Girlfriend Meets My Ponyboy!

Thoughts about our ponyboy

I was driving back from the weekly supply run, ruminating on how things had been going recently and mainly thinking back to how things had been before that unexpected expansion of livestock that had suddenly filled my old barn.

Trixie referred to them rather grandiosely as the herd, our herd. Privately, I thought it was a touch ridiculous, but she was a mercurial little madam, and humouring her was always the safest option. It wasn’t important, but herds to me conjured up images of large groups of animals moving majestically over the prairie or whatever, and she’d promised me faithfully that she had no further plans to expand ours. I wasn’t entirely sure that I trusted her on that one. Maybe I should have checked that she wasn’t crossing her fingers behind her back or something similar.

We now had four captive human animals, three more than the ponyboy I’d once fantasised about owning. Let’s be honest; even one would generally have been a crazy pipe dream! Naturally, the workload of keeping such exotic creatures had increased, but that didn’t bother us, for it wasn’t as though we were working on a standard farm with ordinary, mundane animals, which would doubtlessly have become somewhat dull fairly quickly.

‘Our herd’ started a few months after Trixie, my sexy, cute, petite blonde bombshell of a girlfriend, decided to take up full-time residence in my modest country retreat. An old farmhouse that had once been a smallholding at the end of an obscure country lane that didn’t even exist on most maps and certainly hadn’t been on any Google Street View car schedule. Most of the original land had been reclaimed by nature by the time I bought the property, and I was content to leave nature to do with it as she wanted as long as she didn’t bother me!

Apart from the old farmhouse, which I’d had modernised at great expense, we had a few ancient crumbling pigsties, a collection of rusted unrecognisable farm machinery, the newest looking of which had a builders plate with 1928 stamped upon it, a useable old barn now designated as a stable, plus the latest addition. A colossal monstrosity of a new building in three pastel shades of corrugated iron and aluminium sheeting with a largely translucent but opaque roof that now abutted directly onto the rear of the original old barn.

 The sales guy from the company who made them and then the construction team had all been a bit, well, suspicious would be the wrong way to put it; puzzled might be a better term. Why would someone with a rundown place like mine invest in a vast new agricultural workshed of that size? I’d been evasive, although none of my answers had sounded terribly convincing, so I’d quickly become somewhat non-committal about the whole thing muttering, a future business project. One of them had amused Trixie when she brought out morning coffee for them and herself, telling her about one they’d erected earlier in the year at a stable and riding school complex so they could train horses in bad weather.

Trixie had promptly snorted a mouthful of coffee over several surprised workmen and succumbed to an extended bout of the giggles. Fortunately, they weren’t too damp, and I explained as she dashed off that she did that sometimes when something suddenly triggered her sense of humour, maybe something she’d seen on telly the previous night. I didn’t think it advisable to mention Tinky having his little holiday safely out of sight in the old farmhouse and her extensive plans for training him regardless of the weather. That was before the sudden livestock expansion, of course.

Trixie wanted plenty of natural light, but not so anyone could see into the building. I thought that was highly unlikely, given that it had no side windows and wasn’t as if a plague of low-flying helicopters regularly inundated us. As usual, once the little minx had made her mind up, that also meant my mind was made up, too, so I’d reluctantly coughed up for the modifications over the standard off-the-shelf building! Anything to get the nagging little madam off my back! Hell, in overall comparison to the basic cost of that fucking gigantic chicken shed, what did another couple of thousand matter if it meant a bit of peace and quiet?

I wasn’t sure which was worse, that continual nagging or her, the sexy little bitch, carrying out that threat to keep her legs crossed for three months! However, in hindsight, I wondered just how long Little Miss Daily multi orgasm could have stuck with that threat. My cock was as much a feature of her life as I was, more so in fact. Water under the bridge now, anyway.

Fortunately, planning permission from the local council had proved surprisingly easy, and despite the raging pandemic, the building had been supplied and erected again in a remarkably short time. Local builder for the foundation and manufacturer both grateful for the order I expect in troubled times. All of which ultimately proved way more helpful than I’d anticipated. However, I did harbour certain suspicions regarding Trixie’s enthusiasm and insistence for the project, which was to prove correct but not entirely as I’d suspected. Or her perhaps, come to that the way things turned out!

Trixie had gradually convinced me we needed more private space to play with our captive ponyboy. Remote and discrete as my little empire was, neither of us was overly comfortable with the idea of playing the sort of games we wanted to play with him outside the confines of his stable. The narrow road or track, such as it was down to my property, was, after all, a public one supposedly kept useable by the local authority, although I doubted that so much as a single pothole had been repaired in several decades!

It deteriorated into an even narrower dirt track come footpath a hundred yards past the farmyard but that track was still a public right of way. Ironically, as it turned out, that track was to have its uses, livestock-wise, and it confirmed our fears regarding playing our sadistic little games in public! You can always be sure that no matter how isolated you are, there will inevitably be some nosy busybody about when you least need them.

