Old McDonald had a Farm...

Chapter Eleven

I was on a massive ‘Power trip’ with a capital P, and it was an incredible feeling I found hard to describe. It was like… being a god, in a sense, compared to these… Well, I was going to say ‘fellow human beings’, but given their present status and my feelings towards them, that wasn’t a very apt description. I felt so far above them that the difference between us was virtually immeasurable. Christ, but Bessie had done a fantastic job on this bunch, hadn’t she?

Like most people, I’ve never been a fan of what my mother called ‘home movies’, and neither was she, judging by her sighs whenever the old-fashioned projector came out at my grandparents' house when I was a kid. That and the screen, a white bedsheet hung from the window curtain rail, upon which a slightly blurry, small, and jerky image was projected for my edification and entertainment in glorious 8-millimetre colour! ‘This is mummy with her bucket and spade at the seaside’, and so on. At five minutes or less, my poor mother must have starred in more bloody films during her childhood than… than, well, an actress who’s made a lot of films!

These days, of course, it's the digital age, and every Tom, Dick and Harry can make high-quality video on their phone with instant playback, though that doesn't make the subject matter any more interesting. Little whoever it may be, with their bucket and spade, making sandcastles on the beach, in far higher quality… but equally boring. Photos were equally bad! God, I hated it when one of my office colleagues went on holiday and insisted on walking around, flashing their bloody phone at everybody. Stick 'em on fucking Faceache and the like for your fellow morons to gawp at. That's what social media was primarily supposed to be for, wasn't it!

Social media, one of my pet hates, made me glower after Dopey as he struggled manfully, hauling that heavy lump of concrete behind him. My whip arm rose automatically, but the blow never materialised. My gaze fell on the lattice of wheals and scars on his rump and thighs. The more recent ones I’d added were livid and oozing blood in a couple of places, but they would probably heal and fade in time, as I wasn’t inclined to be too heavy-handed. That wasn’t the case with all those other scars and marks, though. There were a lot of them, and the herd stallion wasn’t unique in that respect. Bessie's handiwork, at least I assumed it was hers, was evident on all her livestock and no one could accuse her of being unduly lenient!

That brought me back to Bessie and to what had prompted that chain of thought about home movies. My hosts had used their smartphones to a similar effect, but far more interestingly and entertainingly than with sandcastles at the beach! ‘For posterity, my boy,’ Robbie had told me during that first showing on a widescreen HD television, although I had no idea what he meant by that statement, nor who the future audience might be. I expect he hadn't either, but it was a pretty neat record of how Dopey and co had reacted to their initial training in this new environment. Unenthusiastically would be the understatement of the year…no, the decade!

That had been on my second evening and very entertaining, though it had been getting late after that first viewing, but not that late. I’d had to excuse myself, much to my hosts’ amusement, and take a quick trip over to the stable to avail myself of Peach’s accommodating pony pussy. Nothing to do with the fact that she’d been the last one I’d seen on screen writhing and screaming under Bessie’s relentless whip, but rather she’d been the nearest female animal to stick an over-eager cock in before it exploded in my pants. I’d only just made it as well, and so fast was the coupling that had we been a loving couple instead of a helpless captive mare and visiting Master, the female half would have been very disappointed with that quickie that was almost far too quick even for that term! In this case, I’d still enjoyed the ‘brief encounter’, and Peaches' feelings didn’t matter a damn!

The females, both pairs, had reached the low dry-stone wall marking the end of the farmyard and were automatically shuffling around to start the return journey without any direction from me. Back to Bessie’s remorseless training, I expect, and from what I’d seen on video, no holds barred, as they say! Still, I hadn’t ordered them to do that, had I? Thinking for themselves was not something to be encouraged, that I did know. Ponies obeyed; they did not think, reason, and then act on their own!

“Halt!” I shouted, hefting my whip. That I should have given that command a little earlier was irrelevant. Maybe Bessie allowed them to turn about of their own accord, but I was not Bessie, which was probably a relief to them. Well, if so, an abrupt change of attitude was definitely in order, was it not? I gave Dopey another stripe simply because he happened to be near, to test the muscle twinge in my arm, and then advanced with serious intent towards the now-nervous female members of his family, a gleeful, if evil, anticipatory smile on my face.

Oh, the sheer joy of absolute and unrestrained, unrestricted sadism!

*****

The day had improved considerably by the time I called a halt to their pointless hauling of concrete blocks up and down the farmyard. My rumbling stomach reminded me that lunch was overdue and that breakfast had been skimpy. Blue skies overhead, complete with scudding white wisps of cloud, and not a hint of damp in the air for once. It was even pleasantly warm and growing hotter, a first so far on this trip to North Wales. The surrounding hills and… and did they call it moorland in these parts, or did they have some other name for those bleak patches of stunted, wind-blown vegetation sandwiched between bare patches of rock, or maybe shale, or whatever.

Slate, perhaps, I thought as I admired the local scenery, much of it visible for the first time as the weather rapidly improved. That used to be a big industry, didn’t it? Coal from South Wales and slate for house roof tiles from the North. I chewed on a chicken leg, thinking about that and wondering whether they’d mined or quarried the grey stuff, maybe a mixture of both. I concluded, then debated whether or not to toss my leg bone to Bozo.

I decided against it. I’d once read somewhere that you shouldn’t give chicken bones to pets; it’s too easy for them to choke, or for a bone to get stuck in their throats, or something along those lines. Okay, so he wasn’t a cat and was way bigger than the average family dog, but Bessie wouldn’t thank me, would she, if I killed the poor thing or if it slowly starved because a bone was stuck down its gullet or whatever. My medical knowledge went about as far as applying a band-aid, and they could hardly take the poor thing to the local vets, could they?

‘Excuse us, but could you take a quick look at our dog, our big and rather unusual dog? I mean, yes, we know he’s not a dog, but we treat him as if he’s one, and he lives and behaves like one… well, we ensure he has no choice but to behave like one… but we needn’t go into that, need we?’ I grinned at the imaginary scene before a bewildered receptionist. Silly, I know, but it amused me. What about those other pet owners in the waiting room? Still, if one of these human beasts did become ill, what then?

I pondered that as I opted for a thick slice of homemade bread, thickly buttered, and cut myself a sizeable chunk of cheddar cheese. Decent cheddar, I noted on my first bite, not the tasteless, anaemic, soapy crap you get in supermarkets! They’d had the family for six months, and to me they looked pretty healthy, especially given the way they were forced to live and the brutal treatment they received regularly. I grinned at that thought and glanced at the coiled whip I’d casually tossed onto the old picnic table. My, how those mares and fillies had recently danced for me!

