Old McDonald had a Farm...

Chapter Ten

I glanced at my watch—eleven fifteen or eleven sixteen in the morning, to be precise. AM, I mused for a moment, then recalled. Ante meridiem and post meridiem meant before and after midday, probably Latin, or was it Greek? No, definitely Latin, I decided, feeling a bit proud of my general knowledge. I chuckled softly as I wondered why on earth I was even pondering those things, given the more appealing distractions I had available to me. Available and Accessible, and to toss in a third A. Not at all Amenable to their present situation.

More importantly, the day was still relatively young, and yes, I had much more interesting and entertaining things to think about than the random origins of time terms. It’s strange how easily you can be distracted. A simple act, like glancing at your wristwatch, can send your mind off on a tangent entirely unrelated to what you're doing. In this case, that meant managing a group of two-legged captive equines. Two handsome mares, two attractive young fillies, and a large, angry stallion.

But then they were all angry, weren’t they, and you couldn’t blame them for that. I mean, within literally minutes, they’d gone from… from what I pondered the question. I suppose from being one species to another, from one end of the evolutionary scale to… well, not exactly the very opposite end, but certainly a fair way down it. At least in terms of their lifestyle and ability to function, not counting their brains, of course. Kind of like some bizarre Darwinian experiment conducted by the archetypal mad scientist in a third-rate horror story.

I found myself looking down at my wristwatch again for no reason, and, once more, chided myself. Why was I doing that? Instinct, maybe, but why? I was miles from anywhere, on holiday, and certainly had no pressing engagements to attend to or worry about being late for. Maybe I always did that and I’d only just noticed, but no… I shook myself. Get a grip, laddie, as Robbie would have said. That immediately set off another train of thought… were my good friends Robbie and Bessie mad?

I glanced across at my hapless charges, all straining at the silly task I’d set them and desperate to avoid the whip in my hand. They were putting in a lot of effort now, straining at the ropes, which was only fair. I mean, my right arm had delivered the necessary painful motivation to get them started, given their obvious lack of enthusiasm earlier. I’d played my part, and now they were playing theirs, with ongoing ‘encouragement’ from yours truly. That made me bad, didn’t it! The question was, was I also mad?

I pondered as I slowly walked up the farmyard, following the five animals that were fully in my charge for a day or so. Five two-legged animals that technically weren’t animals at all, despite their enforced equine lifestyle. Now, the fact was they were, and they weren’t, and… well, wasn’t man nothing more than a super-intelligent type of ape? I was back to a Darwinian theory of sorts, but… I shook my head and grinned. Nope, I might, in one sense, see those poor fuckers as little more than animalised beasts of burden, but they weren’t, and I damn well knew it! Hell, if I did start seeing them as non-human, then I would indeed be mad!

They’d been kidnapped at gunpoint, tied up, stripped of both clothing and dignity, beaten, violated and repeatedly raped. Hell, even if they had been some sort of real animal, doing that to them would have been, well, a) illegal and b) considered the act of a crazed madman by any sane person, wouldn’t it? Leaving aside the stripping of clothing, of course, because animals lacked that extra layer. Bessie and Robbie doing that to their ‘visitors’ would have been a pretty horrific experience, let alone everything else they were soon to face. I shivered at the thought. Tied up, helpless, and feeling your clothing being ruthlessly cut from your body by a couple of crazies, not just you, but the rest of your family! No wonder the herd Stallion was still visibly angry!

Mi’lud. The jury has reached a verdict and finds the accused guilty on all counts. Mad, bad and fucking crazy! Hell, if my work colleagues back at the office could see me now! But then, of course, they couldn’t. No one could, and so… it was like that old conundrum. If a tree fell in the woods and there was nothing around to hear it fall, did it make a noise? I mean, I didn’t, for one minute, one single second, consider myself crazy or even bad, did I? Nor, I expect, did my two friends. We were taking advantage of a particular circumstance that had occurred were we were not. The fact that a good part of the situation had come about at the end of Robbie's shotgun was irrelevant. What the eye, or someone else's eye, didn’t see……

Yeah, I grinned, feeling slightly foolish. What the hell was I thinking along these silly lines when there were infinitely more entertaining things at hand, such as helpless, harnessed human pony flesh to use, abuse, and amuse! Delightfully sexy, sensitive, and abundantly available soft, delectable naked pony flesh! Chiefly female, although in its present state it wasn’t exactly glossy men’s-magazine centrefold quality, far from it! Remove the tack and harness, and in its filthy, animal-like state, it was hardly an erotic spectacle. However, replace the harness and tack, and watch as it strained and heaved in its sweaty desperation to avoid the whip… then mega hard-on time. A whip I could use as I liked and as often as I liked, since with my hosts temporarily absent, I truly was Master of all I surveyed!

The word ‘feral’ popped unbidden into my mind. Yup, that was a pretty good word for them. Wild, savage, untamed and uncontrollable. Bessie had used that word a few times, cautioning me about their temperament, so I’d even looked it up, even though I already knew what it meant. Lord, but they must have been angry when they were first taken, not to mention scared witless. They still had those wits, though, didn’t they, along with some of that anger, which added hugely to my and my hosts’ entertainment!

Some, or perhaps most, of that anger? Bessie and her whips had probably fuelled it, and, doubtless, they were still wild. Hell, if even one of those females ever got loose, even the youngest, I’d hate to be on the receiving end of such anger. Young, Plumb, there would probably kill me with her bare hands, and a part of me, a deep-down buried part of me, wouldn’t have blamed the girl either! The possibility of her getting loose, though, was as slight as to be almost non-existent and would doubtless involve stupidity or slackness on my part. No chance! Bessie hadn’t used that word for no reason, and these were highly intelligent animals, so combine the two and that spelt out one single word… caution!