We collected mail and parcel deliveries once a week from the post office in the village store a few miles away. We had no gas, and a smart meter meant no one needed to check our electrical use. Water came via an electric pump and through a series of filters from whatever underground source had once supplied the rusty hand pump by a trough in the yard. Sewage ran into a substantial septic tank that need pumping out roughly once every two years. Once a week, one of us, invariably me, bundled all the black plastic rubbish sacks into the car, drove a mile and a half up the track, and added them to those put out by the nearest farm. Purely for the convenience of the refuse truck, nor did the local authorities deem my efforts to assist their collection worthy of a reduction in the council tax bill for so-called local services!

There had been a time when Trixie, a city girl, loathed the thought of spending so much as a single night at my farmhouse. Now, she’s rarely ever left it, often even leaving most of the weekly shopping trips to me. In fact, for those first few months, after her company introduced working from home and she decided that home should mean my home, she spent a mere three nights away. One was to attend a friend's wedding, one was to visit her parents, and the third was when she cancelled her furnished flat lease and collected all her stuff.

Of course, the main reason for her conversion to isolated rural living being the reluctant occupant of a stall in the old barn. Trixie had been fascinated from her first meeting with the man I’d captured and turned into my personal Ponyboy and fucktoy. Reluctant, perhaps on consideration being far too mild a word as it implies a certain degree of hesitant compliance towards something possibly unpleasant or unappealing. Tinkerbelle, as Trixie had originally named him, had not the slightest desire to comply with anything our perverted minds could conceive, nor, of course, could he prevent us from doing just as we wished with and to him as and when we wanted! That, in a nutshell, is the reason for his very existence as our captive human equine!

Many people keep pets, cats, dogs and so forth, often living in pampered, over-fed luxury. Neither Trixie nor I considered Tink a pet, and he certainly wasn’t pampered or living in luxury. Nor, for that matter, did we overfeed him either! He might once have been a relatively good-looking twenty-something, well-built, healthy human male with an active, intelligent mind. Now, he was merely a dumb captive animal, harnessed, bitted, restrained, and living permanently in a small stall out in the barn as befitted his lowly Ponyboy status.

The new building, training arena, and bloody aircraft hangar had come about after a session in the old barn. Trixie had been teaching Tink to trot, running in a circle with knees raised high under the threat of her favourite long, swishy crop. I remember her laughing and telling me how lucky he was. ‘There are some men who’d pay a fortune to be treated this way by a sexy bitch like me on a regular basis!’

That was probably true given her usual state of dress or rather undress. I eyed those prominent, aroused, puffy nipples of hers that rarely left the boil when she was playing with Tink. The very sight of them like that capping her pert young breasts never failed to do exciting things to me. I expect they had the same effect upon Tink; indeed, that cruel device she liked to keep his ‘stallion parts’ caged within often beeped to show it did. Unfortunately for him, that beep was immediately followed by a nasty electric jolt guaranteed to reduce his foolish and impertinent ardour for a time instantly.

No doubt she was right, and certain men would have paid a lot to enjoy being treated just as he was by my sexy little girlfriend for a few hours. Fortunately for us, Tink was not one of them, nor was his ‘session’ confined to just a few kinky play hours culminating in a quick relieving hand job! His ‘session’ was a whole life term without remission under living conditions that would have been instantly rejected by the most hardened of masochists, plus he could only dream of the relieving hand job!

That simple fact in itself was something we both found so damn awesome. The very actuality that he was out there, real and in the flesh and that he belonged to us was so God damn awesome. Even thinking about it could produce the same delicious erotic feelings and arouse both of us as we lay sleepily together in the darkness after some frenetic lovemaking, sometimes also quietly talking about it. Warm, happy, content, comfortable, well fed and sexually sated for the present, unlike our captive dehumanised beast!

The comparison between our frustrated, hungry animal and us lying such a short distance away, harnessed and restrained amid the straw and its own stinking bodily wastes, was a never-ending source of entertainment, even awe for us. What was the animal thinking right now? How was it feeling? That was a frequent conversation topic between us; of course, we never bothered to ask the animal itself. Nor would it have been necessary for the answer would have been obvious given the callous, cruel, and merciless way we treated it.

Nevertheless, just thinking about it, the fact that it was there and knowing the power we had over it was like some powerful, never-ending aphrodisiac. Neither of us had ever done drugs or even had the slightest inclination to try, yet I think both of us now had a far better appreciation of the meaning of the term ‘high’. That was why Trixie abandoned her city social life, the numerous casual girlfriends, and probably the occasional extra boyfriend so readily, and she showed no sign of getting bored or regretting her decision.

Only in our case, the high was continuous, but the comparison was not entirely different in some respects. Trixie was far more addicted than I was, an absolute junkie when it came to her daily fix over in the stable, dishing out pain and humiliation. Likewise, both of us realised that we were as hooked on this particular heady stimulus for life as any addict. Not only that, but I remember thinking about it one night while listening to Trixie snoring softly in my arms. She was so lovely, so cutely petite, so sweetly innocent looking in that sexy way and yet my mind had turned to the captive man in the barn.

This same soft, warm, sweetly scented, sexy little madam had spent a good part of the evening amusing herself with the poor wretch, and there had been nothing remotely innocent about what she was doing to him. I watched for a bit but then went back to the house. Trixie had fancied Spaghetti Bolognese for a late supper accompanied by a few glasses of decent Italian red wine. That was one of my specialities, the spagbol, not the wine!