Pony health? I made a mental note to ask my friends how they’d gone about it and what the plan was if one of them developed a serious problem. Was there even a plan? Maybe not, given they had seven human captives available instead of the singleton they’d originally planned for. Besides, hadn’t Robbie muttered something about ‘plenty of spares’ more than once? Callous but true, I thought, glancing over at the row of ponies obediently standing by the old water trough, their hides bloodily marked with fresh whip scars. I decided that Bessie wasn’t the type to worry herself overmuch about a sick animal. On the one hand, she was visibly a plump, sweet-looking, motherly woman, and on the other, well, I knew she’d been a tough businesswoman, but when it came to the ponies… Yes, I could imagine her shrugging and saying something ominous like ‘They get better, or they don’t!’

I chewed thoughtfully. Once again, that raised the long-term prospect, didn’t it? I mean, six months wasn’t a long time, though no doubt it had already felt like a hundred lifetimes, none of them pleasant for those poor fuckers. All seven of them, come to that, for I’d added both Baby and Bozo to my lunchtime impromptu picnic party. Why not, five out, all out, since it was such a nice day now and I was master of all I surveyed, wasn’t I, as I took a bite of bread and cheese? And a very satisfying survey it was, too!

Power. That thought came again. Power, absolute power, like some ruthless ruler of a police state, a medieval despot, or a cruel Eastern potentate! I eyed the quintet of hapless human ponies who’d all recently felt my whip, now lying there so innocently on the table. Worse, perhaps, because those absolute rulers would have had their critics. Observers who disapproved of their actions but wisely kept their own counsel and thus their heads! Maybe some with enough clout with the top guy to stay his cruelty at times, whereas here, for this bunch… I smiled grimly. These poor fuckers had no one to observe and speak on their behalf, did they? And probably never would, for I certainly wasn’t going to tell any tales.

Prates of the Caribbean, Dead men tell no tales. That had been a film I recalled, but the saying was older than that I knew. Treasure Island, Robert Louis Stevenson, I mused, but if so, it had probably been around even longer than… than when he wrote the book. I took another bite of bread and cheese and chewed thoughtfully. I could probably… no, not probably, I could beat one of them, say Big Dopey, to death, couldn’t I? Tie him to the whipping frame and just beat the fuck out of him, and no one would stop me, no one would interfere, no one would… Shit, I’d swallowed too quickly at the thought and splattered the picnic table with bread and cheese while I recovered from a brief choking fit.

Hell, back to my power trip and the damn crazy thought process had nearly killed me, never mind that dumb beast! Jeez, they say power corrupts, and as for absolute power, well! Jeez fucking us! I stared at the captive ponies, almost in a new light. They, I… Power with a capital P, a massive capital P! What would Bessie and Robbie say if… what could they say, and would they even mind if I did? Then again, what would be the point? Like a spoilt, badly behaved child smashing its favourite toy only to immediately regret the act because it could no longer get any enjoyment from it!

Probably yes, I decided. Having acquired such a delightful selection of livestock, if they came back to find one of their two-legged animals dead, they’d hardly be impressed with my…my animal-sitting capabilities, would they, despite Robbie's casual talk of ‘spares’. Hell, worse, I might not get another invite to visit them and enjoy this unusual, indeed unique, hospitality provided by their other, more reluctant but very accommodating guests!

Baby had finished her ironing and was busily scrubbing the already spotless kitchen floor when I released her ankle chain and took her outside to sit at the picnic bench and keep me company. There were various leads, chains, and what have you hanging on pegs near the door, so I selected a short length of chain, shackled her to one of the bench slats, then freed Bozo from his basket, walked him outside, and similarly knotted his lead. Baby was hobbled at the knees and was the only one of them with hands and fingers, but she couldn’t reach the ponies, and should she untie that simple knot in the lead, it would hardly improve Bozo’s position, would it? That puppy suit so restricted him that a hundred-metre dash was damn impossible on elbows and knees, and besides, where would he go, the place being miles from anywhere with no through traffic?

I suppose I could have ordered Baby to get my lunch ready, but somehow, I couldn’t quite summon the same level of trust that Bessie and Robbie had in the sexy little bitch. I didn’t want my drink laced with rat poison or anything equally nasty, or to have it shared with my bread and butter! I doubted that would happen, given how submissive he, I mean she, was, but I wasn’t about to take any chances. Besides, my culinary skills were hardly stretched by helping myself to bread, butter, cheese, a couple of cooked chicken legs, and a bottle of cold beer.

I amused myself between bites by tearing off pieces of cooked chicken skin and tossing them down for Bozo to gobble up, which he did with apparent gusto. Was it hunger, I wondered, watching his doggie snout banging in the dirt as his tongue scooped up the treat, or was it previous experience of what might happen if he didn't? My respect and admiration for my friend's training abilities grew as I watched the wretched creature. Sheesh, just six months… I was doing it again, wasn’t I?

My left hand was busy exploring and fondling the hot, little, sweet, scented body seated next to me on the other end of the picnic bench. She and I reminded myself firmly that this cutie was a she now, regardless of that pathetic little thing in its cage between her shapely nylon-clad legs. Bessie had a good eye, I thought, raising my beer bottle to her and taking a swig. She’d spotted Baby’s potential the moment the poor thing stepped out of the car that day in the farmyard. Seven potential ponies had become six in an instant, and the poor little bitch had been the first to ‘enjoy’ the intimate but less-than-loving attentions of her family's new owners that same night. Overexcited and fired up after stripping, tacking and stalling the rest of the clan, my friends had ‘invited’ the bitch to share their bed. Invited was the word Bessie used to describe the incident to me. Refusal, of course, was never an option!

‘Kicking and screaming, Robbie had qualified with an evil laugh. ‘Little bitch boi wasn’t at all keen to play three in a bed, but that made no difference. I held the bitch while Bessie wielded her cane, and by the time she’d finished, the wimp was almost begging us to fuck it!’

My left hand roved over soft, warm sissy-girl flesh, occasionally squeezing and nipping as the mood took me, while Baby squirmed and squeaked at every cruel pinch. It was hard to imagine the soft, submissive bitch ever showing any backbone. You only had to look at her, and she began to tremble. But then, unlike the ponies she’d lived with full-time in the old farmhouse with her Mistress and Master, hadn’t she! That thought sent a slight shiver through me, thinking back to Bessie and her ‘training’ abilities!

