Girlfriend Meets My Ponyboy!

Herd extra

Years ago, they called them 'Gentlemen of the road'—a rather romantic sounding name for diverse tramps, beggars and similar wandering vagrants. 'Hobo', I believe, was the US equivalent. The homeless, the unemployed and, in some cases, the unemployable! Some of them were genuine gentlemen of the road, traversing the country and living off what they could find, beg and, in many cases, probably steal—doubtlessly preferring such unfettered freedom to roam the countryside, spurning the infinitely more secure but far more mundane, nine-to-five lifestyle most people today are familiar with. In those days, it was more likely to have been a six to-six, twelve-hour shift, six days a week back, but at least there was a regular, if measly, pay packet at the end of the week!

There were also far fewer of them back in those days of near full employment and nigh-on non-existent welfare benefit payments bar a few rare charitable hand-outs. The grim alternatives were prison or the workhouse, the latter, in reality, being only marginally better than the former. Nor would you have found many blocking shop doorways, rolled up in filthy sleeping bags, or aggressively begging outside popular fast food chain restaurants. Not that such establishments had existed back in those days.

Given a choice, though, I expect Dirtbag would sign up for the workhouse without a second thought and even find picking oakum in a forbidding early Victorian gaol infinitely preferable to his present employment. I once looked that up, and it's the process of teasing out fibres from old tarry ropes. This task was commonly assigned to convicts and inmates of workhouses. The fibres were used for caulking wooden ships or making new ropes. A very tedious and unpleasant task by all accounts!

Did convicts have to do that under the threat of the lash, I wondered, for I knew the penal system was pretty brutal in those days. But then things were also pretty brutal these days, weren't they, if you happened to be the unfortunate one assigned to doing yard chores by a sadistic young madam of my acquaintance. Nor were there any questions about the lash being a threat, for in this case, it was an ever-present reality for our one-time unfortunate vagrant!

Yes, you guessed it, Trixie had been at it again. I mean, you just can't go around blithely kidnapping people off the street just because you feel like it, but try telling that to her! My cute little girlfriend's plaintive "but this was different" cut no ice with me, but of course, by the time I'd worked up a full head of steam and blown my bloody top, it was already far too late, the deed was done and 'Dirtbag' was very much in the bag if you'll excuse the pun!

My fault, I suppose, or that was her main line of defence, albeit somewhat oblique! We'd ordered some stuff from Amazon and had them sent to the lockers at a nearby or nearby(ish) supermarket, and we were running short of a few essentials anyway. Usually, I do such trips, but on this occasion, I'd objected to her more or less ordering me to do the run. It was more the imperious way she said it that irritated me more than the chore. She can give as many snappy orders as she likes to our captive animals, but I'd like to be treated with a little more respect and not taken for granted once in a while! She didn't actually point in the car's direction and say, 'Go, Fetch!' but I was in a mood, and it felt like that.

So, of course, we'd argued loudly, and the more we argued, the more obdurate and mulish I became this time, especially since almost all the Amazon packages were for her. Bloody impulse buying again! Anyway, the end result had been Trixie disappearing out the door in a tearful temper tantrum, mouthing obscenities at me and driving off in a huff, narrowly avoiding taking one of the gate posts with her as she accelerated out of the farm yard at about Mach 1 plus! Had the yard been tarmac or asphalt rather than packed dirt and gravel, she would have left rubber tyre scorch marks behind her.

By the time she returned about two hours later, I'd calmed down a bit, well, quite a lot, mainly thanks to Buttercup or animal numero tres in our livestock collection. For some unfathomable reason, as the vehicle disappeared, I found myself with a hard-on—a rock-solid, unyielding one, too,  that bordered on being uncomfortable! There is something about my sexy little girlfriend when she gets worked up that does it to me every time. I’d cast an eye in the direction of the woman's husband, Bozo cowering in his big doggie basket in the far corner of the enormous kitchen, and I'll swear he started whining quietly as his sad eyes briefly met mine before he looked away trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. Bozo had done a lot of cowering and whimpering since Trixie had decided to 'domesticate' him, as she put it and made him 'our' pet doggie, promoting him from barn stall to a big wicker basket in the corner of my kitchen!

