Tales from the club - Rubber Billy and the Pony Herd.

One.

It’s simply 'the Club,' nothing fancy in terms of a name or title. Whenever we mention or refer to it amongst ourselves, it doesn’t have a proper name, nor does it require one, because we are inherently a diverse and informal group of people. A formal name would be quite unnecessary for our gatherings, and simply calling it the ‘club’ is enough if there’s a need to mention it. It’s just a convenient term for a small yet rather unusual group of people who share certain specialised and somewhat unique interests, shall we say. Interests that differ quite considerably from what other people, such as our neighbours, work colleagues, or even most friends and relations — not to mention mainstream society — might consider normal!

On second thought, the word ‘unusual’ sounds a bit odd, and I don’t mean we all have two heads or anything like that, although to utilise such second thoughts fully, there would be a slight degree of truth in that concept. What’s that word for split personalities, not schizophrenia, but something similar? Or was that it, but now they call it something different? Anyway, I don’t mean we go around thinking we’re one thing one minute, being Mr and Mrs. ordinary, and then the next believing we are Cleopatra, Napoleon, and so forth, like some crazies do or are sometimes depicted as doing.

No, I mean on the surface, we are all nice people, normal next-door type friendly people, always good for lending a cup of sugar or, more likely, the hedge trimmer or lawnmower to a neighbour. Indeed, my wife, Pam, is always in demand locally as a babysitter or childminder; she loves kids, but that niceness and normality hide another part of our personalities. The side that other folk might, indeed, would call the ‘not so nice side’ that is hidden by necessity from all but our fellow ‘club’ members who share the same tastes in owning what you might call, exotic pets, and I’m not talking spiders, lizards or snakes!

No, ours are somewhat larger, but not comparable to tigers, lions, or crocodiles either! Dangerous, undoubtedly, but only if allowed to roam freely! So yes, those tastes or interests, if you like, do set us somewhat apart from the norm. Not, I hasten to add, that we see ourselves as in any way abnormal. Just a little... just a bit different in one aspect of our lives and naturally cautious, very, very wary. In a sense, if I were pedantic, we did have two heads. Or wore two hats, but we made damn sure one of them was always so well hidden it might have been invisible!

As I mentioned, our ‘club’ doesn’t exist in the traditional sense. There’s no dedicated building or clubhouse. We don’t have elected or nominated officials, nor do we collect membership fees, keep records, or minutes—unless you count this unofficial and unapproved little account I’m scribbling for my own amusement. My wife says I’ll likely get us all hanged or worse! Another exaggeration, since capital punishment no longer exists in this country, but I suppose life without the possibility of parole counts as ‘worse’! What do they call them? Whole life terms or sentences, something like that. Perhaps, a lingering, miserable fate worse than death, to use the old cliché. Besides, Pam tends to over-dramatise things, and the ‘club’ has been around for donkey's years.

(Just out of curiosity, I googled that common conversational term, which is all it is and not particularly accurate, given that the lifespan of a donkey is roughly 20-40 years.) Then again, as I am by no means fully conversant with the club's history, perhaps that time span is accurate. I do know that it's unlikely to have been around for hundreds of years, so let's leave it at that. Nor so far as I know has any previous member been hanged or imprisoned on account of it!

Anyway, let’s put that uncomfortable thought aside, shall we? Apart from my wife, none of our fellow club mem—let’s call them friends rather than members—know about my scribbling, which is pure vanity on my part. I’ve always been an enthusiastic diarist with a yen to write, so recording in detail some of our get-togethers seemed like the right thing to do. These meetings, as I said, are very informal, much like this journal — nudge, nudge, wink, wink, say no more. You know what I mean and all that stuff!

Well, you probably don’t, but that’s irrelevant, and I don’t care one way or the other. I do, however, feel it’s important to clarify one thing, or rather, my wife thought it was important that I do. It’s something she feels pretty strongly about, as do probably some of our friends. She thought I ought to emphasise that we are not BAD people. Yes, I know. I kind of did a mental double-take at that and rolled my eyes, which didn’t exactly go down well with Madam, but… well, she wanted it stressed here in black and white that she does not think she is a bad person. A trifle on the eccentric side, maybe, but not bad!

A perfectly normal, and I’d better not be too accurate here if I want to stay out of trouble. Let's say mid-to-late twenties, working wife. Pamela, a lovely, sweet-natured girl, busily preparing some Macaroni cheese for our dinner, even as I write this. Actually, she’s licking cheese sauce off a wooden stirring spoon with a somewhat doubtful expression marring her gorgeous face, if you want me to be specific. Anyway, as I said, a loving sexy wife, a good neighbour and overall sweetheart standing over the hob in her pink plastic Snoopy dog apron.

Although the quietly sobbing figure over there in the corner with the bloody and lacerated backside would no doubt dispute the sweet part, given she’d just savagely thrashed said figure with a long whippy bamboo cane for no other reason than that she could and because she’d had a bad day at work and felt the need for a bit of stress relief. Pam is a teacher of young kids at the local infant school, and no doubt some mischievous junior had pissed her off, or maybe the new head again. A recent appointment, and they didn’t hit it off too well, and so someone else had got hit when she got home, and hit damn hard to work off her foul mood. Of course, that didn’t make her a ‘bad’ person, did it! I mean, even ‘eccentric’ people need to let off steam occasionally!

But then, that was the way of the world, was it not? I kick the dog, the dog chases the cat, and the cat bites the mouse. Not that we had a dog or a cat, and as for mice, well, I’d never seen one, and I expect Pam hadn’t either; otherwise I’d soon know about it. Hell, she can make enough fuss over a tiny spider in the bath! No, we didn't have any conventional pets, but we did own one of the exotic ones I mentioned earlier. A boy, or to be more accurate, a boi, although of course that’s not a strictly accurate description.

In fact, our boi is not a boy at all; he is thirty-nine years old, making him about a decade or so older than Pammy and me. However, to those of us who own such creatures, they are usually called boi’s. It’s odd, considering that those who own girls refer to them as girls and not goils or some similar silly name. Of course, some of them aren’t exactly girls either, in terms of age, like our somewhat mature boi sobbing quietly in the corner.

Mind you, I’d probably be crying after one of Pam’s impromptu beatings, and lord knows how I’d cope with one of her formal ones down in the ‘training room’. Fortunately, I don’t have to, but boi does and has done for nearly three years now. Back then he… well, that doesn’t matter, does it? His life started anew as far as Pam and I are concerned when we acquired him, and of course, he was about as feral as you’d expect him to have been!

All such exotic pets start off feral, of course, which isn’t exactly surprising given the circumstances they find themselves in through no fault of their own. Still, one man’s meat is another man’s poison, as they say, and as a club, we were all absolutely carnivorous in that respect! Figuratively speaking, anyway, since a couple of club members are strict vegetarians, and Pammy isn’t a big meat eater, hence the macaroni cheese for supper. That’s if she can get that cheese sauce right; otherwise, Boi is definitely in for a bad evening!

Boi doesn’t get much meat in his diet either, which is kind of an in-house joke, given Pammy always adds a six-pack of supermarket own-brand doggie chunks to our trolley during the weekly shop. I’ll admit she does vary it—one week in gravy and the next in jelly—but the meat content compared to ‘other stuff’ in those tins is pretty scant. That’s the joke. Of course, he doesn’t rely solely on canned dog food; that would be unnecessarily cruel and, more critically, unhealthy. Pammy uses them to bulk up what she adds to his feeding bowl, but still, even though I wasn’t a ‘picky’ eater, it was a major case of ‘rather him than me!’