Some of those other terms I’d looked up were perhaps not quite so relevant now, not after they’d been stalled and harnessed for six months. Untamed and uncontrollable, for instance. Captivity and Bessie’s whips had done a fair amount of taming, like one of those old-fashioned circus lion tamers. Her animals might still be wild and potentially dangerous, but they were a damn sight tamer than they’d first been, and as for uncontrollable. Hell yes, I’d spent a couple of half-days ploughing stony fields with a couple of them, hadn’t I? Now that was what I call controlled!

Not that I was surprised, having seen the somewhat dumpy, plump, motherly-looking woman in action with her animals. Bessie might look like a kindly ‘apple pie’ mom or maybe grandma straight out of a US fifties-style, homely, mid-west TV series, but there was nothing motherly about the way she beat her human ponies! You only had to look at the poor fuckers to see what six months in her less-than-tender care had entailed. No wonder she was such a virtuoso with a whip!

Indeed, at first, I’d shudder a little every time I looked at the wretched creatures. Wretched is a pretty damn good word to sum up their miserable lives! All those marks and scars from whips and canes, and the accompanying pain… unimaginable, or maybe not… well, perhaps a little. Years ago, when I first became interested in the BSM scene, I’d thought of myself as submissive. I’d been aware of it, of course, but only very peripherally. I mean, if you use the internet regularly, as I did, the bloody thing might as well have been invented to promote porn, almost! WWW – worldwide wank!

I’d been in my first year at Uni, a shy, naive eighteen-year-old who’d attended a themed party at the Students’ Union. Ordinarily, I’d never have gone, but my roommate’s girlfriend had a couple of tickets, and he’d unfortunately dropped out to attend his uncle’s funeral. Naturally, he’d rather have gone to the party, but as his uncle was pretty rich and he was living primarily on his student loan, keeping in with his aunt was the deciding factor. His girlfriend was disappointed, but she had her hooks, as it were, into him deep enough to be interested in those potential future windfalls.

What she hadn’t appreciated was his unthinking willingness to give me his ticket so I could accompany her. I gather she gave him a right ‘mouthful’, as they say, afterwards. No doubt she’d have preferred to take one of her girlfriends with her. Chrissie, short for Christine, wasn’t short on points in the looks and figure department. Add in being all dolled up in heavy make-up, heeled leather boots, a leather miniskirt, a crisp white, semi-transparent blouse sans bra, and, well, you get the picture. Whereas I, in my unimaginative, cheap two-piece suit, was far less suited to the party's fetish ambience!

Of course, we’d hardly got past the big guys at the door when she ditched me for more ‘entertaining’ company, leaving me wandering about as the party’s wallflower. Boy, there were some tasty-looking girls there in their get-ups. Probably the same ones I rubbed shoulders with every day, but damn near unrecognisable in their makeshift Dom or sub outfits. Not that I hit it off with any of them, being a very shy type, but that party was my introduction to a fascinating new world that ultimately led to my creative writing on, what you might call, the imaginary and far less sexual aspects of the scene.

Anyway, enough bloody waffle. After a few months amassing ‘wank fodder’ online, I paid a visit to a pro dom out of curiosity, more than anything else. Not the happiest experience of my life for a variety of reasons, including the fact that she cost a fair slice of my meagre uni allowance that term. I can’t even remember her name now, Madam something or other, and while the camera might not lie, the bloody internet does. She must have been a good ten years, probably nearer twenty, older in reality than the pictures on her website. Either that or her mother was standing in for her!

I wimped out before the ninety minutes I’d paid for were up, but I did learn several things during my brief practical induction. a) I wasn’t submissive. b) I didn’t like the…, how can I put it? I suppose you could call it the artificiality of the whole scene! c) That I wasn’t a masochist. It bloody well hurt!

Bessie didn’t bother to ask her victim, in that anxious, solicitous tone, whether ‘it had hurt’ after every stroke, nor to add ‘was that alright for you, dear?’ Gee, talk about a false and artificial environment! My interest in strict non-consensual situations almost certainly stemmed from that mediocre experience. Likewise, my appreciation of what physical punishment in such situations entailed. No, I hadn’t been ‘hurt’, but even her somewhat mild swats to my bottom with a paddle, crop, and briefly with a cane had stung. They’d given me a pretty good idea of how these poor critters… well, on reflection, probably not. Jesus, but it was mind-boggling to see those marks on their skin and the pain they must have felt and would still feel! No wonder they were somewhat tamer than they’d initially been. I mean… who the hell wouldn’t be!

I’d been ambling up the farmyard at little more than a snail's pace, my mind pondering all sorts of things, passing the desperately struggling Dopey and moving on to the females. The nearest pair seemed to shy away from me as I caught up with them. Quite silly, really, for both they and I knew there would be no avoiding my whip for any of them, no matter how much effort they put into the day’s activities. Nor would I be asking them if it had hurt. I grinned at that silly thought. No, not a chance!

Hearing the delicious-sounding smack as the braided leather bit into their tender hides, listening to their muted, agonising squeals, and watching them jump were significant parts of the fun for me. The very fact that I could do such to their helpless captive bodies was such a turn-on that the accompanying activity, task-wise, was almost a mere sideshow. Very much an exercise in futility on their part, you might say, but it did serve its purpose, as it had during the early days of their captivity.

I pondered that for a moment. I suppose I could have merely led them from their stalls, one by one, to the whipping bench or frame and let loose upon their helpless hides that way. I’d still have heard those delightful sounds, and they’d still have jumped in their bonds, as much as the bonds would allow. I’d still have had that… that sadistic sexual thrill of power and omnipotence, wouldn’t I? And, bent over the whipping hurdle, they’d have been perfectly positioned to relieve me of that inevitable monstrous hard-on, already making its presence felt in my trousers. Indeed, its blood-engorged, erect state seemed to have become almost a permanent feature since I’d arrived at this delightful place!