I doubt that Bozo appreciated that promotion nor the gimp suit that accompanied it that confined him to such a lowly position in life. Hell, if I'd thought that oversized wicker basket was expensive, then the made-to-measure gimp suit he was wearing came with the kind of invoice NASA must get from time to time for space suits, as in bloody astronomical!  

 Worse, she was already talking about suit mark two for the poor bastard or make that two poor bastards at that price! That initial impression I'd had that the porky overweight bastard would be more suited to a pig sty than a stable was no longer relevant since Trixie had our pet-human dog on a stringent diet of canned doggie chunks and dry kibble. Nor were the portions generous, the only variation being whether his 'chunks' were in jelly or gravy. Usually, the former, as the cheapo supermarket brand Trixie preferred, frequently had those on offer. He wasn't even allowed leftovers or plate scrapings, a rule his cute little Mistress stringently enforced with no exceptions, not even me!

She'd caught me amusing myself by teaching him to beg and feeding him bits of broken digestive biscuits one morning, and like Queen Victoria,  she was not amused! I was unlucky on several counts in that I had the TV on too loud and was so focused on Bozo's desperate efforts to alleviate his hunger that I didn't hear her scrunching across the yard nor enter the kitchen. Also, for some reason, she was still holding one of the long, thin, swishy canes she favoured having just used it on Boobie rather than hanging it back on a hook.

An unfortunate combination, and anyway, Bozo was still a relatively recent addition back then, and a few fragments of biscuit would hardly add much to his already obese waistline and belly, would they? My mistake and the first thing I knew of Madam's wrathful presence was a brief whistling sound followed by a streak of agonising fire across my buttock cheeks. The fact that I'd been bending over the cringing pup had given her way too good a target for her instant fury, nor had she stinted in terms of her arm swing!

My farmhouse is old; by old, I mean old, at least a couple of centuries, and back then, they didn't skimp on materials. Some pretty hefty timbers ran across the ceiling in my kitchen, supporting the floor above, and they are probably thick enough to support a dozen floors, never mind one. Probably old ship timbers, a builder had told me, pointing out the holes and assorted notches in them. Recycling is by no means a new phenomenon, and it would make sense to use a lot of that surplus lumber when they broke up old wooden sailing ships. I’ve often noticed similar in old pubs and the like.

Thankfully, the beams are spaced about two feet apart; otherwise, yours truly would have been seeing stars and worse when he emitted a loud howl and took off in a vertical direction. I swear there's a slight dimple in the plaster where my head made contact, but fortunately, I missed those solid timbers. Mind you, I might have been better off or received a little sympathy had I knocked myself senseless!

Trixie was in no mood to take prisoners or grant clemency. She got in two more good cuts with that horrible cane before I managed to flee out into the safety of the yard while my enraged little girlfriend directed both rage and cane upon the poor innocent pooch who'd only been obeying his Master. That, of course, cut no ice with Trixie, and her cane continued to whistle. Boy, did she make him jump and howl and even break what we regarded as rule number one. He started to beg in human speech!

It's not the wisest course of action when an irate young female sadist is flogging you with an evil bamboo cane, and you've no chance of defending yourself. He might have been bigger and heavier than his furious Mistress, but in that tight-fitting (costly) leather doggie gimp suit she'd purchased via one of my credit cards, he had no chance. Not the way that suit restricted him and forced him to waddle on bent elbows and knees in an all too convenient rump upwards posture.

That restrictive and hideously expensive garment, if that's the correct term, came minus any covering for his buttock cheeks, which bulged out of the suit so that Trixie could admire her evil handiwork. My eyes also bulged outwards when I saw the price of the thing, and what's more, I appeared to be paying more for less. “Because of the extra work involved, silly!” Trixie calmly told me when I queried why a suit with those accessible rump cutouts, as they described them, cost more than one that came with them despite having more material!