It was Pammy who introduced me to the delights of owning exotic pets, and later, membership in the exclusive club or group, if you prefer. Perhaps ‘member’ would be the more correct term to use, as not all of them are ‘friends’ strictly in the usual sense and ‘casual acquaintances’ through mutually shared interests….way too long!

But, back to ‘Exotic Pets’. My sweet girl had grown up with such creatures, which is why she could be far more savage, if that’s the correct term, than I am. To her, it was perfectly normal and nothing out of the ordinary, for her parents had kept a total of three bois and a girl throughout most of her childhood and teenage years. Quite a collection, but then she was the youngest of four siblings — two older brothers, one older sister, and they, like her mum and dad, were very active, with a capital A! That was her little joke, not mine.

I must confess that I’d been more than a little surprised when she casually mentioned how young she’d been when she received a long, whippy crop along with the Barbie doll outfits and other girlie birthday presents. I mean, yes, I knew about her parents and their ‘pets’. Her dad had died in a car crash, sadly, before we got together, and only her elder sister still lived at home with her mum. They still kept a boi and a girl for their amusement, a married couple in their early thirties. Consequently, unlike some husbands, I always enjoyed our visits to my mother-in-law’s place.

It took me a while to get my head around the bizarre situation, and don’t get me wrong. I don’t mean that I wasn’t upset or appalled in any way; I surprised myself as to how open-minded I could be. But it was more about how and why they had them. Nancy, the big sister, had laughed about that when she showed me the two of them in their cages down in the basement. We’d left her mum upstairs in the kitchen peeling potatoes for supper, and I thought that odd when they had these two available for such menial chores.

Pammy and her big sister had laughed at my naivety and kept telling me that they weren’t slaves. People like them didn’t keep them for chores and suchlike. They kept them purely for amusement and entertainment. Sexual and sadistic amusement and entertainment, Nancy had emphasised with a wicked laugh and added she’d show me after supper. Something a little more amusing than coffee and biscuits!

She did put on a show as well as we relaxed on leather sofas in the big lounge, drinking sparkling wine, not coffee. At least she organised the show, and I’ll admit my hand did jump a little, spilling half my wine when she brought them up from the basement. Both were naked apart from thick dog-type collars around their necks, to which the leashes Nancy held were attached as they crawled behind her into the room. The hours that followed were certainly ‘eye-opening’, something Pam had promised and also very satisfying both during and then later when we’d retired to our room by ourselves.

Of course, Pam had been as firm then as she was now, at least when it came to the girl. If Mr Cock wanted to plough pussy, there was only one field it was ever going to get to furrow, as far as she was concerned. Any other plot of the female variety was well out of bounds unless he fancied a bit of severance pay, so to speak! Yeah, the way she’d emphasised ‘severance’ made me share our boy’s view about her ‘sweetness’ whenever I was tempted to cross the boundary, no matter how great the temptation. Having seen her wield whip, cane, and crop, I had no desire for a front-row seat if she ever decided to wield a knife on Mr Cocky and his twin buddies!

That, in a nutshell, (accidental reference there), was why we had a boi and were never likely to own a goil/girl. That’s not to say Pam didn’t swing both ways when the opportunity arose, which was somewhat unfair, I felt, but I had Pam, and she was a damn good fuck. There was also a boi, and he wasn’t bad either, although nothing like as willing or enthusiastic; however, that made him equally as good, in my mind. Hence, that A reference earlier. Pamelas' family were enthusiastic bum bandits, if I can use that crude expression!

Suffice to say that by the end of the first visit to her mum's house, I was already making plans to purchase an engagement ring and planning a capture of my own. God, the sight of Pam wielding that cane over a pair of helpless backsides had been so fucking sexy and stimulating! As it turned out, I could have saved my pennies for Pamela isn’t much of a girl for jewellery and had already eyed the overall herd, so to speak, and decided to cut me out. I’ve no idea why, for she’s a gorgeous girl with a fabulous personality, plus a wicked sense of humour. I mean, I don’t want to put myself down too much, but I suspect there were far better fish in the sea than me. Odd, but I’m not complaining.

Maybe she saw me as a potential ‘club’ member, although I’ve no idea how. I mean, if ‘Joe public’ were to look in from the outside at our friends sitting around drinking wine and eating nibbles without pets, then we might be the local book club or maybe the church roof restoration committee. Come to that, I think Margo is the chairman or chairwoman of the local Anglican church restoration fund. I did ask Pam once why I was the ‘chosen one,’ but all she did was kiss me on the lips, laugh, ruffle my hair, and say, ‘Well, I wasn’t wrong, was I, Sweetie!’

As I recall, we’d been down in the basement playroom and hadn’t had Boi for very long. Both of us stripped for action, and our screaming boi being well striped by Pam. A sight that invariably excites and stimulates me, so I took the matter no further when she stepped back and invited me to do my bit towards breaking the silly creature into his new role. I didn’t need that cane she was holding either, for I had a suitable rod of my own to deprive him of his foolish masculine pride that bit further!

However, let's return to the club and our most recent meeting. As I’ve said, we are a fairly informal bunch and meet in groups of threesomes, foursomes, and so on, but never more than a dozen. Well, I mean, given our interests, you wouldn’t exactly expect a football crowd, would you! We’d gather at someone’s house, all very casual, no big deal, to chat, drink, nibble on snacks and show off the pets that serve our varied ‘special interests’, as it were.

Inevitably, there is a certain amount of what Pam calls, tease, squeeze, and please involved, but that’s only natural. I mean, if you’ve got it or rather own it, then we all like to show it off, don’t we? Again, to use the term naturally, I certainly don’t intend to go into specifics regarding how we come to own such interesting pets—no hows, who’s, or why’s. Well, the 'why' element should be obvious, but as to other specifics, let’s leave sleeping dogs to lie or lay, whatever.

The last gathering was at our place. Within our immediate social circle of ‘members’, there are Bill and Samantha, affectionately known as Sammy. Being the closest in age and interests to us, and living less than a mile away, they are our best friends. Aged twenty-nine and twenty-six respectively, and residing nearby, we often ‘pet sit’ for each other when needed, and Pam is always the first choice for babysitting. They have a lovely three-year-old, and I don’t think it’ll be long before we follow that same path. Pam always comes home from such duties feeling decidedly broody! That's a significant upside for me because it invariably means an early night, but a significant downside for our boi. Pam enjoys a bit of gentle foreplay but really gets the hots if she’s delivered a far from gentle, bum blistering beating before joining me in bed!

Besides, it's not just little Sophia that’s the main attraction, as our friends own a leggy forty-eight-year-old ’ goil’ (sorry, couldn’t resist it!) girl pet, who is quite stunning despite her years. They call her Barbie for obvious reasons, given how much they spend on her each year with a discreet plastic surgery clinic and how much of their girl is artificial. Sammy delights in flashing her cell phone about with its ever-growing picture album of Barbie's progress from faded, dowdy housewife to gorgeous, mature, submissive Baywatch babe via scalpel, silicone, and liposuction, plus a heap of money and painful persuasion.

Then again, Sammy’s dad is a millionaire of the substantial ‘multi’ kind and never refuses her anything nor asks any questions. Not surprisingly, as Sammy tells us, he keeps a collection of rubber-clad boys of varying ages in cages on the luxury mansion he owns on some exotic Caribbean island. Quite uncomfortable for them, I would imagine, given how hot those places can be, regardless of any other demands their owner might place on them!