Plus, there was an international soccer match on TV scheduled for an early evening kick-off that I wanted to watch live. A World Cup qualifier, and after all, the pony would still be there in the morning, wouldn’t he? Watching highlights of the game later was never quite the same, especially as Trixie could never keep her pretty mouth shut if she knew the score. ‘But it’s over now Honey, so it doesn’t matter now, does it?’. Well, it did and does, so maybe I could at least watch the first half of the match in peace and quiet if my garrulous little partner in crime was otherwise occupied with something she found vastly more entertaining!

There was another more practical reason for leaving her in the barn for said entertainment that evening, especially if I wanted to enjoy my delayed dinner. That was the smell, or perhaps appalling stench would be a more apt term building up in the old stable. Normally, the distinct aroma of fresh human excrement didn’t bother me one iota. Indeed, both of us loved watching the helpless creature crap in his stall, invariably befouling himself in the process. That particular humiliating aspect of his confinement had fascinated Trixie right from the beginning, possibly because she appreciated even more than I did how much that simple natural act, typically performed in discreet individual privacy, highlighted our absolute control over him.

However, my nasty-minded little girlfriend had decided to go one stage further, introducing and educating Tink and herself to the delights and warm, wet, soapy contents of an enema bag. The delight of learning to use the horrible thing for her and the less than delightful experience of being the repeated receptacle of such warm, wet content for Tink.

This had a certain fascination up to a point as she experimented on the poor, helpless, squirming beast. At least the input phase was entertaining as Tink writhed and wriggled so helplessly as his belly slowly became more distended and bloated as he reacted to her latest torture. Unfortunately, what goes in must also come out and somehow, I couldn’t find it in me to share that same delight Trixie exhibited when it came to the output stage for emptying ‘Pulling the plug on Stinky Tinky’ as she put it!

She’d even composed a silly little song or adapted an existing kiddie nursery rhyme that she liked to coo in his ear towards the end of the procedure while opening and closing the ‘tummy tap’ on the apparatus she’d bought, adding just a few drops more while prolonging his squirming agony.

‘Stinky Tinky pony,

filling from my spout.

Swelling big boy's belly,

thus cleaning Tinky out.

Nasty shit, all smelly,

Miss Trixie being kind,

relieving Pony’s pain,

So she can do it all again.

Oh, so luck, Tinky Pony,

Making Miss so horny!’

I’d pointed out that the last word didn’t rhyme and some of the others were a bit off, but she was pretty proud of her silly ditty, and so I got the usual verbal ‘fuck off’ accompanied by a small pink tongue waggling at me, plus a raised finger. Then she’d slapped her squirming victim's swollen belly and, with a giggle, added, ‘True though honey. He’s not the only one feeling in need of a squirt!’ I knew what she meant. I don’t know what triggered it, but sometimes, when writhing in the throes of an ultra-intense orgasm, her womanly juices did squirt!

After the first cycle, I departed with her amused shout of ‘wimp’ echoing in my ears. Trixie, on the other hand, seemed even more fixated than usual on the gushing, foul-smelling output and the spectacle of our ponyboy writhing in belly-bursting agony as she filled him so slowly. Tink would be one clean pony, internally anyway, before his long evening was over! Anyway, I’d done my bit by dragging in the old, rusted, galvanised iron trough she’d salvaged and cleaned up. Poor old Tinky! Not only as full as she could get him without bursting the poor fucker, but she also made him waddle over and straddle that big container before she pulled her plug or perhaps his plug might be more accurate.

You can guess who’d been delegated to empty the damn thing the morning after she’d carried out her first experiments. I did it once, grudgingly, and then after that, the first time, I declined point-blank and remained steadfast no matter how pouty a certain little madam got. In the end, she decided Tinky could do it himself. He’d made the foul, stinking mess, hadn’t he? So she harnessed him to the container, applied the usual painful encouragement, and he dragged it to her chosen dumping point. My contribution was to stand lookout on a nearby hummock like one of those what do you call them animals, just in case any itinerant walkers were about and then tip the thing over for her before Tink was encouraged to drag it back. Prairie dogs, that’s what I mean, cute little animals!

Maybe it was a woman thing, but the idea of relieving herself as Tink had to, as and when needed, to do in such a primitive fashion and sometimes with an audience was something I realised she couldn’t comprehend doing under any circumstances. Poor Tink didn’t even have control of that fundamental aspect of his miserable life, thanks to the hollow anal plug filling his rectal passage that allowed free passage for whatever was passing through his digestive system. Indeed, whenever the subject of Tink’s anal plug came up, I noted that her ambition of owning a ponygirl frequently cropped up as well, along with a wickedly cruel look in her eyes!

Given her interest in that aspect of Tink’s woeful life, it was no surprise that Trixie took complete control of his diet when she moved in full-time. We, or now almost exclusively Trixie, fed the animal twice daily. I had considered cutting it back to one meal, but she wouldn’t countenance the idea. Nothing I realised to do with any sympathy towards the poor thing, but merely another aspect of the absolute control she exercised over him.