Indeed, I found it hard to recognise her as the youth she’d once been. The face was decidedly feminine, expertly enhanced with powder, cream and paint. The bitch looked a damn site sexier than some of those so-called orange-faced ‘influencers’ you see on YouTube and similar sites. Even the artificially bloated, glossy pink lips looked better than those social media types sported. A DIY job, Bessie had told me with a certain degree of pride. She’d bought all the gear, enhanced those luscious lips herself, and was duly proud of what she’d achieved with her injection needle or whatever it was she’d used. I hadn’t pursued the subject, as talk of needles chilled my blood! I wasn’t likely to faint when I went for a blood test, but neither was I one who could watch the needle going into my arm either.

I couldn’t help but agree with her self-assessment, though. The bitches’ puffed-up lips didn’t look overly unnatural, and when taken with her feminine features, blue eyes, and overlong false eyelashes, she did look pretty darn good. Her wardrobe, such as Bessie permitted, only added to that impression: ultra-feminine, abbreviated maids' outfits, sexy lingerie, and always heels and stockings, but never any knickers. My naturally built-in homophobia was taking a back seat the more I groped, and anyway, those luscious lips had certainly kept me happy last night, hadn’t they! All cats look black in the dark, as the old saying goes, so what did it matter!

The bitch even moved like a girl. I mean, if I didn’t know, I wouldn’t have guessed, not without seeing that ‘extra’ in its cage that also restrained his balls. His ‘unwanted bits’ as Bessie dismissively derided them. Certainly not wanted by her or Robbie anyway! The way they’d fixed him up meant that he even had to pee like a girl; I’d seen the bitch doing it on the house toilet. A privilege she was allowed but only so long as the door remained fully open! Privacy was not an option for Baby; she shared the main bedroom with her owners, usually in the same king-sized bed or on the rug beside them.

I slipped my hand down a warm, soft thigh, then under an elastic suspender, mischievously plucking it upward and letting it snap back. Silly, and it probably didn’t even hurt, but it amused me, so I did it twice more, delighting in the way she wriggled. No panties, of course, just sexy black stockings and suspenders plus the rest of the sexy maid get-up. “Our gorgeous little bitch never wears them”, Robbie had told me. “Mind you, the girl has probably got a bigger wardrobe than my Bessie has, not that she’d ever wear that skimpy stuff and those killer heels. Every time I go to the village, I seem to be picking up another parcel full of frillies that Bessie’s ordered for the bitch. Nine tenths of the gunk on the dressing table is hers as well. Still, she’s not a bad looker, is she, in all the war paint?”

Not bad at all, I thought, giving the soft flesh another proprietary squeeze. Another example of Bessie’s reductional skills, you might say. How long had it taken the bitch to learn the art of face-painting, to wear heels so sexily, and to become not so much the parody of a sexy French maid as almost the real thing! My fingers could also trace the marks on those shapely thighs, not too long, I would have imagined, if she’d been living twenty-four-seven with Bessie and her whips and canes!

I absently tore off a piece of crust and tossed it down for Bozo. I’d run out of chicken skin, having eaten most of the second leg I’d brought out. I’d seen Robie in action with the dog, but never with Baby. I’d heard the poor thing being taken more than once in the adjoining master bedroom, vigorously taken, going by the noise and volume of the squeals. In this case, it was the master bedroom with a capital M.

I eyed the lowly dog, wondering how long it had taken Bessie to reduce the… the thing inside that furry suit to such a cringing cur. Another family member, unfortunate enough to share the house with her. It looked human, and yet it did not. That doggie headpiece and tight-fitting suit disguised its humanity far more than the simple harness and hoof boots of the ponies. Despite the way they lived, and the pony tack they wore, they still looked human, whereas… I tossed it another piece of crust, thinking about them. I’d fucked three of the ponies already, hadn’t I, and wondered if the fact that they still looked human was the reason. So far, I’d felt not the slightest desire to … well, in a sense, it would feel more like bestiality to fuck that thing as it would to perform a male-on-male sex act. Not that it seemed to worry Robbie in any way. It was always short and savage when he took Bozo, using the poor thing for instant relief, whereas with Baby, at least through the bedroom wall, it was more prolonged, more…I smiled to myself. No, not loving, that would be entirely the wrong word for the lengthier sessions going by those squeals!

I gave Baby’s bottom another hard squeeze, eliciting yet another delightful squeak. Then again, my prejudices were fading, were they not? Plus, there was that infinitely satisfying feeling of… absolute and total mastery over the poor, helpless things. Christ, that was a major high in itself. Was that how rapists felt, I wondered, especially those who planned such things rather than acting on impulse, probably fuelled by excess alcohol at the annual office party or high school dance? Was it that high, that power trip, the act of dominance rather than the sex act itself, that those criminal types were seeking through such savage sexual assaults?

I must admit I was enjoying my simple lunch, all the more so because of the hapless company, both near and far. I say far, but the five watching ponies were only a couple of yards away, like a quintet of half-starved, drooling puppies, their eyes desperate as each portion of my simple meal travelled from plate to mouth, their longing almost palpable in its intensity. They were drooling too, an inevitable side effect of those harsh mouth bits that stifled all comprehensible human speech. Sheesh! Six months with one of those in your mouth! I was doing it yet again, wasn’t I? I couldn’t seem to get it out of my head that they were there, that they were real and had been so for six long months!

I’d initially felt a spurt of irritation, almost intimidation, when I’d started my lunch, with five pairs of eyes fixed on me, peering intently from behind the straps of their head bridles, but that had soon passed. Jeez, old Dopey himself, the herd stallion, would probably have got down on his knees and sucked my cock dry for a wedge of cheese or a few mouthfuls of roast chicken. Now that would be absolute mastery of the savage beast, would it not! Robbie had surprised me that first night when I’d asked him which pony he preferred to fuck. I’d been surprised when he’d named the big stallion. I’d expected him to name one of the four female animals.

He’d shrugged, given me a sideways, sheepish look, and added, “Can’t really explain why, but it just is. Before we got this lot, I’d never… well, you know, had those kinds of inclinations. Maybe it’s to do with him being the big guy, the previous head honcho and all that. It’s kind of hard to explain, but when I've got him fastened down and dropped my pants, that look in his eyes when he knows what's coming,” he paused, shrugged, then gave me a slow wink. “Hell, Laddie, maybe you should give him a try, and mayhap you’ll see what I mean!”

I chewed thoughtfully, pondering what he’d said as I ran a possessive hand over Baby’s whip-scarred buttocks, revelling in the sensation as the bitch boi quivered under my touch. Robbie had added, “Plus of course the big unruly bastard is never going to get used to it, or accept it, which adds considerably to my fun!” I nodded to myself as I squeezed that soft, trembling flesh; yup, it sure did. I’d really enjoyed the soft, sweet sensations of the bitch’s talented mouth the previous evening. The active tongue and sensuous lips that had so enticed, encouraged, and finally drained my eager manhood. But the pleasure was entirely one way, and the owner of the tongue and lips wasn’t enjoying the experience one bit, I sensed!