However, there was also the humiliation to consider, which further heightened my pleasure and undoubtedly deepened their misery. There was no rhyme or reason to the task I’d set them, unlike those earlier days of ploughing through the stone-strewn, overgrown fields. Admittedly, even a small, cheap tractor would have been much faster and more efficient for that job, but where would the fun and purpose be in that? It hadn’t been the prospect of low-level subsistence farming that had drawn my friends to this remote spot!

“We always intended for it to earn its keep and not be a pampered pet!” Bessie had told me the other night, elaborating on their ideas when they’d first been planning this wicked little venture. “Even though we might get a second one at some point, but….” She’d broken off and chuckled. “That was very speculative, of course, given we hadn’t even got one such beast at that point! Things certainly turned out rather differently from our original modest thinking, did they not?”

I couldn’t help but smile at her dismissive, pampered-pet comment, for only a few feet away, her human dog, Fido, was curled up, quietly whimpering in one corner of the room. Hardly a pampered pet, he was secured in that restrictive gimp suit, which was doing God knows what permanent damage to his poor, doubled-up limbs, not to mention his mental state! House pet he might be, but that didn’t spare him from his Mistress’s wrath; indeed, living in such proximity to his owners, he probably suffered more than the ponies. They at least spent many hours alone in their stalls, whereas poor Fido had little chance to avoid his owners’ punitive attention.

Bessie, I’d noticed, clearly enjoyed having the wretched creature around, whether she was baking in the big kitchen, digging in her vegetable patch, or working with the ponies. Poor Fido was rarely left alone in his doggy bed in the laundry room, unlike the stabled two-legged equine members of his family, who could escape her constant presence. He was invariably in a lose-lose situation because his Mistress had trained him to heel and follow her every move. On this occasion, the poor mutt got too close and nearly tripped her as she turned towards the kitchen table, carrying a tray of freshly baked buns.

He’d been whimpering softly, partly, I expect, because of the bruises her swift-booted foot had left on his ribcage, and more likely from the fresh bleeding wheals her cane had lacerated on his rump. As I mentioned earlier, there was no shortage of such implements readily available around the farm. Fido’s day hadn’t improved either. After supper, Robbie decided that since there was nothing on TV worth watching, he’d go to bed early. He snapped the dog's lead onto its collar and dragged it upstairs without a word to either his wife or me. Nor did we need to enquire about his intentions!

Having observed Bessie in action a few times, I had a discreet word with Robbie about her... what shall I call it, her enthusiasm. I’d seen Robbie in disciplinary mode a couple of times by then as well, and he didn’t hold back either, but that was nothing compared to Bessie. She was just savage! He listened to my concerns, nodded a couple of times, and then shrewdly asked, “Are you going to tell her then?” I looked at him, thought about it, and decided not to. Well, they were her animals, weren’t they? So, who was I to start rocking the boat? Besides, he pointed out that she’d broken them into a pretty useful state in double-quick time, hadn’t she? Plus, it wasn’t as if they couldn’t afford to lose the odd one!

A little callous, I’d thought, but then, gazing at my charges, I couldn’t deny Bessie’s efficiency in that regard. They were definitely more docile than I’d have expected after such a comparatively short time in harness. They were also covered in scars and marks, some of which they might carry for the rest of their miserable lives—and who knew how long that might be? I wondered how the animals felt about their future, if they even thought about it at all. Did they live only for now, or, more likely, did their minds dwell on past lives, very different lives now denied? As to the future… That thought made me shiver slightly, not on their behalf either. I’d briefly tried to put myself in their place and then swiftly pulled back from the idea; it was unthinkable. Life in harness, stalled and stabled, would be grim enough, but then add in Bessie and her whips, plus those intimate non-farming ‘extras’ they endured regularly. My body gave another involuntary shudder. No way, Hosea! Or should that be Jose!

A little earlier, I’d decided on the activity for at least the morning. I then turned my attention to which of them I should use for the task, sipping my breakfast coffee. My mind was half on that and half idly watching Baby’s efforts at the ironing board, thinking back to her earnest endeavours to satisfy me the previous night. I had five healthy two-legged animals at my disposal, didn’t I? To think I’d nearly declined Bessie’s and Robbie’s invitation to visit the countryside. Boy, what a grave mistake that would have been! Jeez, what an opportunity I would have missed. I doubted very much whether this would prove to be my sole excursion into the wilds of North Wales. Maybe it was time to ditch my pampered E-type for something less flashy but more robust dirt track-wise!

I contemplated my ’equine’ choices while drinking my breakfast coffee and decided, 'in for a penny, in for a pound’, as the old saying goes. If a couple were going to shed blood, sweat and tears striving to please, they might as well all join in the fun. Except it wasn’t going to be much fun for them. Then I supposed the fun had stopped permanently for this family almost half a year ago, hadn’t it? If I had any conscience at all about the situation, that should worry me, but it didn’t — not in the least. Which was strange, wasn’t it? Or was it? You’ll have noted that my conscience was, or perhaps subconsciously, troubling me a touch. Only a minor touch, though! My transition from literary non-consensuality of the captive human equine to reality had hardly occasioned a single twitch in the needle of my moral compass!

It was on the second morning, while I was sitting on her wagon for a coffee break after helping Bessie with the ploughing, that I asked her how she’d got them so docile so quickly and so used to working in harness. To have had four intelligent human beings so totally under our control, so obediently hauling those ploughs for us, seemed amazing to me. They were clearly still, to use her word, feral, yet strangely docile, far more so than I would have expected.

“Had ‘em on the blocks for a fair few hours a day for the first few weeks, Laddie,” she’d laughed. “Block drill and plenty of this on their damn lazy hides to encourage the lazy buggers!” She’d put down her coffee cup, held up her whip, and winked suggestively at me. “Nothing like a touch of the lash to get a stubborn animal moving!”