Then, harking back to our last club meeting, if we’re talking about rubber, there is Ken and Dave, our favourite gay couple. Two lovely guys in their late thirties, and their rubber boy, Billy. Well, they’d hardly have a girl, would they, being so blatantly and unashamedly gay. Billy, of course, isn’t the least bit gay or wasn’t when they acquired him. Apparently, he was ‘of age’ when they acquired him, although we all have unspoken doubts about that, given the emphasis they always tend to put on that phrase, ‘of age’.

“All perfectly legal and above board in that direction, my Sweeties,” Dave had assured us. “I mean, yes, we're perverts but not that perverted, Heavens above! Our sweet little Billy might not have been old enough to vote or fight for his country, but he was certainly old enough to legally fuck…or rather, in his case, be fucked by his new Daddies! “All perfectly permissible and above board in that respect!” Ken had backed him up and then added it as an afterthought. “Perhaps we ought to have removed that rubber ball gag from his mouth so that he could give us permission to fuck him before we did that first time, but, well, you all know how it is? He got so terribly noisy when we were taking turns to spank him that we had to encourage him to be quiet for a while! We just assumed,” he finished with a wicked giggle.

Billy had also been a complete virgin when they ‘invited’ him to come and live with them. An invitation he couldn’t possibly refuse, of course, nor anything that has followed since. Not that they gave him any opportunity to reject their ‘kind’ offer of permanent hospitality! I’m not quite sure that their ‘all perfectly legal and above board’ aspect applies to the kind of invitation they gave him. Does pouncing on someone considerably smaller and dragging them into a van one dark evening count as an invitation?

Poor little rubber-clad Billy isn’t in a position to refuse anything and doesn’t have much opportunity to do much beyond breathe, blink and look so sad, at least his eyes do as he sits between his two big masters or sometimes perched on one of them’s lap, for they never seem to tire of fondling him. His virginity has been a topic for debate on more than one occasion during our little get-together sessions. His cock, even though flaccid and captive within its punishing cage, is undoubtedly an impressive appendage when set against his relative size and slight build, and very responsive to the touch. Not that it's prison allows much room for growth, but teasing captive cocks is always so amusing, even if, like me, you’re not gay.

Well, I suppose again in terms of being strictly accurate for the sake of literary accuracy, I could be challenged on that one. Personally, I don’t even think of myself as being bisexual, although I suppose technically speaking I must be since I fuck our pet boi at least five times a week. I mean fuck with a capital F! I make passionate, tender love to my wife as any good husband should, and Pammy’s not adverse to a bit of ‘roughly now and then if she’s in the mood for a bit of ‘primitive’ caveman loving as she terms it.

Whereas there is nothing tender about how I, or we, for that matter, used our captive boi. We ride him regularly, and I’m not talking playing horsy, although some of our club members are into pony-play, as it’s called. Having a boi around is very convenient when you have a very high sex drive coupled with a vigorous capability. It’s not that Pammy is any way frigid, quite the opposite, as our boi knows only too well and probably hates and fears her varied strap-ons as much as he must loathe my cock.

Billy’s size when erect is, of course, unknown, so we can only speculate for the two lovers who own the boy and his captive cock have never allowed it any freedom, nor will they ever. “Not interested, sweeties, why should we be? It serves no purpose other than to empty his bladder and for us to tease,” Dave, once said, giving its cage a wiggle.

“That's two purposes, darling”, Ken had corrected with an evil chuckle, handing his lover the crop that one or the other of them always carried and pulling the lad onto his lap. Not an overly difficult task, given they keep their lightweight boi on a minimum diet, and he’s a good six or seven inches shorter than his owners, even in his sexy ballet boots. “Three if we include making it dance to the kiss of the crop!” He giggled, flicking Billy’s circumcised purple cock end with one finger.

Far shorter and smaller in physical terms than his joint owners, and rendered completely helpless, the way they keep him and have done for over two years. Young Billy lives his life totally cocooned in thin but strong latex rubber and has done so ever since that evening he was dragged kicking and struggling into a parked van to begin his new life as a rubberised sex toy for his gay masters. “Not a bad life”, either, as Ken once said. “No worries, no distraction, no daily stress, not even having to make so much as a single decision, nor perform even the simplest of chores. Nothing to interfere with his sole function in life, that of providing sexual pleasure to those to whom he belongs”.

Truth be told, the rest of us did feel a little sorry for Billy, just a little, for he was a boi after all, and like any such creature, existed only to provide pleasure and amusement for his owners. Besides, it was none of our business how they ensured that. On the other hand, we all thought it was pretty cute in its own unique way, and as Ken said, Billy did enjoy—well, perhaps not enjoy, but indeed led a life of leisure compared to most other lads his age. He lived in his latex suit twenty-four-seven, clad head to foot in the soft, clinging, thin yet extra-tough material that felt so warm and sensual to the touch. Yes, touching and feeling Billy was popular with the rest of us when allowed, plus giving him the occasional vicious nip, of course.

Billy was not only completely rubberised but also entirely helpless, unable to do anything for himself other than what I mentioned earlier, as his two masters held total control over him in every aspect without exception. Every three weeks, they spent a relaxed Sunday afternoon changing and grooming him after first administering a potent muscle inhibitor, which effectively paralysed him for a few hours. Of course, as they claimed, he was fully alert mentally, but just incapable of even lifting his little finger, let alone anything else that could impede or interrupt them.

It would have been interesting to know how Billy felt about that brief period free from his rubber skin; did he enjoy those few hours of freedom while his owners sponged, shaved, and cleaned his naked, helpless body? Probably not, because he would know what was to come once he was cocooned again and feeling life flow back into his limbs—though they wouldn't enjoy any freedom. Ken had told us that handling his naked body always gave them an additional thrill, so Billy always received a lot of extra loving afterwards. At least a little more than usual, Dave had laughed.

“Makes things a whole lot easier for us,” Ken told us. ‘I mean, trying to get one of those special suits on a fully cooperative boy would be hard enough, condom on a wriggling snake syndrome, so with a less than willing subject, poof! Nigh on impossible!’ He’d thrown his arms in the air somewhat dramatically at that point. “‘Risky as well,’ Dave had added, absently pinching Billy on the arm and making him squirm. “These special suits are tough but can also tear a tad too easily if you're not careful. Of course, they were never designed for continuous use, and so we have to bin each one once we get it off him. The talc and oil we use, which we apply to him, tend to disappear or somehow evaporate over the course of a few weeks, but the suit does stick to him wonderfully, as you can see. A delightful second skin!”

“Sticks a bit too well in fact," Ken agreed. “Getting it off can be a pain both for us, logistically speaking and in real terms for him, but it comes off with patience plus a little brute force. Some days are pretty easy, and others less so. I expect our sexy boy dreads those afternoons, but we always make it up to him afterwards with a nice, long, loving session or three! Anyway, a raw, tender skin on a boi always makes for a more entertaining fuck, I always find, so long as you're the one doing the fucking rather than receiving, of course," he’d laughed.

They loved to talk about their boi, and it was always fascinating to listen to them. Billy, of course, said nothing; he never did and probably hadn’t since the first hour or so of his new life. Every three weeks, he was stripped, bathed, oiled, and shaved, leaving not even a single eyebrow hair, and then eased into a brand new latex bodysuit. Expensive, but then they could easily afford it, as we all could come to that. I mean, having money was one of the common denominators that brought us together and allowed us to indulge in our mutually perverse interests, as well as our interest in ownership of exotic pets, such as Billy.