Understandable under the circumstances. Apparently, the poor lad had desperately tried to explain to his captors that first night that he wasn’t like that, not gay or anything like that. “That’s okay, bitch, neither am I,” Robbie had cheerfully told the struggling youth, who’d been stripped, soundly beaten, and then dressed in frilly feminine finery for the first time. Then he’d raped the embryonic bitch boi for the first time, and I must admit that, as I fondled that helpless, cringing flesh, I could understand the attraction.

I eyed the cringing figure of Bozo, poised, ready to catch with his mouth any scrap of chicken I tossed his way, but I doubted it was hunger or eagerness for a treat; more likely, he dared not do otherwise. Bessie often tossed him a bit of food, either off her dinner plate or when she was preparing a meal. I’d seen the poor mutt catch and gobble up a bit of uncooked bacon rind the other day. Now, with big Dopey over there, a bit of cooked chicken skin might well be a rare treat, as might my bread, butter and cheese. What would he do for such a treat, I wondered. I’d seen Baby fellating Robbie several times and Bozo doing likewise once, but Dopey? No, I decided, that would be a step too far—the equivalent of the old circus trick of the tamer putting his head in the lion's mouth. I shook my head, no, and I doubted even if the big bastard was permanently living in the house like the other two, Bessie’s savage influence wouldn’t go that far!

No, that was not a risk I’d care to take, and I doubted Robbie would either. Indeed, my friend had already answered that question. Never take liberties with any of them, especially that recalcitrant big bugger. Double- and treble-check that bastard is well secured before doing anything to or with him, he’d told me. Yeah, and he’d been secured over that hurdle the day I’d arrived, hadn’t he, presumably, to serve his Master's pleasure, from what Robbie had said.

I was keenly aware of all those eyes following every morsel of food from the plate to my mouth, to the point that it was almost tangible. So much for a stable life and stable food, I thought, though of course I shouldn’t be surprised; I’d helped feed them and had seen what Bessie fed the poor things day after day. The woman was an excellent, if simple, cook, and this bread was superb; she baked at least every other day, or so it seemed. Unfortunately for her ponies, that culinary excellence didn’t extend to the stable. Bozo, being conveniently to hand, benefited from scraps and leftovers, which were regularly added to his doggie biscuits and tinned food. Likewise, Baby, as kitchen helper, tended to eat the same food as her Master and Mistress, although in moderation, the only perk they allowed the young bitch.

I’d hitched my work team, one by one, to the rusted but still substantial metal rail that ran alongside an old cast-iron water trough. I looked at it now, wondering how the hell they had got that thing all the way out here, back when it had presumably been cast as a single solid piece, and why they’d bothered. It was about eight feet long and must have weighed… well, a hell of a lot. It was the sort of Victorian relic you might come across, preserved in London and similar cities, a spot where the famed Hansom cabs or whatever watered their horses as they queued to await customers in the metropolis. Somewhat out of place in these rural surroundings?

Bessie and Robbie had salvaged it by clearing away the accumulated debris around it, scrubbing it clean, and fixing the old hand pump mounted on one end. “Bit of luck there,” Robbie had told me. “We inherited a heap of crap in that outhouse, and would you believe, I found an old wax paper packet with a couple of leather washers in it that fitted the bloody thing. Might have been made for it. Probably were,” he added. “Damn useful, though. It saves carrying water from the house all the time, and the pressure is piss useless for a normal hosepipe. Fortunately, we inherited a big old, galvanised tank in the stable that we use for the wet area. Had to patch it up, seal a few rust holes, and give it a few coats of the right paint, but it holds. I fitted a small electric pump to fill it. It’ll do for a couple of years, and then God knows… it’d be a major job to replace it up in the rafters, and what the hell would we do with the bloody beasts while it were being done! Still, cross bridges when we come to them, eh, Laddie!”

The long, rusty old rail by the trough was Bessie’s favourite spot for hitching her two-legged equines if they were in the farmyard, and I’d automatically follow suit. It was convenient, meant less hassle than messing about with individual water bottles, and was also a damn sight more natural for the beasts, her words, not mine. You could take that remark with a large, a very large, pinch of salt, I mused, watching as young Damson bobbed down and dipped her face into the trough. I mean, she was still visibly very human, was she not! They were all bitted, but while that device might render any attempt at speech unintelligible, it wasn’t exactly watertight, and they’d all learned the trick of drinking while so hampered.

“Probably better for them like that,” Bessie remarked with a degree of satisfaction the first time I watched. “Small amounts, not great gulps, no matter how thirsty the critters are, plus it serves to remind them of what they are now!”

I could grasp the second part of that statement, but as for the first? I’d no idea then or now what she’d meant or why ‘great gulps’ wouldn’t have been a good idea. Offhand, I could think of no medical reason, but then I was not a doctor, nor was I experienced in equine management. My concern would have been far more focused on the liquid in the antique water trough and the floating detritus. I’d even raised that with Robbie, not the trough’s contents, but the stuff I was drinking and washing with at the house.

“Probably the same underground spring, Laddie,” he’d told me. “I had it checked by a water engineer before we bought the place. He was a young fella, but he seemed to know his stuff and gave us the green light—high-quality mountain spring water. We could probably make a fortune if we bottled it and sold it to idiots willing to pay through the nose for it. Even so, there are a couple of filters in the system, and we change them every three months, as he advised.”

“And the ponies, that trough you draw their water from, and they drink from, is that also filtered?” I asked.

He’d nodded. “Ah, now I ken where yer coming from, Laddie. No, not that I know of. Didn’t even think to ask the fellow to look at it while he was here. I mean, it was half-buried in muck then, and it was only later, after we’d got settled in, that we took a good look at the thing, and that was more along the lines of how the hell do we get rid of the bloody thing!”

“So why didn’t you?”

“Because I didn’t have any dynamite handy, that’s why! Hell, have you seen the size of the bloody thing! I was considering, not too enthusiastically, yer ken, a sledgehammer, it being cast iron and all, and that’s fairly brittle. Then ma Bessie pointed out it could be useful, given why we’d bought this place. Food for thought, eh?”

I took a bite of the hunk of cheese and chewed thoughtfully. I couldn’t argue with that. They’d certainly restored it to its intended use, not that I’d care to sample what it contained. The water was about thirty centimetres deep, and although it was clear, or more aptly, clearish, it had a definite greenish tinge. Maybe it was the old pump and pipework, or the trough itself. The water looked okay when you worked the pump handle, bloody cold but clear, but once in the trough it looked less so. Maybe if it had been boiled first, but there was no way I’d fancy putting my face into that stuff, no matter how hot and thirsty I was.