I’d blinked. Block drill meant nothing to me, and as a writer of BDSM stories, the only block I’d ever written about was some unfortunate up for sale on the auction block. Otherwise, occasional writer's block was something I was sadly familiar with. My evident bafflement amused my host to the point of almost choking on a mouthful of hot coffee. She explained once she’d recovered from all the spluttering, apologised for what had inadvertently sprayed in my direction, and dabbed me with her handkerchief. Block drill was the simple process, or perhaps not so simple, as I examined them later, of hauling large, heavy concrete blocks up and down the farmyard.

“Pointless but simple and very effective,” Bessie had nodded towards her captive ponies and smirked with evident satisfaction at them and her own prowess. ‘No need to faff about with any fancy training rigmarole. We just led them out of the stable, harnessed them to a concrete block, and then whipped their damn hides until they managed to move the bloody things. Not exactly rocket science on their part, but of course, we had to experiment a bit with the different blocks, finding out what was feasible and what wasn’t. That didn’t take overlong.’

“Trial and error,” I’d mused aloud, thinking it a bit unfair. How many times had the wretched creatures been whipped for trying to move something far too heavy for them?

“Something along those lines,” Bessie had agreed, sipping her coffee and showing she was mirroring my thoughts. “Their trial, our errors! Still, the whip wasn’t wasted. They learned their new place in life a little more with every stroke I laid on them, whether the damn block was moved or not!”

Yeah, I thought that, switching back to the present and eyeing the well-marked quintet, I could believe it. I wasn’t wasting the whip, either. “Move it, you fucking slackers!” I yelled, echoing one of Bessie's regular shouts. I’d deliberately chosen the whip because it was short, easy to handle, yet heavy-looking and decidedly nasty! It snapped out, leaving a livid purplish wheal on the nearest mare’s left rump cheek. The mare, Cream, jumped and cried out through her bit, throwing herself forward as if to impress me with her efforts, though it didn’t really matter. I hadn’t been particularly selective, other than that she happened to be the nearest, and the whip was about due to taste pony hide again. Despite the morning chill in the upland air, they were all glistening with sweat as they strained to pull those concrete blocks from one side of the farmyard to the other.

Bessie had told me that one advantage of using a whip properly was that a loud crack on one pony seemed to have almost the same effect on all the others when working a team. Like the sound of a gunshot, everyone jumped! I assumed the psychological impact, given that these were intelligent creatures with no desire to be next for such cruel and painful punishment. That was clear from how Peaches reacted almost identically to her younger sister, not that I intended her to be spared for long, of course. As I’ve said, the day was still young, and I intended that all of them would know there was a new and merciless Master in town by the end of it—if they didn’t already know that!

I’d spent a little time each afternoon ‘killing straw bales’, as Robbie had laughingly put it. A tad unnecessary, I thought, since it had been his idea in the first place. Bessie, I couldn’t help noticing, was a virtuoso, if I can use the term, with a whip in her hand. I’d swear she could have made life very unpleasant for a passing fly. Her aim and technique were excellent. By contrast, Robbie admitted to being ‘adequate’ (his term, not mine). ‘The fucker damn well feels it when I beat one of them, and that’s all I care about,’ he’d shrugged.

If we’d drawn some lines on one of the mare’s plump rumps, then Bessie could have played noughts

and crosses, or as the Americans call it, tic-tac-toe; she was so damn accurate about where the tip or the last few inches of braided leather landed. If a little ‘extra effort’ were called for, that tip would invariably caress a nipple or stripe a breast, even flick upwards between a pony’s legs to sear the most sensitive spot. Dopey's caged cock and balls were a favourite target, according to Robbie.

“Practice, Laddie, practice!” she’d laughed when I asked how she’d become so proficient and promptly demonstrated her expertise on the nearest pony. “Practice and yet more practice. Hell, use your eyes and look at the buggers' hides!”

I had shuddered inwardly. Robbie had laughed when I mentioned it to him later, saying, “Hell, laddie. If that were the case, we’d have none of them left by now, knowing my Bessie’s mania for doing things just right! The lass is a natural, but that’s not to say she’s spared any of them, far from it. I know what you mean, though,” he’d conceded. “Mind you, yon truculent beasties certainly provided Bessie with plenty of opportunities to practise till they settled down a bit. We’ve had them six months, yer ken, so don’t forget. Toss in one hell of a lot of natural talent, like ah said. My bonnie lassie is a born sadist, as you might have noticed!”

I had, and she was not the only one on site so inclined. After the first half hour, they all showed fresh, undoubtedly painful stripes on their hides, courtesy of my whip. No, on reflection, my conscience was not the least bit troubled. I decided this as I watched them struggle in the chilly morning air at the hard and pointless task I’d assigned them. Again, I suppose it was back to that psychological aspect, but this time it was my state of mind under scrutiny. Technically, more than technically, they were human beings, and even the worst criminals are entitled to be treated with dignity and respect, in a civilised manner. In the case of this lot, that was especially true, as they had done nothing wrong, committed no crime, broken no laws, caused neither hurt nor offence to anyone, and yet…

Unfortunately, due to circumstances beyond their control, they were now naked, harnessed, bitted, and completely helpless, stripped of their freedom and their very humanity… well, sort of. Not in reality, of course, but in reality, their captors and owners paid heed only to their humanity insofar as it added to the pleasure of animalising them and denying them every normal aspect of that humanity. There would be no release, no parole, no mercy, and they would grow old in harness, living in the foulest of conditions, if you could call it living! I briefly wondered again about their long-term future, but then shrugged; it wasn’t my concern. Maybe Robbie and Bessie had a plan, but then again, probably not. Somehow, I doubted that was something Bessie would worry about!

