hold him while another wielded the brush; he even tried to bite one of them. After that, they cuffed his hands behind his back with leather straps, put a bit in his mouth, and switched from the lead rope to two long steel bars that fastened to his collar on either end.
Trapped between the bars and the men who held them, the pony couldn’t move. He snarled against the bit, the whites of his eyes showing as the groom worked him over with the brush a little more roughly than necessary. I couldn’t fault him, considering the trouble the pony had given them. When the groom tried to insert the nozzle into him, however, the pony kicked out, catching the man in the shin. The groom swore, tried again to hold him still, but wet now, the pony slid out of his grip.
“It seems you’re having some trouble.”
Four pairs of eyes swiveled my way. They hadn’t noticed me there, their attention fully on their task. The pony went still when I entered the wash stall. I could smell his fear and trepidation.
I said to one of the grooms, “Go to the tack room and pick out a butt plug—a large one, mind. Bring it and a jar of perking cream to me.”
The pony might not know what was in store for him, but the grooms certainly did—they smirked a little as their fellow groom left to retrieve the requested items, then hand them to me upon his return.
“Bend over,” I said to the pony.