Fortunately, I didn’t have to, I thought, taking a swig from my beer bottle. Some local brand, judging by the label, which featured a red dragon and was mostly printed in Welsh, making it unreadable to me. The language was like German, with twice as many letters per word as in other languages, or so it seemed, and equally unpronounceable! It tasted okay and was cold, which, not being a beer connoisseur, was all I required of the stuff. Dopey raised his head from the trough and stood erect, glaring at me, which made it taste all the better. I was tempted to acknowledge him with the bottle but decided against it. He was a mere animal, after all, so why should I salute the fucker!

It wasn’t just that greenish tinge that put me off; like any open body of water, be it a large lake or merely a small rain puddle, other things tended to settle on its surface. Assorted detritus that slowly became waterlogged and either sank to the bottom or lingered en route. Dust, bits of wind-blown vegetation, and drowned insects. Thus, there was more to that green hue than just what put me off about water quality. Ponies, however, had no choice, especially not with Bessie standing behind them, encouraging them to drink their fill. I gathered that quite a lot of encouragement had been needed in their early days, but no longer. Drinking had become automatic once hitched and should be regarded by such animals as a privilege, not a right; plus, they’d be foolish to ignore the opportunity, especially on a warm day like today.

Hardly surprising, given I’d worked them hard for several hours and they’d all been sweating and panting heavily into their bits as they strained in their harnesses to haul those heavy blocks and avoid the whip. It was their choice once I’d hitched them: drink their fill or stay thirsty. I wasn’t pressurising them. Needless to say, I’d hardly finished securing the last one before her face was in that old trough, along with the rest of the herd! Yeah, maybe Bessie had been right. What was more natural than seeing such a creature, or creature as she intended, with its head in a water trough, drinking its fill!

Plumb had been the last to be hitched, and I’d stood there for a moment, putting appetite aside and contemplating the nubile young filly in all her harnessed and available glory. At eighteen, she was the youngest member of the little herd, and so far I’d only enjoyed her pussy once, and all too briefly, satiating that other appetite of mine, I recalled. I’d been far too excited; likewise, my little buddy downstairs, having eagerly entered via the front door, was hardly over the threshold, so to speak, before letting the young filly have both barrels, as it were, in shooting lingo! I was certainly owed another, far longer ride in this one’s saddle!

Plumb wore the same simple black leather harness as the other female equines, ultra-secure but nothing fancy. “No silver bells, whistles and fancy fittings,” Robbie had pointed out. “They’ll be earning their keep in the fields, not prancing about and wiggling their rumps in some silly pony show ring… besides, where and to whom would we show the buggers anyway, eh?” he’d finished with a chuckle.

A fair point. Apart from me, who else would they have shown them to? I considered myself damn lucky to receive such an invitation. I felt privileged and honoured by the trust my friends were showing me, especially as they were, what you might call, only occasional acquaintances! I mean, yes, we’d always got on well together, but given our differing occupations and lifestyles, we’d hardly lived in each other’s pockets before they retired to this remote place.

I assumed he was drawing my attention to the dull, heavy, restrictive harness leather their ponies wore 24/7. It was utilitarian, and, assuming they’d bought new harnesses, it already looked somewhat dull and careworn from constant use. Yeah, I thought, worn constantly, for I didn’t need to ask whether any of them had been out of their harness tack since they’d first been fitted with their new…new outfits! Given their circumstances, that would have been a silly question, and I wasn’t going to make myself look a fool by asking it! The ponies were permanently tacked up twenty-four-seven, and it didn’t come off even when they were being hosed down or groomed in the wet area.

That was doubtless why the leather looked so dull, unlike the glossy stuff models wear in fetish mags and the like. As Robbie had said, they weren’t show ponies, and my friends weren’t going to spend time and energy polishing the cruel garments, if garments was the right term, to a glossy shine. I did ask Robbie about the life expectancy of such kit under the circumstances. I mean, it was pretty damn tough leather, heavily stitched, nothing cheap or skimpy about it, but I doubted anyone who had made it had truly intended it for full-time use in a ‘farm work’ environment. It wouldn’t last forever, though, would it?

“Aye, that’s a fair question, and I won’t deny that ma Bessie and I have talked about it,” Robbie admitted, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Best stuff we could find anywhere,” he added, tapping Dopey’s bridle simply because he happened to be the nearest at the time. “Heavy-duty, proper harness leather and waxed stitching. Had it all made to special order. Costs a packet just to fit one of the critters, let alone five plus spares. But worth it to keep this brute and his herd suitably restrained. Not getting out of this lot anytime soon, are you, boy? You’ve certainly tried,” he laughed. “Oh my, how they’ve all tried!”

Dopey, of course, hadn’t answered, not coherently, anyway, thanks to the bit in his mouth. The muted noise he’d made could have meant anything, not that it mattered, as Robbie tapped on the leather harness with his fingers again. “We keep an eye on it, of course, more to check that nothing's coming loose than for the bloody beast's fit and comfort!”

I’d smiled at that, suspecting that comfort wasn’t anywhere near the top of Bessie's list of priorities for her livestock. In fact, I doubt it even featured on the list! I opened my mouth, but Robbie anticipated my question.

“Five years is my bet before Dopey here will have to get used to breaking in a nice new set of stiff leather tack. Won’t that be fun, eh, boy?” He patted the big stallion's rump in a very possessive manner.

Dopey let out another couple of strangled sounds that were definitely negative, even given his oral impediment, which made both Robbie and me chuckle. I could imagine the poor things' discomfort. I hated breaking in a new pair of shoes, let alone… I gave the stallion a quick North/South appraisal. Bridle to hoof boots, via posture, collar, armbinder and harness tack. Yeah! I couldn’t even begin to imagine the discomfort of wearing that get-up, and that in itself was pretty minor when you added in Bessie, Robbie and all the rest of it, and five years! No wonder it had made those strangled noises. It was….

“Dubbin” Robbie interrupted my chain of thought.

“Eh, dubbing?” I wondered what the hell he was talking about

“No! Not Dubbing, Laddie. That’s what record producers and film sound people do! I mean” Dubbin, yer ken? IN not ING, Tch!”

My face must have mirrored my confusion, for he scowled at me, shook his head, and stomped off to open a cupboard. He returned holding a small jar, which he waved in my face. “Dubbin, Laddie. Dubbin wax for boots and such like. Have you no heard of it?”