They liked to use a different colour each time, and their supplier seemed able to supply a wide range. The high white reinforced rubber posture collar remained unchanged, as did the fact that his wrists were always secured to the collar, rendering his rubber-clad fingers and hands useless. Dave told us they initially used a waist belt for the same purpose, but it tended to get in the way, and why double up if he was going to wear the cruel posture collar anyway?

Besides, he added, it also got in the way of his tight rubber waist cincher. That was another common theme among some of us, most of us in fact. We appreciated a nice slim or, better still, very slim waist on our respective pets. Indeed, it was an informal standing joke that if we were to have a name, maybe we should call ourselves the ‘Waspie Waist Club or even the Corset Club' or something similar. My own boi had a respectable thirty-inch waist, which wasn’t bad considering the slight paunch he had initially sported.

Sammy, of course, had gone to town on her Barbie, which now sported a twenty-inch waist. Pretty impressive for a woman not far short of her forty-ninth year, but not quite impressive enough for someone half her age, who would want more, or perhaps less, would be more appropriate. The same private Dutch clinic that had removed the oversized doll's vocal chords had also removed a couple of ribs to aid the figure-trimming process, as well as a fair amount of surplus fat.

No doubt Sammy also feels that she is not a ‘bad person!’. Likewise, Dee Dee and Gale, two of our newer members —a youthful same-sex married couple who were meeting Dave, Ken, and Billy for the first time. They’d previously run their operation at the other end of the country and only just relocated to our part of the world, so to speak. The girls ran a conventional kennel, taking in dogs for people going on holiday, as well as a small breeding operation for those wanting quality puppies of the larger breeds. All are fully licensed, certified, and inspected annually by the relevant local authority.

Naturally, such inspections didn’t include the other aspect of their business, the one that was infinitely more profitable and equally entertaining for the two young women. Dee Dee was an absolute beauty, and Gale was not bad either, although a tad too masculine for me in some respects. I gathered that the two were pretty well known in certain discreet circles, and that I found out both she and Sammy had known them for some time. Anyway, not being fully conversant with our meeting etiquette, they’d left the oversized pup they’d brought with them out in their big camper van because he was relatively new, only three weeks old, and nowhere near house-trained yet. I wondered if they, like Pamela, didn’t consider themselves to be abnormal people? Somehow, I doubted it.

Now, Ken and Dave have no such illusions of innocence and are, by their own admission, a wicked couple of restrictive rubber-loving pervs. That was so long as they were not the ones wearing the rubber! Unlike poor Billy, who also wore a pair of white knee-high, thick rubber ballet boots that were impossible to walk in, and a gag kept him permanently silenced. They’d proudly exhibited their boi many times and never once had I heard a single word from the lad, not even so much as a single squeak or squeal!

Dave had explained the gag, one of what he called Billy’s additions, to us and showed us the various alternatives available. “We vary the gag depending on our mood. Sometimes, a large ring gag is used because we might feel like giving him a cuddle along with a bit of deep tonguing while sitting and watching TV. Alternatively, when we have him sitting at the dinner table between us, we take turns feeding him. A nice mouthful of well-chewed Master food passed mouth to mouth, such a treat instead of his usual rather blander liquid chow! Other times we use a penis gag,” he explained.

“Not just any old off-the-shelf penis gags either.” Ken had chimed in and held one up. “This is an expensive, if smaller, replica of yours truly, a suitable reminder for our boy as to one of his prime functions. The one presently keeping his tongue company is a similar replica of Dave’s excellent cock. A larger but not quite life-sized replica of my manhood is residing in his rear fuck hole, so much more appropriate I feel than a conventional butt plug” he paused and held up a much larger cock with a butt flange. “This one is a replica of Dave's pride and joy to give you an idea. Obviously not one-to-one scale-wise, but big enough to give our boy here something to think about. We decided that going full size would be a mistake, I mean, we’re both big boys, and so we wouldn’t want him getting accustomed to receiving that little bit extra every time he’s taken!”

Poor Billy had sat there between them on the sofa as the two girls learned more and more intriguing details about his daily life. All you could see of him were his eyes staring hopelessly out of the eye holes in his hood and the two smaller holes in the nose allowing him to breathe. Presumably, he could hear what was being said even though the thin material covered his ears. Then again, would he want to listen to the details of his miserable life being discussed so openly?

“Other than when it’s removed for a fucking session, he stays plugged permanently, except once a day when he gets the chance to shit and then we take turns to give him his daily enema,” Dave continued. “That may be a simple one to clean him out, or perhaps a larger belly-stretching punishment, depending on the mood or whim of whoever is administering it. Billy, as you can see, does not have the freedom to do anything naughty, so he’s entirely at our mercy, governed by our moods and whims as to whether he has a good day or a bad one.”

“Not that any day is probably ever a good one for him!” Ken had laughed. “I can’t recall a single day when he hasn’t been paddled or spanked, and that inevitably always makes us super horny and of course we don’t have to look far for a means of satisfying that horniness, do we, Billy boi?”

“Spanking and paddling plus the strap or tawse”, Dave said. “Never anything likely to cut through his rubber outer layer, such as a whip or cane. “We don’t need to see the results, just feel them through his sexy second skin, and of course, we know how much he feels them! Although we do keep a crop handy, as Ken said earlier, to use on this pathetic ornament, he flicked Billy’s captive penis contemptuously. Note how swollen and sore-looking his bulbous cock head is. Swollen and highly sensitive to a sharp smack with the broad leather flap on the end of a riding crop,” he grinned, holding one up.

“A couple of sharp taps with that is probably as good as a damn hard spanking, eh, Billy?” Ken laughed, grabbing the end of the boy's cock between his fingernails and squeezing so that the rubber-encased youth jumped slightly, although not a sound emerged from his gagged mouth. “You will no doubt have noted this small metal tube and knurled knob sticking out here an inch or so?” He tapped it and laughed. “Total control, that’s what we have over Billy boi here. Total and absolute control for every second, every minute, hour, day, week, month and year of his miserable life!”

“He can breathe and blink, and that’s about it. Probably thinks as well, but who gives a damn about that! Just imagine how deliciously frustrating his entire existence must be. Hell, there are poor sods who are paralysed from the neck down that still have more freedom than our sexy boi is allowed!” He paused and chuckled. “Nor do they get all those extras inflicted on them that provide us with so much satisfaction. Billy is catheterised so that he can only empty his bladder if we turn this little knob, and of course, when we decide to turn it can vary considerably. He can only shit when he’s unplugged. You see his mouth gag and another small tube protruding from it, yes. That is connected to another longer tube down his throat and into his stomach. As we said, sometimes he’s allowed the privilege of sitting with us at the dining table; other times, Billy is force-fed a nourishing liquid diet twice a day. Of course, it was a bit of a chore at first getting the damn tube down him, but we are well practised now, and it stays down till one of us feels in the mood to feed him something else. The end result, perhaps not quite as nourishing, but very satisfying for us. At least he gets to exercise his taste buds, although no doubt he’s very familiar with the taste of his master's manly offerings by now!

Dave took up the tale of their boi’s miserable existence. “Yes, even the elementary, not to say necessary, act of eating, we deny him. Even at the table, he is ring-gagged. Anyway, since we made early arrangements for all his teeth to be surgically removed along with his finger and toenails, he couldn’t chew anyway.” He grinned wickedly. “Not having to faff about with scissors cuts down on the maintenance time when we groom him, plus there’s no chance of his sexy bodysuit getting pierced by a bit of wayward keratin! Sweet Billy here is as helpless and dependent on us as a newborn babe isn’t he, love?”