Did I feel sorry for them? No, I concluded after the briefest of thoughts. Besides, it was their own damn fault for… but no, that wasn’t correct or even fair, was it? I was being irrational. My mind had been momentarily thinking along the lines of… if you ignore the sign saying ‘minefield’ or the ‘beware of the dog’ note on the garden gate, getting blown up or bitten shouldn’t come as a surprise. No, there had been no warning signs on that damn near un-navigable track leading to my hosts’ little place in the country. There had been nothing to indicate what lay in store for the unfortunate family. No ‘abandon hope all ye who venture beyond this point’ sinister sign. They had no more idea of what lay at Rainbow's end than I had when Robbie had picked me up the other day.

The difference was that I’d found a pot of gold and they hadn’t! I was still coming to terms with the sheer size and scale of this proverbial pot of gold, whereas those poor fuckers… how did you even begin to come to terms with what they’d discovered at the rainbow’s end? Not that I cared all that much. It was interesting to speculate upon, but that didn’t alter the circumstances one iota, did it? I was only interested in the present and not at all concerned about the morality of the situation, and to hell with conscience and all that rubbish. Nor did I care that those five beings were technically no different from me; besides, I wasn’t the one who’d kidnapped them, was I? Now that would be a pretty stupid thing to say in court, wouldn’t it? Not that I thought for a moment it would ever come to that, and to be honest, that prospect seemed pretty damn remote. Even more remote than this Welsh farm, smallholding, or whatever they wanted to call it, was from proper urban civilisation.

As for these poor sods, it was random chance, the throw of the dice, the worst kind of fate that had led them to this isolated spot and into the hands of a couple of… of, well, I baulked at describing my friends as criminal perverts. I’d have to include myself in there if I did. Sheer bloody bad luck that they’d arrived at the one place in the country that had been purchased with the evil intention of putting some unfortunate soul into the terrible position they were now occupying by the couple that owned it.

Besides, I felt a little like Alice, falling down that rabbit hole and ending up in a strange new world, though in my case it was perhaps not so strange, since I had been writing ‘pony’ stories for quite some years. Bessie and I had often discussed our fantasies, but I never imagined my motherly, albeit somewhat perverse-minded, friend turning hers into reality on such a scale. Hell, a couple more days like today, and even if the boys in dark blue suits and pointy helmets came bouncing down that dreadful track, sirens screeching and blue lights flashing, I’d probably think the penalty was worth it! Well, maybe not if I really thought about it, but I wasn’t going to, so I’m sure you get the picture. The old saying, like so many, is undoubtedly true. One man's or woman's heaven is another's hell! Yeah, I grinned at that thought. Bessie made some fallen Angel, didn’t she!

I didn’t know how heavy those assorted large, oddly shaped concrete blocks were or what their original purpose had been, but they’d been buried or partially buried in the ground, judging by the muck still on them. On a smaller scale, they reminded me slightly of the things I’d seen in pictures of World War Two defences designed to stop tanks. I knew I couldn’t shift any of the ones I’d chosen on my own, not easily, anyway, and not without risking a serious strain on my lower back that I wasn’t willing to risk. Nor was there any reason I should!

I chose them because they were the ones at the front, presumably the ones Bessie and Robbie had used to acclimatise their splendid new acquisitions to the harsh realities of working pony life! A somewhat pointless task in practical terms, but ideal for introducing a once-wild two-legged pony to the realities of its new life in tack and harness. Indeed, the sheer pointlessness and futility only emphasised the sheer hopelessness of their situation and the absolute control their new ‘owners’ had over them. Plus, of course, these were not dumb animals—well, not in the mental sense—and could quite possibly reason why they were being put to such an arduous and meaningless task.

Or maybe they couldn’t? Initially, sheer disbelief must have been uppermost in their minds, I assumed as I watched them strain in their harnesses, no doubt desperate to avoid the whip in my hand. I grinned; it was a lose-lose situation for them, and they must surely realise that. They’d all be whipped regardless of their efforts, and yes, maybe more so if I felt they were slacking! But they didn’t need a human brain and a high IQ to work that out, did they? No, even the dumbest donkey quickly learnt that lesson once it felt the whip crack across its hide! Jeez, I felt a surge of intense sadistic erotic pleasure at the thought. These poor fuckers were already in hell, and I had the power to make it worse whenever I chose.

It was fortunate that each of those slightly irregular blocks had a large, rusty iron ring embedded in it, making a useful attachment point for the leather pulling harness. What on earth had been their original purpose, I wondered, making a mental note to ask my hosts. Bessie had casually mentioned that they’d been here when they’d bought the place. Still, I’d naturally been more interested in her story about initially ‘breaking them in’ than in the origin of the roughly rectangular concrete blocks.

My thoughtful curiosity was more focused on how they’d reacted that first morning, when, harnessed and helpless, they’d been led from that stable and, if that was the correct term, introduced to this gruelling but meaningless task. It would have been interesting to have been a spectator at that first session. I made another mental note to ask my friends how long the interval was between stalling and tacking them up and then putting them to work for the first time. Surely it wouldn’t have been the morning after they’d first arrived!

I grinned at that thought. Morning after! I’d experienced a few unpleasant episodes like that in my younger days after a night out, but no hangover could compare to what these poor souls must have endured! That initial fear as they meekly surrendered at gunpoint to a couple of elderly crazies... well, late middle-aged, shall we say. Being tied up and then stripped by a presumably gleeful and gloating couple, feeling frightened—no, make that utterly terrified—and yet the worst was yet to come, far worse!

Being shot might, retrospectively, have been a … My train of thought was interrupted when I noticed Dopey, the herd stallion, had come to a virtual halt, straining in his harness to move his block, which had dug itself into one of the deeper ruts left by the oversized tyres of Robie’s big Japanese four-wheel drive vehicle. I considered the animal's predicament for a moment, taking all aspects into account, which was very nice of me, I thought. I mean, I could have lashed out unthinkingly with my whip, couldn’t I? That had been my first instinct.