Until then, I’d fed him a healthy, if bland, diet. Chopped fruit, dry bread, oats, broken biscuits, instant porridge, leftover veg and meat, canned dog food and so on mixed with water or milk. ‘Slurpee, slop slops’, I’d named it. Monotonous but nourishing with no thought on my part towards making the animal's life any more miserable, well, apart from the dog food and the way I fed it! Trixie was the opposite and continually experimented with what she provided, so I doubted if two meals would be the same for our beastie boy. Once she’d taken control of his feeding, I hadn’t paid much attention as it was a tedious chore she’d relieved me of until one morning, watching her fussing about preparing his breakfast, curiosity prompted me to ask her if she had any plan for what she was doing.

“Naturally, I always make sure it’s healthy and nourishing, although I’m never over-generous portion-wise. I’m aiming for a slightly more emaciated look in the long term. I think he’ll look better for us like that. Then, equally importantly, there are the three standard features of each meal I need to get right”.

“Ingredients?” I’d offered, which caused her considerable amusement as she giggled, presumably at my naivety.

“Nope, silly, well, there is one special ingredient, but I am referring to my three R’s. I want it to look repulsive, smell repugnant and taste revolting!”

I blinked. “Every meal?”

That produced another wicked giggle. “Yup, every single meal and I don’t do birthdays, Christmas, or any other special day either.” She paused. “Maybe I should occasionally make an extra special effort to be doubly awful. Do you remember the day you caught him?”

I grinned at that happy memory, the excitement, the first whipping, the first fucking, the…but she interrupted.

“The date, honey, the date. Maybe I should have a couple of extra special meals reserved for special days, the day you stabled him, for instance, maybe even his birthday,” she giggled again. “I’m sure I can come up with something suitable to remind him how long he’s been here amusing us and how his life is passing him by. Something extra repulsive taste and content-wise!” She giggled again, mimicked somebody vomiting, and then had the cheek to ask me, “What's wrong?”

‘Charming’, I didn’t say. Boy, she had the face of the cutest, sweetest angel, but if devils and demons exited, they might do well to borrow certain aspects from her personality to increase the horror they might cause and the terrible deeds they might do. I’d seen her in action with my ponyboy many times by then, but I think that was another of those rare times when I felt genuinely sorry for the wretched beast.

I could backtrack and fix the date I’d acquired him easily enough, but as for the poor wretch's birthday, we’ll I’d destroyed everything he’d had that very same day. I supposed she could always ask him, but whether or not he’d tell her was another matter! The latter I’d intended as a sarcastic comment, but she took the suggestion seriously, shaking her pretty blonde head.

“No, I don’t think l would do that. No, that wouldn’t do at all. Tink has a long, dehumanising journey ahead of him, and I’m not about to give him a break of normality now that we are already well down the first stretch of that long, uncomfortable road, no matter how brief! I prefer to keep both of us straight and narrow. Plus, you're quite wrong; if I wanted to get an answer from him about anything, I could do it quite easily.”

“How.”

Trixie had sighed, rolled her eyes and made a swishing motion with one arm, then pointed at the dish she was preparing, which, now I came to examine it closely, did indeed live up to her three R’s. I was somewhat surprised my nostrils hadn’t picked up on this before, but then I was generally in the other room on my desktop PC when she was prepping pony chow for the day.

“You don’t think he likes my cooking, do you, Honey?” she laughed. “I’d hate to think I was wasting my time titillating his taste buds daily! I’d have to rethink the entire process in that case!”

I looked dubiously at the plastic bowl's evil brown, slimy content as she lifted out the electric hand mixer. I wasn’t sure which was worse, the way it looked or the vile smell that seemed to grow stronger the more I hovered nearby. It certainly met the criteria for two of her R’s, and I didn’t intend to taste the muck to confirm the validity of her third! Trixie’s use of the term cooking wouldn’t have passed muster either since that implied the application of heat to her greasy, cold creation!

“Not hot?” I commented.

“Only on his balls and cock head if he seems to have no appetite”, Trixie said, giving the awful concoction another stir with a long spatula.

I blinked. “Eh?”

“You wanted to know how I could get an answer out of him should he prove reluctant. That’s where I apply the heat at mealtimes if the silly animal is in one of its ‘difficult’ moods and decides it’s not hungry!”

I nodded, thinking back to my early days. “Yeah, that used to happen frequently when I fed him. No appetite!”.

Trixie flashed me that oh-so-innocent and, at the same time, oh-so-wicked sweet, girlish smile of hers. The one she’d used so often on Tink that by now must terrify the creature, for some devilry on her part was bound to follow.

“Would you eat this shit?” She held the bowl up to my face, making me recoil. “Obviously not, but then you have a choice as opposed to our captive pony over there. He has to slurp this down every damn morsel and no slacking. He may have nothing better to do with his time, but I have, and watching him take forever to clear his food trough isn’t even on the list! I give him five minutes to the exact second, no more, no less!”

“And he always eats everything?” I suspected the answer but still asked the question.

Trixie grinned. “Everything silly! I stand and watch, and I always carry that crop with the extra big meaty flap on the tip, you know, the one, and he knows I have it so readily to hand. If I see so much as a greasy smidgin remaining in his trough when times up, I roast his balls and cock head!” She paused to give that sexy girlish giggle. “He didn’t seem to have much appetite when I started feeding him, but with a little encouragement, the good boy soon realised just how hungry he was! Now his head is in the trough almost before the sound from my finger snap has died away. Remarkable is it not how quickly such animals learn a routine given the appropriate encouragement! Hey, talking of shit, I almost forgot. Make yourself useful and pass me that pink plastic container, the one on its own in that compartment right at the bottom of the fridge, would you?”.