I shook my head to admit my ignorance, and he relaxed. “Ah well, not something you come across much these days, though you can still get it. It’s mostly used on hiking boots and similar footwear to protect the leather from the elements and keep it supple. Bessie and I always used it on our boots back when we were courting and walking the glens and lochs at the weekend back home, when we were young,” he finished with a sigh, then laughed and gave Dopey's rump a vicious squeeze. “Not that we haven’t found some consolations in our old age!”

I grinned. “You're not that old; I saw you with… with this one's brother-in-law last night before supper, teaching that old dog new tricks!”

Robbie chuckled. “True, and that wasn’t a new trick so far as Bozo goes, not by any means for him. Pity I didn’t have this lot around when I was a randy wee bairn. A right wank-free zone it’d have been! Anyway, back to this stuff, we rub it into the leather, and that’ll help protect it when we wash them down or when they get rained on and what have you. That’s why this fucker’s outfit has gone a bit dull, lost its gloss, but this wax will be better than fart-arising about with polish and a brush in the long run and less of a hassle.”

I watched Robie return the little jar to the cupboard, then gave Dopey a friendly grin and a wink, which he naturally didn’t reciprocate, his mouth already stretched into a sort of permanent grin by his bit, and the only thing his eyes did was gaze fixedly at me with undisguised hatred. Quite chilling, or would have been had he not been wearing all that ‘Dubbin with an in on the end’ impregnated tack.

Plumb had finished drinking and was anxiously twisting back and forth in front of me, aware of my proximity and, no doubt, wondering what I intended to do as I stood there, thinking back to that conversation with Robbie. Given that, up to that moment, I’d been somewhat distracted, her nervous antics were probably the worst thing she could have done. Far better to have stood statue-like rather than draw my attention to her firm young rump and the tightly cinched strap cutting deeply between her pussy lips. Being in a generous mood, she was not accommodating an intruding plug there from the generous selection Bessie kept on a shelf near the stalls. Well, admittedly I hadn’t even thought of doing that to her or to any of them, not yet, anyway!

Dopey could consider himself lucky in that respect. True, his stallion bits were securely locked away in stainless steel to prevent him from ever getting an erection, which no doubt caused him some discomfort at times. Then again, given his situation, I couldn’t envisage anything that might cause him so much as a twitch unless he was an out-and-out masochist, which he clearly wasn’t. Like the females, his rectum was permanently plugged with one of the ‘shit-tube’ tails, but he didn’t have a frontal opening to be ‘plugged’ should his cruel owners decide to do that.

The females could, of course, be plugged frontally and sometimes were. I’d watched Bessie subject Cream to a sizeable dildo one morning for no reason other than she could, and it amused her to do so. I suspected it was for my benefit as well—another demonstration of her absolute control and authority over the poor things. I’d watched in fascination as Bessie led the poor animal from its stall to the centre of the barn and casually told Cream she was to spend the morning plugged!

“No reason, I just feel like doing it, and it’s been a while since this one had something to keep her mind off her work, and I thought you might be interested!” Bessie casually tossed it over with a wicked giggle in my direction as she clipped a dangling lead to Cream’s posture collar. While I might be new to the procedure, it was clear that the mare wasn’t. The poor thing danced and hopped about within the limits of that leash to her neck collar. It stretched way up into the rafters, and I couldn’t see where it was attached. Not at first, anyway. Then I realised it must run through a pulley, and that rope over there tied off around a cleat was probably the same one.

I did not doubt what Bessie intended to do to the poor thing. Likewise, it was clear that the handsome mare was equally aware of Bessie’s evil intentions. The mare was distraught, hopping from one hoof to the other, writhing and twisting as though she thought she could escape the situation. Cream could see where Bessie was standing, looking right and left before a shelf laden with various sex toys, to the point that it would have made most sex shops’ displays look mean and sparse. No wonder she was hesitating. Talk about spoilt for choice! Likewise, looking at the size of some of those things, I could understand why poor Cream was visibly panicking!

Choice made, Bessie returned holding a large pink, ribbed object, looking about as well… no more concerned than she had been while perusing the root vegetable aisle at the local supermarket, carrying what she’d selected back to her trolley. Me, I was the exact opposite, suddenly hot, my cock leaping to ramrod attention in my pants. Hell, never mind that plastic or rubber thing, I’d have gleefully plugged the gorgeous, agitated animal myself there and then!

Maybe it was my expression, the hot flush, the bulge in my trousers, or perhaps all three, but Bessie suddenly threw her head back and let out a loud guffaw. “Down, Boy,” she chortled cheerfully. “Save your strength; it’s far too early in the day for that sort of thing. Let's have a little decorum, please. I mean, we don’t want to startle poor Cream here, do we? She’ll have other things to worry about!” she finished with a wicked chuckle, patting the agitated Mare’s right breast and waving that sizeable phallus in front of the animal's bridled face.

Fat chance, I thought. True, the mare had thrown a few desperate glances in my direction as she hopped from hoof to hoof, but what did it think I could, or for that matter, would do for her, silly animal! But so far as my cock was concerned, I could have pulled it out and wanked myself off on the spot, and I doubt Cream would even have noticed, for all she had eyes for was her owner and mistress and those things on that shelf!

“Tch!” Bessie clicked her tongue and slapped that generously proportioned breast hard. “Calm down and stop being so silly before I get angry, and we won’t want that, will we?” There was an ominously grim tone to her voice. I wasn’t the only one to notice it, and Cream immediately stopped prancing, although I doubted she was any calmer. An angry Bessie was something she definitely didn’t want! I could understand that, for to date Bessie had seemed remarkably calm most of the time when dealing with her livestock.

Calmness didn’t mean kindness, though, as I’d observed. Cream was trembling all over, and it wasn’t because she was cold despite being virtually naked. I’d witnessed the offhand and savage punishment dealt out by my otherwise sweet and motherly friend, but anger? Doubtlessly, in those early days of their training, the herd had collectively angered their new owners. Perfectly understandable. Even reasonable under the circumstances, although I’d bet Bessie hadn’t seen it that way. I know how I’d have felt about being treated so inhumanly and indeed, denied my very humanity, and I wondered if Bessie had any thoughts along those lines. Probably not, for she and Robbie had been lusting after owning their own two-legged pony for... well, for a good long time, and when that family arrived, tired and lost, in their remote farmyard. Yeah, like pound signs clicking up in the eyes of an avaricious shopkeeper at the entry of a new and naive customer, those in my host’s eyes must have rung up ‘Ponies’ the moment they stepped out of their oversized vehicle. “Kerchungggggg!”