“Sure is," Ken agreed. “We’re just like very loving parents too, well, kind of," he paused and giggled. “I mean, we give him an awful lot of loving, don’t we, between us! Anyway, we do everything for him. We have to carry or support him when he walks on tiptoe in those sexy ballet boots. He can’t use his hands, as you can see, fastened to his collar like that, and he can’t move his head because of the collar. Can’t do a damn thing! His suit and hood are virtually glued to his body because of the tight fit. An absolute bugger to get on the little beauty, but it’s worth the struggle. The sensation is just gorgeous if you’re in the nuddy on top and giving him a long, hard shafting! It’s absolutely adorable, a heavenly feeling — well, for us anyway!”

“No, there’s nothing quite like fucking a cute squirming rubber boi," Dave laughed and then added with a very obvious, meaningful wink. “Although maybe we’ll soon be able to tell you what fucking a not-so-cute massive rubber boi is like."

“Now, now, lover boy. Don’t give away state secrets, and besides, nothing is certain yet, sweetheart. Don’t forget we’re still waiting for the delivery of those oversized rubber skins for him. There’s no point in getting ahead of ourselves, is there? I’m just as impatient as you, but let’s make sure we start as we mean to go on—no point in having ourselves a new rubber boy and no rubber to wrap him in. Let him enjoy what’s left of his life in the wild a little longer. Now, darling, finish what you were telling them about Billy here”.

Dave nodded. “I still say we ordered a size too small, but” he shrugged and then giggled. “That’s the big advantage of latex rubber, is that it stretches. Maybe wearing a size too small will be a touch uncomfortable, but that’s not our worry and besides, Big boi will have lots of other distractions to keep his mind occupied initially, some of them considerably more uncomfortable!”

Ken coughed meaningfully.

“Oh, alright," Dave pouted. “Back to Billy, then. He’s not completely without movement. He can writhe and wriggle when he’s being spanked or fucked, but that's about it!”

“True,” Ken conceded. “But that's sort of involuntary, so I don’t think it counts, love. His suit has to have a few openings, of course, to allow his skin to breathe. Plus, he’d be useless to us if he didn’t have those strategically placed holes, eh?” He laughed and said, “Hey, stand him up so our new lady friends can get a good look. That's it; you see how helpless he is, and if Dave weren’t supporting him, he’d fall down immediately. I know some can walk in ballet boots, but those he’s wearing are a little different, so there’s no chance he can—besides, after three years, I doubt he could walk now even if we removed them. I suppose he could shuffle about on his knees, but he’s never been given that opportunity. However, he has spent a considerable time on his knees paying suitable oral homage to his betters!”

“There are nine openings in his suit,” Dave demonstrated on his living model. Two eye holes allow him to see his charming owners and appreciate their masterful masculinity, and it works both ways. You can look deep into his soul and see that alluring spark of hatred and hopelessness, which we find utterly adorable. Mind you,” he giggled. “After three years, that spark is nowhere near as bright as it used to be, is it, boy!” he winked and then kissed Billy’s rubber cheek before continuing.

“We thought of keeping him entirely in the dark, but decided against it. Why shouldn’t he see our magnificent cocks as well as taste and feel them! Two other little holes here just under this cute little nose bump, and no need to explain what they are for, oh yes,” he reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled tissue and wiped the area he’d just indicated. “Billy tends to be a tad runny in the nasal department. Nasal hair can be very unsightly, so that’s part of the grooming process with a pair of tweezers. Extremely painful, I expect, judging by the look in his eyes when he sees them, eh, Billy boy?” He chuckled, squeezing the youth’s right buttock hard before continuing. But then, frequent pain is a daily fact of life for Billy! Then there are the two ones in front for his cute, not-so-little nipples to stick out. We’ve done a lot of work on those with hormone injections, not to mention sucking on his sweet nips as well as clamping them, and then there’s the weights, of course!”

“Now to the more intriguing openings,” Dave continued. “Here, you see his mouth gag held by this thick latex band around his head, and the gag, as mentioned earlier, has a replica cock to keep his tonsils entertained. Incidentally, that phallus is hollowed down the centre so we can also keep his feeding tube in at the same time,” he grinned at his attentive audience and tapped the visible metal part in the gag. “We think of everything! Down below is the opening that allows these useless ornaments to be displayed,” he reached down, cupped Bill’s testicles, then flicked his cock cage up and down before lifting the boy's cock by the small knob on the protruding tube. “The fact that we control this simple rotary valve means Billy can suffer discomfort, pain, and cramps far beyond what any spanking could cause, and as you can imagine, making him drink his fill, then watching him wriggle desperate for relief, is one of our favourite pastimes,” he looked at his partner. They giggled like a couple of silly schoolgirls as he spun the boy around and bent him over.

“Taarrrrah! The final opening and suitably plugged, as you can see, ladies and gentlemen," he tapped the visible flange with one finger. “If there were a Guinness Book of Records for the longest time plugged, I reckon Billy might stand a good chance. That's assuming they make an allowance for his daily shitting and regular fucking, of course. Otherwise, his male cunt has been hosting a sizeable visitor almost constantly for three years now," he turned the boi back the other way and grinned. "Now, a question for you all, one we’ve debated quite a few times," he winked at Ken. "Eh, pet? Now, since we know this caged thing here has never once sampled pussy, does that mean he’s still a virgin? You could say yes, of course, but then again, three years with two very randy, virile guys means he’s probably been fucked more times than some wives get in a lifetime!”

“We lost count after about four days!” Ken laughed. “Kids in the candy shop syndrome and thank heavens for Viagra!"

Everyone nodded and laughed at that. Not so much the Viagra, but we all knew what it was like when you acquired a brand new boi or girl or for those so inclined, a new animal!

“Nine, as we said, having saved perhaps the most important till last!” Dave chuckled, “I almost said his holes, but I think we’ve covered those already, have we not? The suit has openings, and Billy boi has holes of various sorts!

We’d taken a break then, partly to allow Dee Dee and Gale a closer look at Billy and to restock the plates of nibbles, plus I needed a bathroom break, nor was I the only one. Being a gentleman, I allowed Margo to use the one in the hall while I took the stairs two at a time, heading for the one in the master bedroom.

I bypassed the main lounge on my return and headed for the kitchen, intending to open a couple more chilled bottles of the bubbly stuff, but Bill had beaten me to it, waving one in each hand as he passed me. Pam and Sammy were busily engaged in arranging tasty treats on paper doily-covered plates and giggling insensibly about something that might or might not have involved me. At least they stopped abruptly when I entered the kitchen, looked at me, and then promptly started again!

I threw a quick, suspicious glance in their direction but left them to it. Experience had taught me not to enquire too closely into such situations, so I eyed the plates instead. It had become a sort of, well, I suppose tradition would be the best word, that the guests provided a goodly portion of the ‘edibles’ for our little get-togethers. Lord knows now how that started, but that’s the way it was. The host, i.e., me in this case, supplied the booze and our share of the food, and the guests provided the rest. I recognised the assortment of old toffee and bun tins more akin to a meeting of the local WI, the Women's Institute, than Perverts Incorporated.