The block he was solo-hauling was big, or big-ish, yes, heavy, yes, but, well, maybe a few kilos less than what the females in his family were dragging, and certainly not unmanageable, I’d guessed. Bessie had told me he’d pulled a smaller one solo, and that one had seemed the obvious candidate. Plus, it was flat-bottomed, or relatively so, as they all were, so that should make the task marginally easier. Nothing to dig into the dirt as the ploughs did, and that rut wasn’t all that deep, was it, just the squared-off end being stubborn. Plus, he was a big, strong guy, or rather a stallion, so a bit of extra effort on his part should….. I made up my mind, deciding that instinct had been right in the first place. I strode forward towards the lazy animal, my whip swinging loose. Fucking useless creatures, any excuse for a breather!

“MOVE IT, MOVE YOURSELF, YOU LAZY USELESS ANIMAL, MOVE IT!” I didn’t so much yell as shriek as my whip lashed back and forth… three, four, and five times. He would have received a sixth had I not felt a sudden twinge in my arm as an underused muscle protested. A stab of pain made me desist, and I massaged it for a few seconds. Yow and oops, a little too much enthusiasm, I thought, flexing my whip arm a second later. I didn’t want to incapacitate myself, certainly not this early!

Besides, further ‘encouragement’ from me wasn’t necessary, as the big beast, with a desperate effort, lunged forward and freed his burden. I was quite impressed, both by my ability to motivate the animal and by its ability to shift that huge lump. Lunging forward, the stubborn block slid free, allowing Dopey to stagger off the dirt and onto a patch of concrete. Maybe they had been tank traps or something similar, for Bessie had told me the farm had been abandoned for a time before the Second World War and then used as a training camp for Commandos and suchlike. Then again, maybe not. It was almost impossible to get a vehicle here, and while a tank might seem suitable, the ground off the approach track was frequently soft moorland peat, crisscrossed with small streams and boggy patches.

“It’s all right from here on up towards the hills and yonder that way,’ Robbie had told me. ‘But try wandering off the track into town on a dark night, and you could find yourself in big trouble. Sheep used to go missing regularly, so they told us!”

Well, I was safe in that respect. I had no intention of ‘walking’ anywhere, and why should I, given I had plenty to entertain me right where I was? I’d initially been a bit concerned about my boldness in deciding to use all five stable occupants at once. Biting off more than I could chew, but no. A somewhat daring move, perhaps on my part, but then again, why not? I’d had several days to familiarise myself with ponies, tack, and harness, so I wasn’t exactly flying solo after just an hour's duo instruction. Plus, it gave me a sort of… Well, I was going to say ‘good feeling’ about having them all outside and under my control. That sounds a bit lame, though, for I felt a damn sight more excited, and yes, ultra fucking randy might be more accurate. By the time I walked the fifth one out, I could barely walk myself on account of the enormous stiffie straining the front of my pants, and saying ‘down boy’ to myself wasn’t working. My not-so-little buddy downstairs had stopped listening to instructions from HQ above and was operating on pure instinct!

Hell, Baby’s soft mouth, tongue, and lips from the night before had so exhausted my buddy downstairs that I feared he’d be a mite reluctant to wake today. Nope, the previous night's activities had somehow been forgotten, and all fatigue erased. We were primed, loaded, and ready to rock, roll, and FUCK, were we not! Hell, either the crotch of my pants had somehow shrunk overnight or I’d gained a good inch where it counts. Leastways, it felt like that as I led Plumb out of the stable to join the rest of her family, or should I say herd?

Sheesh, talk about doing the famous John Wayne walk! I was sorely tempted to fire the day's first salvo even before the day's ‘work’ had started; the fact that Plumb was the youngest and such a fetching little filly wasn’t helping, but somehow I resisted both the temptation and the risk of accidentally blowing my load in my underpants, which was definitely not on my agenda. I hadn’t done that since I was a kid, sitting on the upper deck of a bus and fantasising about… can’t even remember her name now, but she’d been sitting a couple of rows further down, the school numero uno beauty. The one we’d all thought super hot, with a face and figure to match. She’d left not long after my ‘accident’ to go to another school, and I’d always wondered what had happened to her. Then I had a brainwave about the present problem.

When in Rome, as they say, well, why not! Yeah, I just unzipped my fly and let it all hang out, so to speak! Why not? There was no one around but the ponies, and they’d seen and experienced cock enough times, even mine, in the case of three of the female animals. Technically speaking, it didn’t so much hang out as spring out like a hungry tiger from the bushes, seeking its prey. Still, it was a tad too early, and the chilly air soon cooled my buddy's ardour, but not for long, I suspected, tucking him safely away a few minutes later.

Of course, I wouldn’t have done that if either of my hosts had been around. Far too embarrassing, at least for me, though I expect they’d just have laughed. Neither of them was remotely prudish, and I’d been staying long enough to have seen Robbie with his pants around his ankles, availing himself of a convenient hole more than once. Likewise, Bessie, with her fat thighs spread, Baby’s face or Fido’s snout buried in her hairy crotch, and boy, did she have a hairy bush. Her pets’ searching tongues could have done with one of those what-der-ya-call ‘em, machete-chopping things to get through that tangled jungle!

I’ll admit I’d been a little, indeed more than a little, shocked by their blatant, casual sexual use and abuse of such captive livestock, but that had soon passed. I mean, like I said, when in Rome and all that…! Strange how quickly you get used to something that, under other circumstances, would shock the hell out of you. Hardly normal circumstances, though, were they? Odd that my moral compass, as I’d called it, seemed a shade more bothered, or, if not bothered, at least taken aback, by that aspect of their ownership rather than the sheer savagery of the sadistic side!

I knew the entry code off by heart, of course; likewise, I was now pretty familiar with much of what the stable contained, including its five captive occupants at the far end. Just thinking of them invariably gave me a hard-on, and touching them was incredible. More so because the last thing any of them wanted was to be touched by the likes of me or anyone else, I expect, but that was not going to happen. They no longer owned their own bodies nor had the slightest freedom of any sort, as their miserable lives went, bar breathing, pissing and shitting in the dirt!