I obliged as she busied herself, pulling on thin blue latex gloves. I’d noted that pink container before but, for some reason, had never opened it. Curiosity prompted me to do so, and I immediately wished I hadn’t. “Jesus!” I exclaimed in shock. “You don’t?” I gawped at her and the box of gloves she was holding. There was an open box just like it on the window ledge in the bathroom that I’d assumed had something to do with her passion for bathroom cleanliness; now I knew differently!

There was a loud snap as she pulled up the second glove, released its cuff, and held her hand out expectantly. “I do” she grinned, “every damn meal as well. The pièce de résistance, the cherry on top, as it were!” The giggle she gave was one of pure malevolent wickedness.

I passed the container with its disgusting contents over to her, my mouth still hanging open. She hadn’t been kidding when she’d asked if I’d eat this shit, had she? Every single meal!

“The final touch”, she laughed, “I show him the contents and then select one or more scrumptious lumps from me to him, you might say. Hence, the gloves. A little taste of his Mistress and owner, especially for him!” She held up the pink container and giggled wickedly. “Why bother with sugar cubes and apple slivers as a treat?”.

“Why bother indeed”, I echoed, trying not to laugh, for she sounded so sincere. “You are an exceedingly cruel young woman, you know. What happens if he promptly throws it all straight back up?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time, but waste not want not. I keep a scoop handy,  so back in his trough and with a little more encouragement, and it all goes down to belly town, eventually”, she replied indifferently, picking up the bowl and heading for the door, glancing at the wall clock. “Fuck, I’m running late, and I do like my animal to eat at the same times every day. Good for his digestion, but you’re quite wrong about me,” she paused half out of the kitchen door. “Cruel to be kind, remember! So actually, darling, I must be a very kind person, don’t you agree!”

Her peal of laughter lingered around the open door, as did the exotic, musky fragrance she liberally sprayed herself with. Trixie rarely did anything by halves, as our pony well knew, and I doubted if he would agree with her take on that old proverb!                              

Anyway, I’ve digressed, so back to the new building. As I mentioned, the new barn had come about after a session in the restricted confines of the old barn. Trixie had been teaching Tink to trot in a circle with knees raised high under the threat of her favourite long, swishy crop. My little madam was in a temper, and poor Tink suffered from it. Finally, after delivering a half dozen vicious strokes to his lacerated rump, she threw the implement to the ground, stomping one dainty foot a couple of times while making odd-sounding noises of utter frustration.

I was about to make some flippant remark about said sounds, but one look at the expression on her face put a halt to that. Fortunately, Trixie is one of those mercurial people who can come off the boil just as quickly as they can reach it. She gave a long, deep sigh, picked up her discarded crop, then tapped Tink once on the bottom and led him back to his stall, joining me a few minutes later. Her face told me the dark clouds had disappeared, and the sun was out again.

“This is so fucking cramped, you know, sweetie”, Trixie had complained, looking around the barn. “I mean, it’s like fucking hopeless. How can I train Beastie Boy properly in here? I can hardly swing a whip,” she pouted.

Given the savage scars all over the helpless pony’s body, that seemed something of a contradiction in terms, but I knew she harboured a desire to expand his education and her use of him beyond the tight confines of the old barn. It wasn’t the first time the subject had come up, but that day, I kinda knew that she wouldn’t be putting it back to bed any longer! A theory that was to prove correct over the next couple of weeks of near-constant nagging!

Just as well, perhaps, considering what happened when I had to take that business trip to London not all that long after the new barn come training arena had been constructed. I thought she was doing pretty darn well as it was within the confines of our limited facilities, but Trixie was a perfectionist in some areas. It seemed training reluctant ponyboys was to be one such area!

I often wondered; indeed, we both wondered and sometimes idly discussed how the pony felt about our loving and other sessions with it; not that much actual love was involved so far as it was concerned! Lust, yes, but not love in the romantic sense. We were both fond of it in a ‘we’d miss it if it weren’t there way’ although we were not by any means the nicest of animal owners, far from it!

But then, that was the creature's purpose; its entire reason for existence was to serve our amusement, our sadistic titillation and intense sexual pleasure. To dance in agony and scream its regular song of pain for our delight as our toys bit into its soft white hide. To accommodate and satisfy my throbbing cock or writhe upon one of Trixie’s many dildos. To taste and swallow my thick creamy cum or gasp for air as Trixie’s heavy organic spray drenched his nostrils as her strap-on raped his throat.

How did the miserable creature feel when it realised that another long session of pleasure, pain, and humiliation was about to begin? Our pleasure; it’s pain and humiliation! Although we were in harmony on many things, our opinions differed on Pony’s enthusiasm for our games.

Oh yes, it had feelings; it had intelligence. We both knew that, of course, and revelled in the knowledge that it understood everything we did to it and was utterly helpless to prevent us from doing so. That it understood everything we said, every word, every nuance, even though we rarely spoke to it directly added to our sadistic delight in owning the creature. I’d seen it shake in terror more than once due to one of Trixie’s casual remarks.