Margo’s delicious vol au vents to the fore, along with what looked like generous slices from one of Ken's calorie-laden cream cakes. Dave and Ken ran some computer programming businesses from their home, and when Ken wasn’t at a keyboard or ramming his cock up Billie's fuck hole, his other hobby was cake baking. He had a small sideline in fancy, but expensive cakes, available through his website for weddings, upmarket kids' birthday parties, and similar events. His offering for our meetings is usually somewhat humbler and less decorated, but still decidedly tempting. Too tempting for Pam always limited me to just one slice! She wasn’t about to share her marital bed with any budding ‘porkies!’.

And speaking of porkies or, in this case, pokies, I saw that during my brief moment of absence to empty my bladder, Dave had temporarily left Billy and was making the most of my generous hospitality by vigorously ‘poking’ our boy over the back of a kitchen chair in the far corner. That kind of shattered any comparison that might have been made to homely WI and similar gatherings in the church hall kitchen. I doubted that those cosy meetings of such local organisations ever included some poor sod being savagely raped and sodomised while simultaneously, dainty edible offerings were being decanted a couple of yards away.

A bit of petty, malicious gossip was probably as unpleasant as it got among those good, steadfast housewives and older widows. Meanwhile, Pam and Sammy happily discussed the merits of various local preschools and their suitability, both ignoring what was happening in the corner. Not exactly an elephant in the room situation, more something that wasn’t particularly unusual or exceptional to either of them. Nor for our boi, come to that!

I didn’t mind either, as such activities were part and parcel of our little get-togethers, depending on subject availability, of course. I mean, yes, it takes two to tango, but I’m talking about availability in the... the on or off limits sense. Billy was definitely a no-no, off-limits pet, for instance. A touch or two, a few squeezes and strokes, but that was as far as you were allowed to go. Ken and Dave were very watchful and super protective of young Billy. Nothing to do with his well-being, of course. Pure self-interest and possessiveness on their part.

Pam and I were in the opposite camp and felt a little variety did our boy no harm whatsoever. Well, by harm, you know what I mean! He’d been soundly spanked and worse on numerous occasions by fellow club members, and likewise been on the receiving end of many a good fucking via cock or dildo. Thus, it was no surprise to me to see Dave with his trousers off, underpants around one ankle, enthusiastically pounding away at the bucking figure over the chair. Our boi was a favourite of theirs, so I expect Ken would also be availing himself of such hospitality before the evening was over.

“No need to do that, Sweetheart”, Pam called out quickly as I headed towards the fridge, divining my intentions. “Bill came in with us, and he’s taken a couple more bottles through for them. I don’t think we’ll need any more, not just yet, and it’ll only get warm if you take some in”.

“Yuk!” Sammy licked the end of one finger, then laughed. “Warm bubbly, I mean not fresh cream!”

A loud burst of raucous laughter from the open lounge door behind me caused a brief distraction for me and our two ‘supper ladies’, who shrugged and carried on, as did Dave. Anyway, eyes closed, head back, it seemed as though he’d reached that point where he was oblivious to everything else as his meaty buttocks quickened their thrusts. As for boi, he had something else to keep him occupied—an extra inch or so beyond what he was used to from yours truly!

Sammy wouldn’t be the only one tasting fresh cream once Dave had finished. We had a very well-trained boi who would submissively kneel before the cock he’d recently pleased and offer his toothless mouth to suck and lick it clean. I grinned, wondering how much of a hurry Dave would be in to rejoin the main group next door and, on that note, I became aware of that familiar stiffening sensation down below. There was another burst of laughter from behind me, but I ignored it and, seemingly surplus as far as kitchen or barman duties went, decided to pay a visit to the adjoining stable.

Temporary stable, I should say, as I moved to another door. In reality, it was a large, three-door, triple garage, usually empty apart from some steel shelving units, my workbench, a tool rack, and a cupboard at the far end. Pam and I rarely kept our cars inside the building; we preferred to park outside on the forecourt for convenience. With that area and the long driveway, we can easily accommodate all our visitors' cars without needing to use the garage extension. Neither of us was a ‘petrol head’, as the saying goes, and our cars were very modest family runabouts: Pam's small French hatchback and my slightly larger, popular Japanese hybrid.

Given the modest size of our ‘wheels’, we could probably have fitted four such vehicles into the garage and still have room for my workspace clutter and our bicycles, so accommodating a couple of two-legged ponies was no trouble. I’d even gone so far as to buy and stock up with some bags of sand, straw, and sawdust from the local garden centre when we visited. Pam was the green-fingered one who fussed about with plants and bushes, etc. Meanwhile, I, a gardening philistine, divided everything into just three categories: grass, trees, and other green stuff. The debate about whether we had enough of the first category to justify buying a ‘ride-on’ motor mower was ongoing. One of us maintained it was a beneficial exercise, whereas the other half of the partnership, the one who usually ended up pushing the petrol mower, disagreed. No guesses as to which side of the fence I was on when it came to the tedious business of grass cutting!

Anyway, James and Margo are two of the nicest people you could hope to meet, and they are regular attendees at our small gatherings. Both in their early fifties, James is the senior partner at our local dental practice and a superb, if costly, dental surgeon. Many of our happy little group are registered with him and have made good use of his skills, although not necessarily for their own benefit. He performed the extractions on our boi and on young Rubber Billy for Ken and Dave. His wife, Margo, is a magistrate and respected town councillor, and chairs the committee that oversees local roads, footpaths, cycleways, and other infrastructure. In addition, she has responsibility for drainage and sewers, which is something of a joke within our little circle, given her customary immaculate and expensively elegant appearance. Chalk and cheese, the fastidious Margo and sewers! However, leaving such humour aside, in our collective opinion, they make a charming couple.

Of course, having said that, there were others more directly involved with the couple who might disagree with such opinions as to how nice James and Margo were. Four others, to be precise, namely the Schmidt family, parents and older teenage siblings. The fact that they would have a vastly different opinion would no doubt be because the charming couple kept the family as captive human equines, stalled in the large steel and concrete building at the end of their extensive and secluded garden. Nor were the unfortunate family the first to be housed within that windowless building. Indeed, one of James's oft-repeated jokes was that their annual winning of first prize rosettes for garden produce at the local church fete was due to the dung the occupants produced for the compost heap. Margo would usually add pointedly, “Produced as a result of them enjoying the delightful diet I provide for them!”.

That usually raised a collective knowing laugh, for none of us believed that the Schmidt family or their predecessors had ever enjoyed anything, food or otherwise, being owned and stalled by that particular couple. James was well known for his humorous bedside manner, or rather chair-side manner, in the dental surgery, and perhaps carried a touch of his genial affability into the stable with the two younger equines. Whereas Margo, who was invariably gracious and charming in public, was an absolute, merciless bitch with her captive livestock, regardless of age or sex.

One advantage of being a local councillor was that their rather unusual and vastly oversized garden shed had received planning permission on the nod, as it were, with no questions asked as to why they needed a building that big. Well, they were a lovely couple, and Margo was a highly respected and conscientious independent councillor, courted by both major political parties. Curiously, another of her minor oversight responsibilities was monitoring local catteries, dog kennels, and animal rescues to ensure they adhered to the numerous rules governing animal welfare. Another source of amusement among us, although we said nothing to Margo. Humour was not one of her strong points, nor was patience, as her two-legged ‘animals’ knew only too well!

The one time the Schmidt family, or ‘our delightful little German herd,’ as James frequently called them, was well known to us, for we’d seen them on numerous occasions. Even as we sipped our champagne and nibbled on the canapés Pam and Sammy had knocked up for this meet, two of them were housed outside in the oversized triple garage for anyone such as me who cared to wander out and admire the captive beasts and squeeze a few handfuls of helpless, well-whipped pony flesh.