When I was a kid, my grandmother used to take me into town for a treat every other Saturday morning. We always took the bus, even though she had a car, because I was fascinated by buses and my parents never used them. We’d feed the ducks in the local park, then have an ice cream at her favourite café, a somewhat upmarket one, if my juvenile memory is correct. Long gone now, as is the big department store, we ended up in before getting the bus back, where I could choose a cheap plastic toy from the extensive display on the third floor. It was accessed by a lift, of course, another treat, and I was allowed to push the button that took me up to kiddie heaven!

I recall that pleasant memory now simply because of the phrase my grandmother would always use on that occasion, as my young mind would invariably go into overdrive at that point, bamboozled by the wide array of cheap plastic tat on display: Hong Kong, Taiwan and mainland China’s less-than-finest offerings. My escort usually chose my treat, as my overloaded mind had shut down, so I’d leave clutching a plastic racing car, gun or aeroplane to my juvenile bosom. ‘Kid in the candy shop’ was the phrase my grandmother frequently uttered on such occasions to my mother. It came back to me every time I punched in that entry code and heaved the stable door open. It was as satisfactory, no, vastly more so, than when my finger had whisked us to the third-floor toy department all those years ago.

They’d all looked at me as I entered the stall area, and from the stench, one of them had recently exercised that bit of remaining freedom, maybe more than one, which made me say, “Filthy fucking animals!” Without even thinking about it, I was right on all three, and I was still right when I thought about it as I looked along the line. They weren’t terribly clean, but somehow that was part of the attraction. They were there to be fucked as well as worked, and they were animals now, having been so from the moment they surrendered their freedom to Bessie and Robbie. Better a blast from a shotgun than this… if you could even call it life!

I’d mentioned their distinctive smell and appearance to my hosts, naively asking whether they had to be cleaned or washed down every day. Bessie had laughed at that. ‘No, Laddie. That would be far too much trouble for us old folk, not to mention unnecessary. Besides, standing around in their own piss and shit helps them acclimatise a bit more to the reality of their new lives, such as it is,’ she’d giggled.

Bessie went on to say that the stalls were mucked out every few days, as deemed necessary, and that every other Sunday they carried out a comprehensive muck out, with new straw, sawdust, floor dirt, and what have you. “We do have a responsibility after all!”

The woman had said it with such sincerity that, given the situation, I couldn’t help laughing, and I had to apologise immediately. It was clear she hadn’t the faintest idea why I’d laughed. I suppose I could have nodded towards her discarded whip lying so innocently on the kitchen table as a clue, but I didn’t. Despite the incongruity, I let her continue. I was fascinated by the whole situation and always eager to hear more about their captive livestock.

Their unique livestock received occasional light grooming as needed. The last Sunday of the month was the major grooming day, when they got a proper scrub and a hose-down, their teeth cleaned, their hair trimmed or shaved, and all the rest that was part and parcel of keeping them. That was still a week and more away, so that’s why they were filthy, their legs soiled with shit and piss, which definitely contributed to their animalisation. Evidently, de-shitting them didn’t count as ‘as needed’. My nose wrinkled automatically. Jeez, what a life! I’d written often enough about such unfortunates, but the reality was something else when you were actually looking at it, plus smelling it, of course. Hell, I’d have a pretty damn good literary vocabulary, but even so, I doubted I’d ever be able to convey that stench in all its ‘glory’ to my readers!

It hit me every time, every visit I paid to the stable. Imagine having to live full-time in that…that foul miasma. You couldn’t see it, of course, but it was there in all its overpowering…well, the nasal equivalent of walking into a solid brick wall! “Yeah, bit of a stink”, Robbie had dismissed it with an indifferent shrug. “Eggs and omelettes, Laddie. If you want one, you need to break the others!

Not the simile I would have chosen, but I knew what he meant, and of course that ‘delightful’ odour of captive human equines was in part deliberate. None of them was solid poop-wise, and according to Bessie, hadn’t been for a long while, which was partly by design and partly by accident on her part. “Took a while to get their damn diet right, but that and their living conditions, not to mention sheer bloody terror of me, keep them nice and runny!” Boy, the woman certainly took no prisoners, did she, and how did that affect their long-term health? Surely it must weaken them, sap their stamina or something, but I shrugged. Not my problem. Besides, none of them looked ill. Pretty damn terrible and miserable, yes, but not unhealthy apart from the lattice of scars, welts and weals that covered a fair portion of their bodies!

“Lost a bit of weight as well,” Bessie had told me through a mouthful of homemade currant bun as we’d sat in the wagon seat during a ploughing break. She’d gestured to the nearest pair to her coiled whip. “All of the buggers were carrying a few pounds too many, especially those two,” she’d gestured again towards the senior pair, Peaches and her sister Cream. “Not saying any of ’em were porky pigs, but they look better now, especially them two mares, I reckon, than when we first put ’em in harness.”

I noticed both ponies' heads had perked up at her words and wondered how they felt being thus so scathingly described. But then that was the least of their problems, wasn’t it? My bun-chewing companion might have a point, though, for the two mares certainly looked in peak body condition for their age. Ten, no, say twenty minutes with the make-up bag at the dressing-table mirror, then into their bikinis for a stroll around the hotel swimming pool! Well, I certainly would, as they say, and I chuckled, making Bessie pause and stare at me as she stopped short in the act of selecting another bun from the old-fashioned green cake tin in her basket.

“But then I already had and with both of them,” I told her, laughing at the blank look on my host’s face. I’d winked at her, nodded towards the open bun tin, and shaken my head. Then I’d hopped down and gone to have a feel and a squeeze of soft, warm, female pony flesh that felt so good to me. Hell, so far as I was concerned, they could have been a couple of ugly, overweight porkers or skinny runts for all I cared. They were there and one hundred per cent available, and the fact that they were more than presentable was merely the icing on a particularly tasty cake!