I was of the opinion that the very last thing it would want to see was the pair of us entering its squalid domicile bent on making its wretched life even more miserable. On the other hand, Trixie favoured what she described as the ‘ignored puppy dog’ attitude. ‘It must get so bored standing about all day with nothing to do but eat and shit, so even a little tickle with my cane must be a welcome change or a bit of loving from one of my toys. Apart from my delicious, nutritious meals, what else is there for it to look forward to break the monotony of its life?’

I felt that her argument was flawed on all levels and points. No matter how bored it got, I doubt if it ever welcomed ‘a tickle’ from her cane, certainly not the way she wielded it! Likewise, the energetic way its orifices suffered the deep penetrating assault from her toys. Nor would I have dreamed of adding the word delicious to those daily concoctions of that evil-looking slimy gloop she sloped into its feeding trough twice a day – with or without the disgusting additive!

As I’ve said previously, Trixie had taken the feeding chore upon herself early on in her relationship with the beast, and again, we differed in our basic attitudes towards it. I’d acquired the animal on impulse to satisfy a long-held sexual and sadistic fantasy, and it served my purpose admirably. I owned it; I held it captive, I whipped it, I fucked it, and I relished my possession of such a unique helpless intelligent beast. In the physical sense, we were near equals, but given its present circumstances, the gulf between it and me was unbelievably immense!

Trixie’s interest and relationship with it went much deeper than mine. I merely enjoyed the thrill of ownership and abusing its body, whereas she did all that and also tormented its mind and very soul as she ruthlessly controlled every aspect of its wretched life. One frequent joke between us was ‘if it could only talk’. Very silly, but it amused us for, of course, it could talk, or to be more precise, could have done if we allowed it to do so. It could understand, though, and think, and that knowledge was also a frequent topic of entertaining pillow talk between us.

Given the choice, not that it ever was going to have such a luxury in its rigidly controlled life, but suppose we allowed it, which of us would it prefer? We sometimes wondered as we lay in bed discussing our amazing living sex toy. If it could completely cancel one of us out of its present life, which of us would prefer to remain? I was in no doubt that despite me being the one who’d robbed it of its freedom, its dignity, its pride, and its very masculinity, it would choose me. Even though I’d introduced its helpless body to the whip, fucked its Ponyboy cunt repeatedly and deposited numerous quantities of cum in its mouth and throat to swallow as it tasted the hot seed of the one who owned it.

 No matter how much it hated me, as it obviously must, I at least paid some small acknowledgement of its humanity. Yes, it was my human pony, and I’d harnessed it and kept it in my old barn; I’d emasculated it and treated it like an animal, yet I knew it wasn’t. It was a man I’d reduced to the status of a captive beast but still a man, albeit a very special sort of man now. That was strange, I often thought, for I was absolutely straight sexually except for this one aberration. Odd that in my fantasies, I’d never desired nor thought of acquiring and owning a ponygirl! Maybe it was a dominant thing, me wanting to exert my masculinity and mastery over another male. Some subliminal carryover from my childhood, but try as I might, I could recall no reason for such a strong desire. I’d never been bullied or anything like that nor been a bully.

Trixie, on the other hand, paid little heed to its humanity and hadn’t from the very beginning, not once she’d gotten over her initial amazement and fascination with the captive creature. My sexy little bedmate had soon come to certain decisions regarding its future. I remember laying back on the big bed after that first hot fuck with my adorably cute little girlfriend after she’d had her initial one-to-one session with the pony. That’s when she’d first mentioned her work colleague Annabel in passing as she jumped off my bed and eagerly headed back to the barn for seconds!

Seconds, thirds and fourths by the anguished sounds that reached my ears, for she certainly wasn’t holding back even though they’d only been recently introduced, as it were. In another less painful context, this was full-on intercourse on the first date and then some. I knew from how she’d treated a few of her girlfriends that Trixie could play a little rough at times, but I hadn’t realised how nasty she could be. Those sounds of leather and wood on flesh emanating from my old barn told me that even nasty might be too mild a term, which proved correct. My little cutie had gone from sugar plum fairy to wicked witch of the East in one short hop, and listening to those noises for the first time since I whipped and raped his virgin ass, I felt some sympathy for my poor ponyboy.

At one point early on in the proceedings, she must have removed the pony's gag again, for she was certainly making him squeal and use some choice language loud enough to reach my ears! God help us if any walkers or other lost souls happened to be about. I’d have advised her against that had I been in the barn instead of lying naked on the bed, awaiting her return to relieve me of a massive erection. Yeah, the silly beast had probably annoyed her with some of those foolish utterances, and she was upping the pace and the intensity by the sounds.

I remember laying back with my hands behind my head, musing that my days as the sole owner of a piece of prime livestock were now almost certainly numbered. No, make that over my ears told me! I could feel my straining cock growing harder, almost painfully hard, as I envisaged what was happening over in my old barn. Trixie often surprised me, but those sounds told me that my bachelor weekends were also over for some time. Even so, I hadn’t even remotely considered that the screaming animal would become the cement that welded us somewhat permanently together.