There was no way Margo would bring one of her ponies into someone's house, given how fastidious and house proud she was herself. Bringing a boy or girl, even a well-trained human dog, was one thing; a pony, no chance! She wouldn’t entertain the idea. Her ponies hadn’t seen the inside of a house since they’d been taken from the wild, and sadly for them, that same fastidiousness did not extend to her stable or its miserable captive occupants. ‘Filth is a daily fact of life for such lowly beasts’ was her callous attitude.

I heard Dave emit a huge shuddering moan of satisfaction from behind me as I closed the door from the kitchen into the garage and couldn’t help giving a little shiver as I did so. It wasn’t cold that prompted that quiver, nor did it have anything to do with Dave presumably emptying those last few spurts of cum into my boi’s rectum. No, it was more one of gleeful anticipation as I spied with my eager eye those two scrumptious, harnessed, clad figures in the far corner.

They were the reason I kept a small stock of sand, straw, and sawdust conveniently close at hand. I had added a fresh layer on top of what remained from the last time we ‘accommodated’ a couple of our friends' ponies for a few hours—one advantage of rarely using the garage for its primary purpose, I suppose. There was no need for me to sweep it all up once they’d departed, although Pam did insist that I use a wheelbarrow, garden rake, and spade to sanitise the area the following morning. My beloved was nothing like as fastidious or house proud as Margo, but she did draw the line at leaving ‘pony droppings’ to fester and stink the place out, as she put it!

“Well done, makes them feel quite at home," James had chuckled earlier when he and Margo parked outside and led them in. He was guiding their young filly, Cinders, who was a year older than the other sibling colt. A cute little thing I’d had my lusty eye on for a while, but... well, it wasn’t so much that I was loyal to my wife; I was, of course, but then Pam was one of those women with built-in radar! As far back as our second date, which had been in a dimly lit, costly restaurant, I’d made the mistake of returning the rather suggestive smile of a mature blonde who’d caught my eye whilst I was heading for the gents’ washroom.

She’d been sitting alone, and I had no idea who she was. My reaction as I vainly tried to explain was purely out of reflex politeness and nothing more. Pam leaned forward and told me in a low, sweet yet very menacing voice that one of the few things she’d inherited from her grandmother was a razor-sharp, castrating knife, and if she ever caught me eyeing tarts like that again, she’d introduce me to it. Not exactly the sort of ‘sweet, endearing remark’ you’d expect from such a gorgeous cutie on a second date, but it left its mark!

I’d shivered that time as well, now I think back, but not from anticipation! However, she’d reverted and been all sweetness, light and sexy promise again, so I’d forgotten about it. Well, kind of forgotten, although I had wondered later, when lying somewhat exhausted next to her in bed, as to why on earth her grandmother had such a knife. A farm connection, perhaps involving pigs or something similar. It was only later that I’d learned it wasn’t pigs she’d kept! Pam's mother had a big formal oil painting portrait of her grandmother over the fireplace in the lounge. A smiling, rosy-cheeked old lady who might have stepped straight out of a story picture-book as everybody's favourite granny.

I’d later heard a few things about the old girl that made me glad I’d never met her. Pam and her mother were more than enough, and recalling that second date, maybe boi wasn’t the only member of the household to have been ‘captured’ from the wild. I’d long suspected I’d also been separated from the herd that day, though thankfully, I was very much on the other side of the fence, so to speak, and my ‘cage’ was lined with velvet and very comfortable. Too comfortable, in fact, to risk the wrath of someone with not just a sixth sense but probably a seventh and eighth as well! Besides, there was a security camera mounted on the wall up there, and now that I think about it, that camera happened to be pointing directly towards where Pam decided we should host those visiting ponies.

They arrived as usual in the standard-sized horse box hitched behind James’s Range Rover. Built to transport a single horse comfortably, it could easily accommodate the entire two-legged herd, though perhaps not as comfortably. Then again, as they were always restricted in harness and tack, comfort probably didn’t rank highly in their owners’ list of pony needs. Indeed, knowing Margo in particular, I doubted it would even appear on such a list!

The lightly built Cinders seemed a little unsettled, I’d noticed as she sexily ‘high-stepped’ down the ramp to cross the short distance between where they’d backed up the box and the open garage door. James had her on a short rein and was lightly tapping a long riding switch upon her tempting plump young rump as he led her forward. Grumpy, the stallion and father of the herd, was far more docile as he followed his daughter, stepping high in a similar manner but not quite as enticingly. Then again, Margo was leading him, and I’d have been pretty damn docile as well if I had been in his position, and she wasn’t even holding a crop. With or without, Margo wasn’t a woman you took chances with!

Grumpy was roughly the same age and build as James, and three years earlier, Helmut Schmidt had enjoyed similar social standing and wealth as one of the senior executive managers of a prestigious German motor manufacturing company. It was during a short business and holiday trip to the UK, visiting some of the major dealerships with his family, that life fundamentally changed — and not just for him. One moment, they were happily driving down the motorway, laughing, joking, singing Bavarian drinking songs aloud and looking forward to attending a Premier League football match followed by a few English beers that evening... but they were destined never to drink them or see the game.

Beyond cultivating prize-winning vegetables and owning human equines, James's other passion was photography, and his stable was well-equipped with cameras, partly for security and also for his and Margo’s entertainment. They had flat screens throughout their spacious house that served as ‘living pictures’ to enjoy at any time, their livestock collection. “Not that they do, or can do much,” James would often laugh. “It’s a bit like watching tropical fish in a tank, but hell, we spent enough obtaining them, so why not enjoy admiring them twenty-four seven!” he’d said a few meetings back.

“Not always”, Margo had swiftly contradicted her husband. “I can and do ensure disobedient ponies keep themselves active for our entertainment! Oh, by the way, I have a new mixture recipe that’s even more potent and durable, if anyone wants to try it? I’ve a few bottles to spare in the car”.

“Me, me, me!” My wife’s hand was the first to rise, beating the crowd by a narrow margin, and she was not alone, as almost every hand shot upwards, accompanied by a chorus of similar requests. I wasn’t surprised because Margo’s wicked little mixtures were very popular with us — at least for those fortunate enough to be owners rather than owned. Rubber Billy could confirm this, as I happened to be looking directly at him when Margo made her little announcement.

If there is a word that can combine sheer terror and absolute horror, then that’s the one I’d use to describe that look in his eyes as she spoke. Creative cookery was another of Margo’s hobbies, and she liked to experiment in the kitchen. Mostly, it was pretty darn good, James told us, but occasionally… well, when a dish went badly wrong to the point of being inedible, at least it wasn’t wasted. Liquidised and added to the day’s pony feed. Margo disapproved of wasting food, and while James might decline a rare failed culinary experiment, her ponies had no such right of refusal!

It wasn’t food, though, that ended up in the various bottles and jars she washed out and set aside for later use. Margos’s ‘mixture’ was a far more sinister brew, and I was very familiar with that horrified look in Billy’s eyes, or I’d seen it often enough in our boy’s eyes. Pam only needed to mention the word ‘juice’ and the poor thing would start to shake. I’d wager if she gave him a choice, though she never would, but if she did, let’s say a dozen, no, much more than that — maybe two or even three dozen strokes from her cane or being ‘juiced up’, as she called it, the cane would always win out and that despite her ability to swing a savage cane. Indeed, when my ‘sweet’ wife gave him one of those beatings, you could guarantee the good old smelling salts would be needed at least once!