Worse, I gathered from what she said that I'd be footing the bill for a whole damn wardrobe for the wretched creature for countless years to come. “No point in ordering more than one to start with”, she'd calmly told me, hitting the order button. “I doubt they are intended for the sort of twenty-four-seven use I plan, so we’ll see how we go with him. Besides, I intend for him to lose a lot of that surplus puppy fat he’s carrying, so even if he doesn’t wear it out, I’ll need to downsize several times”.

I recall thinking foolishly after I acquired Tink that all those bdsm books and stories were wrong. Invariably, the people in them who obtained and owned such exotic animals were fabulously wealthy or at least obscenely well-off and could afford their perversions. Whereas, although I wasn’t by any means destined for the poor house, far from it, my own perversion had cost me nothing and virtually nothing to keep. Indeed, my expenditure was almost exclusively on toys to abuse him with, and besides, that wasn’t going to cause so much as a tiny hiccup to my bank accounts and investments.

That sense of financial well-being had not vanished but certainly diminished once Trixie took up full-time residence and promptly added to the livestock collection. Although, to be fair to her, none of them had cost me anything, had they? And it wasn’t as if I’d had to shell out a few million each time like some of those fictional livestock auctions in stories where Arab Princes and Princesses chuck money around like confetti. Even so, as someone brought up to be financially prudent, I couldn’t help mentally baulking at the cost of some of Trixie’s ‘essential’ purchases. Not that I ever said no, of course, nor did I expect that I ever would.

That fucking cane of hers damn well hurt, though, which of course, was its purpose, its ‘raison d'être’ as the French would say. The little bitch hadn’t held back either; she rarely did come to that. How often had I heard her tell me, ‘It’s supposed to hurt them, Sweetie; otherwise, I’m merely wasting my time and energy, am I not!’ Marked for bloody life, I thought, twisting and turning in the privacy of the bathroom that evening as I tried to view those raised painful wheals on my poor bottom in the mirror. I could have done it in the bedroom much easier using the full-length mirror I’d installed for Trixie, but I wasn’t going to give the nasty little miss the satisfaction of walking in on me doing it.

To be fair, she did insist on rubbing some antiseptic cream onto my wounds later, an act of contrition which she seemed to find somewhat arousing, and so we’d made love passionately and more than once. I insisted on the ‘missionary position’, and I certainly didn’t concur with her ‘that was fun, I should give you a hot bottom more often’ comment afterwards, though. No fucking way, Jose, Hose or whatever!

I’d escaped with three such cuts, whereas poor Bozo probably received several times that number before Trixie stayed her hand. He couldn’t escape as I had, and to make sure, she’d grabbed him by the collar with one hand while the other wielded that cane to deadly effect. I suspect that after that little bout of correction, I could have offered the poor thing the tastiest titbits imaginable, and I’d get not the slightest response from the sad mutt. Nor could I blame him, having tasted that evil bamboo myself now.

Unlike the occupants of the stable, who were always kept bitted except for meal times, Bozo was rarely muzzled. Having him primarily underfoot around the house meant that Trixie had taught him in double quick time to speak ‘doggie’ rather than human. Barking, whining, whimpering and howling were all she permitted, and he’d done an awful lot of the last three both before and after she’d crammed the poor fucker into that leather dog suit. He also spent a lot of time with his mouth open and tongue sticking out, so he was rarely muzzled. ‘Tongue doggie, tongue!’ How many times had I heard that command, and if the poor thing didn’t respond quickly enough…well, he would next time.

“Dogs are always sticking their big slobbery tongues out” " she’d told me, “you must have seen that”. I had, and I’d also seen their teeth, which was something Bozo now lacked. Trixie had been as ruthless with those dental pliers with him as she had with poor Tink, the only difference being that Tink had sported a pretty healthy complete set, whereas Bozo had a few gaps and a couple of crowns. ‘Making the job easier’ as she’d callously put it.