Trixie hadn’t exactly been overdressed when she’d picked up that whip and headed back to the barn, and my imagination didn’t need to work overtime to picture what was happening within. It wasn’t that far from the house, and my ears had picked up a good part of the story, and I could fill in the blanks without too much difficulty. I doubted, though, if my ponyboy was finding the naked little blonde sexpot's undivided attention all that erotic. Not from the sounds he was making, anyway!

Whatever foolish vestiges of hope he’d harboured at her somewhat indignant arrival just as I was withdrawing my limp cock from his ponyboy cunt

The second time around, she’d have wanted to take her time and thoroughly savour the unique moment. She’d still be basking in the afterglow of that massive organism she’d achieved, riding my cock in an energetic frenzy, but she’d want to work herself up for more, and I knew the moment she headed out that my poor pony was in for a bad time. Then again, I reflected without undue concern that was what it was there for, wasn’t it? One reason anyway, and what was new? It wasn’t like it had never felt the whip before. I’d had it for a couple of months, and its sturdy, muscular body was covered with the scars and marks of our little playful sessions together!

My cock gave a massive twitch making me grasp the bed rail tightly. Jeez, if I so much as laid a finger on it, I knew I wouldn’t have the willpower to stop myself from undoing the pressure release valve! I groaned inwardly, wondering if I could hold out till Trixie returned, knowing I damn well better, or I might just end up getting a taste of leather as well! Her attitude to certain parts of my anatomy could be annoyingly proprietary and wasn’t too different to the way I viewed ownership of the screaming animal she was soundly flogging!

I wondered how the beast was feeling right now. Not out of concern for its well-being but more of a case of curiosity regarding its state of mind. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, and was being whipped by a near-naked cute little sexpot any different to being beaten by me? I doubted it, nor if my big beast was finding the experience in any way erotic. Not from the sounds I could hear!

I couldn’t help but grin as I thought back to that first afternoon when it had innocently knocked on my door to ask for directions. It had been a pure spur-of-the-moment impulse action on my part. Crazy, I know, but very productive and enormously satisfying!

I was feeling more than a bit neglected, not to mention randy. Trixie was far too busy with her latest female conquest to worry herself about my sexual needs. I’d be playing second fiddle until she got bored or the urge to ride a sizeable hot cock overrode her bi tendencies. I didn’t expect that to be anytime soon, not with a new tasty morsel to satisfy her voracious sexual appetite.

It was all so easy; honestly, I can’t even remember the minor details. Trixie had badgered me for a blow-by-blow account, but somehow, most of it eludes me now as it did then. It was undoubtedly a mixture of the adrenaline high I found myself on and disbelief at the incredible audacity that gripped me, not to mention the anticipation of the fun to come!

I remember the shocked, disbelieving expression on his face when I pointed my shotgun at him and told him to lie face down on the floor. That look slowly changed from a disbelieving nervous grin to genuine fear as he realised I wasn’t joking. I remember how loud it sounded when I pulled the hammers back, one after the other, with two ominous clicks.

His pathetic bleating that he didn’t have much money on him, he wasn’t a rich man. Hell, I knew that already. One glance at his clothes and that rusting thing he’d parked outside my front porch. A couple hundred at best from a rock-bottom, back street car dealer, assuming the latter was both short-sighted and feeling very benevolent. The latter was unlikely, knowing how those shady guys operated!

I recalled laughing, ”Oh, this isn’t a robbery, at least not in the conventional sense, but I will be taking something from you soon, very soon! Even as I spoke, I had one hell of a hard-on as I looked upon that denim-clad rump that was about to be mine to do with as I wished!

Poor Tinky, or Gummy-boy as I sometimes called him now, since Trixie had used those dental pliers so mercilessly and, I had to admit, so effectively. Oh, so much better now that we didn’t need to worry about oral ring gags when I felt like going in through the front door. Besides, what did he need them for? As Trixie said, it was good tongue exercise slurping up that mud-like gloop she fed him.

Yeah, thinking back to that period, that certainly answered the question about who he might prefer. How could I have forgotten that little interlude as she demonstrated how effectively she could use those horrible pliers? ‘All in the wrist action, watch’, she’d said so calmly once we’d got him immobilised in that old hard-backed wooden chair and then to work with those dental screw thingy’s to force his mouth wide.

Yeah. I’d been no saint, and he certainly hadn’t enjoyed those first few days as I did everything I wished to do and then some to his helpless body. It was a pity I’d been so eager and hadn’t thought to set up a camera so I could enjoy it all over again later. Naturally, it was never the same after that first time, and it would have been cool, as they say, to watch it again and again. But then again, I only had to stroll over to the old barn anyway if I felt in the mood, which was even more cool!

It had been a period of firsts for both of us, but not in quite the same way. Similar, yes, but also radically different in that I was the one exerting my masculinity over him in a manner I’d often fantasised about, even though I didn’t consider myself the slightest bit gay. Besides, I suppose in one sense, it was more a touch of bestiality anyway, given his new role. Tinky, of course, had no option nor say concerning the strange situation he found himself in. Nor did I bother asking him after I’d secured him with his bottom and butt hole so temptingly placed as I cut away his clothes if this was one of his long-held fantasies.