That should give you an idea of how effective Margo’s non-edible creations were. She was the one who introduced the concept of ‘figging’ to the club. The practice of inserting a piece of skinned ginger root into the human anus to produce an intense burning sensation is often used within the BDSM community. Margo’s ‘juices’, for want of a better term, were somewhat more potent and longer-lasting, each better or worse, depending on your point of view, than the previous. More a thick, sticky honey-coloured syrup than liquid juice, but that was Pam's term for the horrible gunk, not mine.

Naturally, Margo experimented on her ponies and didn’t restrict herself to anuses either, which was doubly bad news for the female animals, their frontal openings being somewhat easier to access than those of the males. Not that they were often spared, ‘It just takes a bot more practice and patience!’ was her response.

“Always gotta be careful,” James laughingly once told us. “Having available outlets when one is feeling randy is fine, but sticking one’s precious cock into an itchy, red-hot hole is not to be recommended! Not without suitable protection anyway, but take suitable precautions while your mount is still scorching, and then you are in for a very entertaining ride!”

He wasn’t wrong either, but I didn’t get the same opportunities he often did, having only one hole available to me, not six, plus Pam only resorted to ‘juicing’ that opening when she was really pissed off. Unlike a beating, which was super painful while it was happening, it did tend to start to fade immediately after the final stroke had been delivered. I mean, yes, it still hurt like hell for the poor sod, of course, but at least it was over, whereas Margo’s gunk lasted and lingered!

Yeah, the only time our lad was likely to become rebellious these days was when Pam took the juice jar out of the fridge and waved it at him with that sweet but oh so sadistic no-nonsense look on her beautiful face. I just loved to watch that silent interaction between them, that power play of female dominance and hapless male submission as he slowly crawled towards her beckoning imperious finger. A finger on the same slim hand that he’d kissed so many times to show his gratitude after she’d delivered one of those ‘corrective beatings’ he so often needed.

Sometimes, when I watched, I tried to put myself in his place out of curiosity, but failed abysmally every time, as I couldn’t imagine being like him. Pam was more than twelve years his junior, nearly a foot shorter and far lighter than the boy, but she could handle him quite easily thanks to his daily ‘medicine’. Our term for the drug we give him, and of course, it’s both highly illegal and not readily available unless you know the right people, or in this case, a person in the shape of a fellow club member.

We do, of course, and so have the means to keep Boi properly medicated, though he’s not ill or anything like that. Not physically, but I can’t vouch for his mental state! I believe the drug originated somewhere in Eastern Europe during the old soviet era, specifically designed for certain institutions where it was desirable to keep the inmates in a somewhat physically weakened state. Some of us use it, and some don’t, but Pam and I find it makes life both easier and safer, and it eliminates all that bondage hassle. Some enjoy that, all the palaver with straps and buckles, and some don’t. I was firmly in the latter camp!

I know that’s part of the attraction for some of our club members, but we prefer to give it a miss. Yes, we had to resort to such kit to keep Boi safely under control for the first six months or so, until the drug was fully effective. However, now straps, manacles, chains, and so forth are superfluous, other than attaching a leash to his posture collar. That and his chastity cage are all he wears, plus his waist cinching corset when Pam wants to downsize him again, as it were. The leash serves both as a showpiece and for convenience. Pam likes to lead him about on it; it gives her an extra kick, whereas I simply kick the bugger, point, and order him to crawl where I want.

His ‘medication’ has, to some extent, atrophied the muscle structure in his arms and legs, so he is hardly stronger than a toddler, making him easy to handle. He cannot walk upright now, at least not without assistance, which he rarely receives, but crawling is well within his capabilities. He can stand for a short time if you yank him up by his collar and lean him against a sturdy object like the kitchen sink or the pull-down ironing board. Pam sometimes uses him in this way, for tasks like washing dishes or ironing, but he is not kept as a house slave in that sense. Indeed, how would you classify him? He is not a pet in the strictest sense of the word.

Anyway, my mind was very much on the juice, which, based on the last batch, had become more akin to a marmalade-like jelly, carefully extracted from whatever container Margo had used. The current one in our fridge has no label, but I’m pretty sure it once contained instant coffee. Margo is also a fanatic recycler and constantly chides the rest of us for our laxity in that regard. We do our part, at least when we remember to use the right-coloured container provided by the local council waste collection service. By 'we,' I should probably admit that I am the main culprit when it comes to forgetting. Hell, to me, a waste bin is a waste bin, regardless of colour code!

All of this was running through my mind as I stood on my side of the garage, thoughtfully observing the two ponies secured to the far wall, nervously shuffling their hoof-booted feet in that patch of dirt I had so thoughtfully provided. To be precise, I was also thinking of ‘coffee stirrers,’ which you might find odd, but there was sound reasoning behind my apparent madness, firmly rooted in ‘self-preservation. ’ Pam wasn’t an avid saver and recycler of useful containers like Margo was, but she had a strange fixation with coffee stirrers. Embarrassingly so, especially wooden ones, though she was not above stealing plastic ones.

I mean, blimey, considering what we earned, the money her dad left her, our investments, and sitting in savings accounts – why this crazy obsession with nicking bloody coffee sticks that probably cost no more than a few pence for a hundred or so! Honestly, the last thing we needed was the local police knocking at our door because Starbucks had reported her or whoever for helping herself to a handful of the things! We had half a drawer full of them plus nearly as many again in two glove compartments, all waiting because ‘they might come in useful one day!’

I waste ink mentioning her little foible because the only time I’ve seen them ‘be useful’ was when she used them to extract that thick yellow gunk with the red bits from the juice jar. Perhaps there was a mysterious hidden meaning to the ritual, but if so, it was beyond my understanding. She always wore those blue latex surgical gloves anyway when she was smearing the horrible stuff over whichever plug or tail she’d chosen. What was wrong with using a spoon or a spatula? I’d suggested that and was promptly told ‘not to be silly!’ so I kept my own counsel. Perhaps she didn’t want to risk contaminating the cutlery drawer or something! I once tried a small dollop of ‘juice’ on the back of my hand, and boy, was it hot, and the effect lingered mildly even after I rinsed it off.

Anyway, I wasn’t in any danger today of roasting myself because I’d asked James as they were unloading the duo from the horsebox. He’d told me they never did that when they were travelling, not with the way their animals reacted. “Too risky, old chap, far too risky. Don’t want them getting frisky, what with the way it makes them jump and squeal! Damn contraption wobbles enough without them adding their quota to its instability, even if restrained. No point in taking risks if you don’t have to, eh!”

Given that the poor things were caught up in a veritable cat's cradle of straps and virtually buried in foam padding, I doubted there was any risk of them becoming ‘frisky’, as he put it. I could understand what he meant, though. Despite his lack of muscular strength, our boy would become decidedly animated once his rectal passage began warming up that juice. Kindness perhaps? I didn’t think so; that wasn’t in Margo’s nature as far as those poor creatures were concerned. Much more likely to be as her husband suggested, plus she’d want them in a presentable and usable state at the end of the journey, wouldn’t she?

“So Grumpy, back for another visit, I see. How's life been treating you then, boy?" I chuckled as I approached the hapless pair, suddenly conscious of the massive boner in my pants. Well, apparently I wasn’t needed in the kitchen nor lounge to pop corks, and if little Cinders was off limits…..I didn’t even have to ask as I eyed Grumpy. Hosts' privilege, you might call it!