“What?” Bessie looked around, startled. “What’s got into you? Stop making silly noises. Come and help me give this silly creature a nice treat. And you, stop your silly snivelling, you stupid, ungrateful animal. We both know where this big thing is going, and we both know there is nothing you can do about it, and I’m going to make sure your crotch strap is extra tight!” Bessie had been speaking to Cream, but it was me she winked at and waved that big pink phallus.

Back to the present, I glanced across at young Plumb, realising I hadn’t checked whether any of them were similarly plugged, as I knew my hosts often did that as an additional punishment, leaving them suitably uncomfortable overnight. ‘Front and backing’, Robbie called it. Surely, though, I’d have noticed while exercising them, but then again, maybe not. Bessie had a variety of toys and didn’t always go for the largest and fastest, or so she’d told me. Jesus, I shivered. Talk about the degree of control, total control over the poor things! Poor Cream, she’d had no choice when Bessie had slid that monster into her and yanked that cruel strap tight.

Unlike her slightly older cousin Damson, young Plumb apparently had not been a Virgin before she arrived at the farm, but, in Robbie's words, a nice, tight little Filly where it counted. I wondered why I’d left her till last and as yet unsampled, perhaps a subconscious act on my part? Maybe I was just into older women, given I’d had both her mother and her aunt a couple of times, and Damson, being unsullied, was off limits, cunt-wise, anyway. Bessie and Robbie were saving her for a ‘rainy day’, although I had no idea what that meant, nor did they, probably!

I shrugged, whatever. It didn’t matter, and I’d soon make amends for that lapse. Overall, she was perhaps slightly below average height for a female, with a shapely yet toned body and small, pert breasts, their prominent upturned pink nipples as inviting to the eye as her pert, whip-scarred buttocks, which I admired for most of the morning. She wore the hobble chains I’d clipped to the top of her knee-length hoof boots as I’d gone along the line after hitching them, adding that final touch, ever mindful of the ‘belt and braces’ approach to pony management.

I’d joked about it over dinner one night. The subject of animal security had come up again, and I’d questioned their evident fixation. It hadn’t come out quite as I’d intended, and I’d felt a bit foolish, as the last thing they wanted was for one of their livestock to get loose. Robbie had stopped eating, his fork midway between plate and mouth, and had waved it at me.

“Aye, Laddie, very foolish of us, no doubt. But think on it. You’ve been here, seen the beasts, and enjoyed what they have to offer. Do you think that if one or more of those fuckers gets loose and blabs, we’ll be standing in the dock on our lonesome, eh? You won’t need to come along to the local gaol to see us on visiting day, because you’ll be there yourself… and for a hell of a long time!” He finished with a solemn wink and popped the forkful of steak and kidney pie into his mouth.

A sobering thought, was it not? I glanced at the row of tethered ponies and couldn’t help but smile to myself. Yeah, life interned as a guest of Her Majesty, as they put it, his majesty now, I reminded myself, and idly wondered whether the monarchs had ever visited a prison? New buildings, shopping centres, hospitals, factories, and ship launches, etc., by the dozen, but I could recall no visits to any of the establishments where the inmates were ‘detained at his majesty’s pleasure’, as the old-fashioned phrase went.

My smile, though, was one of sympathy as I considered Dopey and his family, incarcerated at Bessie and Robbie’s pleasure, quite literally, and under conditions that would have horrified the penal reform society two centuries ago, let alone today. By comparison, life in a modern prison would be… well, not heaven, as I was about to say, but, in an odd sense, almost normal compared to the life those poor creatures led!

I glanced up at the sky, then down at my watch, then contemplated the beer bottle. It wasn’t that I was feeling lazy, more a sense of… contentment, satisfaction, of… something I couldn’t quite put into words. Maybe if I’d been a poet or something similar, but that side of English Literature had never made much of an impression on me at school. I enjoyed a good film, an entertaining book, and similar things, but in general had no interest in the performing arts, or, I suppose, the passive arts. Theatre, ballet, opera, poetry, and some of the so-called quality literature left me cold. Give me Tom Clancy or Sherlock Holmes any day, a decent film or an immersive open-world video game and keep your other ‘highbrow’ stuff.

I decided against another beer. I wasn’t by any means a big or even a regular drinker, and the bottle I had was still a quarter full. Besides, I was disinclined to move just yet. A feeling of lassitude had overcome me, and I was loath to disturb it, not quite yet. The sun was warming my face, and a not-too-pushy breeze blew intermittently, which, for once, was refreshing rather than damp and chilly! I’d enjoyed my simple lunch, the morning's activities, and now watching the hapless ponies standing in a row. There was more to come, a lot more.

It wasn’t a case of God being in heaven and all being well with the world, but one of… I paused to amend that thought along the lines of my earlier one as I contemplated the ponies and grinned. So far as those fuckers were concerned, God was sitting at this picnic table, a bottle of beer in his hand and a coiled whip within easy reach. One they’d all felt numerous times already, and the day was yet young. My heaven and their hell and… six months. Funny how, every time I looked at or thought about them, that came into my mind. Jeez, how their lives had changed. By the time I went home, back to London, it would be nearer seven months in captivity than six.

Back to London, back to the office. Sheesh, what a depressing thought. I’d already stretched my week to a fortnight and was barely halfway through my holiday, but still… I sighed. It was a hell of a long way to come for a weekend, with that awful, virtually unnavigable track at the end. Maybe in a couple of months, I’d manage a long weekend. I stared at the five human beasts opposite without seeing any of them, thinking hard. The E-type was in pretty good nick, wasn’t it, and worth a few bob, plus I hardly ever used it. Sell it and get a Four-Wheel Drive, maybe—plenty of them about, even in London. ‘Chelsea Taxies’ was the derogatory name for such vehicles in the capital. Who the hell needed a Four-Wheel Drive for the school run when you lived in the city or even in the suburbs with an excellent public transport system?

My cock twitched at the idea of spending more time here, as if nudging my chain of thought. It had been straining my trousers almost to the point of discomfort for much of the morning, despite my letting it sample the local air, so to speak, and cool its ardour a couple of times. Imagine doing that on Oxford Street on a busy Saturday morning, or at any time, come to that! Something extra for the Japanese tourists to focus their Nikons on, and likewise a change for the cops from arresting pickpockets.

I grinned to myself, something to remember when I returned to the city and civilisation. Better not make it a habit! I could hardly head to work with it sticking out of my trousers, no matter how randy I might feel. Not without the firm hand of the law descending on my shoulder. Not that there would have been any point, for unlike this delightful place, there wouldn’t be any readily available holes to plunge my cock into whenever I felt like it!