My masculinity did an awful lot of exerting that first afternoon while Tink, as the hapless and helpless recipient, found himself confirming that superior masculinity many times over. I got the impression early on, very early on, in that first, what you might call introductory session together,  that playing captive submissive bottom to a sadistic top wasn’t something he’d ever wanked himself off over! Also, he might have queried my calling it a strange situation, for that sounds kind of mild in retrospect.

I think that strange situation for him rapidly deteriorated into one of horror once I’d got him stripped down to bare hide, and realisation began seeping into his brain as to what might happen next. As for me, it was the very opposite for me, and I knew exactly what would happen next. If we had anything in common at that point, we were probably both trembling, him with fear and me with excitement. I hadn’t bothered gagging him at that point, and although he was giving me a ton of verbal shit, none of it was registering with me, nor can I recall anything he may have said or, more likely, screamed at me.

The word abuse probably doesn’t even come close to describing what I did to him over that initial period, and his enjoying anything had never been part of the equation. I don’t suppose that being dehumanised, repeatedly beaten and raped for another guy's sadistic pleasure had ever been top of his career aspirations or figured in his worst nightmares. Likewise, being kept naked and helpless in a musty old stable as an animal, never knowing when I would appear and abuse him again.

The term ‘breaking in’ comes to mind and appropriately so, for that's what they used to do with wild horses, didn’t they? That is what I had in mind long term for my reluctant ponyboy. Maybe after a few years, three, five, or ten, he wouldn’t need to be restrained constantly. Perhaps if I just snapped my fingers, he’d obediently bend over, offering his ass ready for his master to ride him once more. Then again, would that be as much fun as having a wild, angry, but helpless pony writhing on the end of my cock as I continually asserted my ownership and mastery by robbing him of his pride, masculinity and very humanity.

I couldn’t honestly say that he was well and truly on that road to being broken when a certain young blonde girl of my acquaintance first saw him, but his journey had undoubtedly started. Any thoughts he might have foolishly harboured about escaping his cruel fate or that his life might improve when she strode angrily into the barn that first time were quickly dispelled during those first private sessions with Trixie later that afternoon.

 My girlfriend was blonde, shapely, petite and sexy as hell. A sight to raise even the limpest cock when she was stripped down for action and working up a sweat. Although my ponyboy being the one on the receiving end of her whips and canes as she worked up that sheen of sweat, probably wasn’t quite so enamoured, besides that nasty device she’d fitted to his cock didn’t allow such ardour to develop. Beastie boy was only allowed to stand to attention when it amused her, and no matter how much he might twitch and silently beg under her skilful teasing fingers she would never permit him that ultimate treat. All he had to look forward to was her own unique way of reducing him back down to a manageable size, ready to be imprisoned till next time, and Trixie’s methods were far more painful than a handful of ice cubes!

Poor Tink hasn’t even had that little treat, if treat you could call it, for a while. Not now she had the delectable Annabelle or Boobie as she was now named as principal playmate, so he wasn’t quite the centre of attention but never totally ignored. Indeed, since the ‘herd’ arrived, there have been a few minor adjustments in the daily routine. Trixie still looks after the ‘catering’ if it could be called such, but it has not improved in any way. The two meals were replaced with a bigger midday meal, mainly for her convenience, and she didn’t experiment as much. She didn’t have to, for she’d established enough foul recipes to maintain a wide variety of her three R meals. Not that I thought there was much variety in look or smell, and as for taste, I was still passing on that one.

I couldn’t fault her courage, for she always dipped a finger end into her mixtures and tasted, sometimes more than once, if she felt it wasn’t up to standard. A ten-minute one had now replaced the five-minute rule. ‘Only fair’, she’d said as they now had twice as much to consume or, more aptly, slurp up before their fastidious catering supervisor checked troughs for minuscule amounts of food residue.

The pink plastic box still resided in the bottom of the fridge, but Tinky’s special topping was now shared around out of fairness, so she claimed apart from that bout of diarrhoea she had, but I’d rather not dwell on that period! Nowadays, Trixie kept a rota, so every animal knew when it would be their turn again to get their teeth or gums, in Tinky’s case, into Madam's personal treat.

My thoughts had made the return trip go quickly, I realised as I pulled into the farmyard, and naturally, Trixie wasn’t around to help me unload the groceries and the parcels I’d collected from the Amazon locker outside the big supermarket. She never was, but at least she no longer left the stable door wide open so anyone could walk in. Hopefully, she’d also lock it before amusing herself with the unfortunate occupants within. That was one huge advantage of our new training arena being vast and insulated; it effectively deadened our animals' delightful sounds while we trained them so that mouth bits and ball gags were no longer du rigour if that’s the correct term.

My eye fell on the big refrigerator as I dumped the first load of groceries on the kitchen table and paused momentarily. What did they call that transparent plastic bit at the bottom, the salad compartment, the dew bin or something like that? Maybe I ought to buy another small fridge for the new building; they weren't expensive, were they? Even a small tabletop or camper van size one, and then that innocent yet wholly evil pink plastic container could be rehomed? Yeah, subliminally, that wretched thing must have been bugging me for a while. I mean, I wasn’t Tink or the others, and unlike them, I had a choice, didn’t I?