This morning, none of them had seemed over keen to come out and play, which I suppose was understandable given the sort of games their owners liked to play! It occurred to me that those horrible, stinking, primitive stalls might not be very nice, but in a sense, they served as refuges, safe havens. The world beyond was something they’d all learned to fear, and, in a sense, they reverted to type, becoming the absolute animals their owners intended them to be as they cowered away in such a futile fashion. Did they really imagine I’d go away!

I’d started with Peahes partly because Bessie had primarily been using the females for the past few days in the fields, and they’d naturally received all my attention. Not an unnatural situation, given all four were very fuckable and in no position to say ‘no’ to a healthy, hot-blooded male suffering from a seemingly endless series of ‘hardons’ lately! Three down so far, and one to go, so far, and that was the youngest member of the little herd. Bessie's favourite Plumb I’d still to sample. I think subconsciously I’d been saving that cute little filly till last.

I wasn’t quite sure why that was, something psychological, perhaps, saving the best, the juiciest morsel, till last? Certainly, sympathy for the poor creatures’ plight didn’t enter into the equation! The young filly was indeed a tempting morsel, being the smallest and, to my eye, the most perfectly formed of the four female animals, with the cutest pair of perky tits, or udders, should I say. That’s not to say there was much wrong with her older cousin, nor her mother and aunt, come to that. All four were eminently fuckable, and three of them had been by me. I’ll even admit that I had half an eye on the herd stallion, Dopey himself. I wasn’t the least bit gay, but I’d certainly enjoyed Baby’s talented lips and tongue the previous evening, hadn’t I? Now the prospect of mounting that big, angry beast in such a humiliating yet satisfying way…… now that went way beyond just enjoying a simple fuck, did it not! That was true dominance, wasn’t it, and the ultimate demonstration of my absolute mastery of the big beast!

I’d even teased Robbie one evening after dinner about it, having noted he wasn’t averse to fucking the big stallion and making a cheap crack about his sexuality or bisexuality, but he’d not batted an eyelid. He’d taken his wallet from a hip pocket, selected a ten-pound note, looked at it with pursed lips for a second or two, then swapped it for a fifty-pound note and placed it on the mantelpiece under a China ornament of a shepherd boy and sheep.

“You stick a tenner on that, Laddie. Put your money where your mouth is, and we’ll see how things stand when you depart. I’ll not deny that big, angry bastard was the first of them I took, and I’m no more oriented in that direction than you. Dopey was first in the queue, you might say, as the herd stallion. We’d debated whether to leave him till last, let him watch what happened to the rest of his fam…his herd, but Bessie thought it’d be more ‘educational’ for them to see him getting his own ‘education’, as it were, first! Her whip followed by my cock!”

He’d paused at that point to fill and light that stinking old pipe he insisted on smoking. Lord knows what brand of tobacco he used, if it even was tobacco! It came close to rivalling that stable stench, so for all I knew, it might be dried pony poop he had in the damn thing! Unlikely, but jeez, I’d thought, pretending to cough while theatrically waving my arms to dispel the sudden blue fug. After dinner was the only time Bessie permitted him to light up indoors; otherwise, he was banished outside to one of the outbuildings to pollute the atmosphere with his foul-smelling pipe.

“Honestly, I’ll wager there are factories in the slum quarters of Chinese cities that pollute less than that horrible thing he’ll insist on sticking in his mouth,” she’d complained to me over coffee while Robbie took a turn around the farmyard pipe in his mouth, then added, “Still, I suppose a man like him has to have some vices!”

A remark somewhat astray from the main target area, I’d thought, given the human pup curled up next to her chair, who had been the recipient of a far more serious vice the previous evening at her husband's hand, or rather not at his hand, if you get my meaning. There was also a baby sobbing quietly in the kitchen, on account of the savage caning she’d received from Bessie not half an hour earlier for managing to get a double crease in a pair of Robbie's trousers, or ‘Trews’, to use the Scottish vernacular, she was ironing. He or she was another one who had to satisfy her husband's vices. Then there were five human equines stabled just across the farmyard, who’d all been on the receiving end of her husband's vices!

Bessie was no different, come to that, so presumably that’s why she didn’t consider them vices or anything out of the ordinary. Whipping and fucking ponies and other human animals was perfectly acceptable, even normal, but smoking his foul pipe indoors, or even outdoors for that matter, was where she drew the line. I’d wisely refrained from commenting; I was the guest, the new boy, after all, wasn't I! The last thing I was going to do was upset my hosts in any way, lest they not invite me back!

Anyway, long story short, I’d laid my tenner on top of Robbie's fifty under the ornament, and after last night, as the recipient of Baby’s well-trained tongue, I was pretty damn sure I’d be heading home ten quid poorer. Did being sucked off by a sweet little she-male count? Probably. I glanced over at Dopey as his concrete block slid off the concrete patch and back into the dirt. He strained and heaved, his firm, well-whipped pony rump so enticingly displayed, stirring feelings I’d never experienced before. Even if Baby didn’t count, I was pretty damn sure I’d still be losing that bet! My little buddy down below was making his presence felt again, and this time I knew it wasn’t soft, helpless, female pony flesh he was hankering after!

What had Bessie said, ‘Educating the herd’? Dopey was a big guy, a stallion, and somewhat imposing in his pony hoof boots, but he was still nothing more than a dumb, helpless, harnessed animal with a nasty gleam in his angry eyes. I could understand why my friends had decided to demonstrate their absolute ownership of their new acquisitions, starting with him. Boy, that must have been one hell of an eye-opener for them, and even more so for the big beast!

I allowed the whip to uncoil. I’ll bet he didn’t look at Bessie the way he looked at me. Maybe it was time I did a little educating of my own after I’d warmed the beast up. My arm drew back, the muscle twinge forgotten……