Maybe it was a belated twinge of conscience kicking in, but I automatically glanced out of the farmyard and down the track back to the village. At one time, there had probably been a policeman stationed there, but years of economic cuts by various governments had long since ended such rural practices. Police houses and stations had been sold off across the country, not just in villages. The local foot ‘bobby’ walking his beat had long since disappeared into local myth. Come to that, I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d seen one on foot in London, other than posing with tourists in Trafalgar Square.

The nearest town was about thirty miles away, so the chances of the authorities calling in were virtually zero, which gave me a comfortable sense of security. Something else my friends had presumably taken into account when they’d purchased this place to enact their long-held evil fantasy. I almost felt sorry for Dopey and his family over there, the one place in the country where getting lost was not a good idea, or calling in after having become lost, with less than zero chance of the cavalry showing up to rescue you! Jesus, what a depressing thought if you happened to be hitched to that rusty old rail over there.

My phone went off at that moment, startling me, and I pulled it out of my trouser pocket, noting with relief that it was Robbie calling, not my boss, who was suddenly pining for my company. His news was both good and bad, though the latter was hardly bad for me. The bad news was that Bessie’s old school friend was worse than they’d expected, and they were going to stay away another night if that was alright with me. The good news was that that was perfectly fine with me. I couldn’t help grinning over at the quintet of ponies awaiting round two, as it were. In one sense, if I took a certain view, it was technically good news all round for me, not that I wished ill, or rather any greater ill, upon Bessie’s old friend! However, it did mean one more night and one more day of sole control for me, and that was… I grinned, unable to fully express my feelings at that thought as I listened to Robbie's sincere apologies for the imposition.

Perfectly alright with me, I assured him several times, resisting the temptation to suggest they could take as long as they liked and trying to keep my voice at least neutral, even though it wanted to scream ‘Yeehaaaa’ at full blast! No, I’d have no problems with the livestock and was perfectly capable of doing the necessary, including feeding and anything else. I’d had a few days now, hadn’t I, to learn the routines, and yes, likewise all the security precautions. Yes, I knew: belt and braces at all times; never cut corners or take chances; and never assume they were fully trained and tamed. Yes, think wild and dangerous at all times! My love to Bessie, and I hope her friend improves, etc. Don’t worry about me; things are perfectly under control this end. That was the gist of our brief conversation.

Robbie, I think, had been less concerned with the basics of animal husbandry and more with security, which, given my recent train of thought, was understandable. The last thing they’d want, after setting everything up so well, was a pony or one of the others running loose. Mind you, in a sense, that was an amusing thought. How would the authorities treat such an unlikely and bizarre tale of woe? I wondered, letting my imagination run free, and then I remembered all the scars and marks they carried, which might make the authorities find their woeful tale far more credible and disturbing.

Crazy how the world had changed, I thought, shoving my phone back into my trouser pocket. Not a chance in hell of seeing a copper around here, yet I could get a decent mobile signal, though some of that tech at the house helped with that! Isolated and cut off in one sense, yet not in another. I’d watched a documentary on remote British island territories not long before, those places so remote they have no airport and depend on a three-monthly supply boat. Yet, they can access the same stuff online as if they were in a major city. Weird, wasn't it? I shook myself and looked back at the ponies.

They were all looking at me, the five ponies, and I sensed the other two family members would be doing the same. Baby and Bozo would have heard everything I’d said, probably not Robbie, for he spoke in a naturally low voice with his soft Scottish accent, and the speaker on my phone wasn’t that great. Nor did I ever have it anywhere near full volume. The ponies, likewise, weren’t that far away, so probably yes, on my end, for I was one of those people who tended to speak into my phone slowly and a tad too loud, as if talking to an elderly, slightly deaf relative. Anyway, so what! It changed nothing so far as they were concerned. Hell, another twenty-four hours beyond the range of Bessie’s ‘caring’ touch had to be a bonus for the poor fuckers. The nearest thing they were likely to get to a holiday!

Like hell, I grinned to myself as I stood up, brushing away more than a few stray crumbs. “Holiday my arse,” I grunted, pointing at the remains of my lunch. “Pick that lot up, girl, then it’s back to the house to get on with the job list your Mistress has left you. Tick off the things you’ve done or think you’ve done so I can check, and I’d better not find any shoddy workmanship, so no slacking!”

I watched her, then followed slowly behind, having freed Bozo from the bench and absently prodding him into movement with a casual kick. My mind was busy making plans and immediately cancelling them. Idiot, I had an extra day, not a month, so stop being overly creative. I also had responsibilities, didn’t I, and while I might have had a pretty free hand, that didn’t mean I could go crazy! I’d shackled Baby back to her ankle chain in the house and likewise Bizo to his big doggie basket, somewhere absent-mindedly. I’d taken but a single step when guilt and common sense prompted me to go back and double-check on each after I’d got no more than a pace or so out into the farmyard.

Only moments earlier, I had assured my host that all was okay and… what was that silly expression my mother used to use? Ah, yes, Tickety-boo! All going well! So, belt and braces, belt and braces, Laddie, I told myself. Double, double check, and no daydreaming on the job or taking shortcuts! All of that took me back to my five unwilling ‘work horses’ and the realisation that I had probably spent most of my lunch break without giving any practical thought to their afternoon work. I looked down the line of delightfully naked harnessed creatures and frowned not so much at the sight, which, as I say, was delightful to my perverted mind.

No, more a question of what I was going to do with them. Those big concrete blocks were neatly back where they’d been when I’d started, and I was disinclined to repeat the exercise. I’d had my fun with the pointless activity, and… well, my body decided for itself how we’d start the afternoon session. As I stood there, considering the five magnificent animals, I gave a shudder that seemed to start and end in my groin, and Mister Stiffie was back with a vengeance! Somehow, I didn’t feel a mere airing in the warm afternoon air was going to quell its ravenous hunger this time!

The only question now was which of the five now-nervous creatures would draw the short straw, or, in this case, the rampant cock? Whose soft, wet, unwilling orifice would accommodate my rampant masculinity? Decisions, decisions. The old joke about the two bulls came to mind, one young and one old. “Look,” the younger one exclaimed. “The farmers left the gate at the bottom open into the field of cows. Let's run down there and do a few of them!”

The old bull continued chewing the cud for a few moments, considering the idea, then shook his head. “Nope, let’s ‘walk’ slowly down there and do the lot!’

Maybe not the lot, I reluctantly conceded. Admittedly, I was at the younger end of the age scale, but five would be a bit of an ask… maybe by the end of the day or by bedtime. Then again, I grinned. There was no time limit on me, was there? Certainly, no gates, open or closed, nor any careless farmer to impede me. One for now, then a little more exercise for my whip arm, then another, and then… well, that could wait!