Just out of curiosity, I’d Googled the word Sadist on my phone as I watched the poor fucker writhing in his bonds, mouth clamped wide open by some other specialised dental devices she’s purchased along with those terrible pliers. Sadist: noun. A person who derives pleasure, especially sexual gratification, from inflicting pain or humiliation on others. Hell, I could have said the same with just a single word. TRIXIE!

The entry I’d randomly clicked on said much more, but I decided not to read all the details. I could guess what it said, and no one wants to know that you’re sharing a bed with a deranged psychopath, do they? Besides, she’s just Trixie, my diminutive, cute blonde, sexy girlfriend and lifestyle partner. I was going to throw the word ‘sweet’ in there, but that would probably stretch it a bit for someone who gets a kick out of yanking teeth!

Of course, she regularly put that tongue to more intimate use, just as she had with Tinky, nor had I been slow to take advantage of the de-fanged mutt when I was in the mood. I did, however, draw the line at buying another basket for our bedroom if for no other reason than there wasn’t enough room for the damn thing! She did see the sense in that, so Bozo had to make do with a think mat on her side of the bed until morning.

However, I’m wandering away, of course, getting sidetracked by that error of judgment I’d made that time over the wretched human hound's diet. The poor thing was endeavouring to silently sink through the bottom of his basket as my eye fell on him while the sound of Trixie's ill-tempered high-speed departure slowly faded into the distance via the external door she’d failed to close. Of course, he’d heard the entire short but highly charged debate and knew by experience that whenever one of us was angry….some other unfortunate was likely to be elected ‘whipping boy’ while someone worked their bad temper off!

Being the resident house pet, he was an all too convenient target, and he suffered every day, although not necessarily from the toys that were always convenient to hand. I suspected that for every stripe, spank, slap or whatever his rump received, the toe end of Trixie’s boot or trainer had left far more unseen painful bruises on him beneath that tight-fitting gimp suit. My girlfriend wasn’t exactly over-endowed with patience, and the poor dog was way too convenient a target for her ire when some minor thing upset her equanimity, and that didn’t take much. A tray of buns left five minutes too long in the oven, or perhaps an ill-judged comment in an email from a girlfriend or other acquaintance, and a small but perfectly formed foot would instantly lash out!

Trixie liked to have him to heel and had trained the poor thing that way, so he had no choice but to hang around those dainty but lethal feet unless specifically ordered into his basket or elsewhere. I was the opposite, and he’d received the toe end of my foot a few times to discourage him before he realised that I didn’t share Trixie’s seeming need for close doggie companionship all the time. I guess she somehow saw him in a different light to what I did, plus she’d told me her dad had never let her have a puppy when she was a kid, so she’d had a deprived childhood.

Something I very much doubted, as she was an only child, and I’d met her parents several times; they were lovely people. As far as I knew, Trixie had never lacked for anything in her life, for they were an indulgent couple who, if we want to classify, I’d have said, fell into the upper end of the moderately affluent middle-class bracket. They could easily have afforded a pony, let alone a dog, had she wanted one. Talking of ponies, I suspected her interest in animals was relatively recent and primarily focused on one particular species. Or perhaps artificial variants based on that species and triggered by that first astonished glimpse of Tinky being buggered by me that day she paid me an unannounced call! In Trixie’s case, the proverbial duck had taken big time to the water!

I contemplated Bozo, but he was safe from me. Besides, my anger had faded quickly to mere irritation and crossed metaphorical fingers that my angry little bitch wouldn’t try jousting with any more gateposts before she returned home. I owned quite an expensive four-wheel drive motor, and we were down to that vehicle being singular for the present. The third-hand Porsche I’d bought her had been sold as surplus to rural living requirements, or rather, she’d sold it and naturally kept all the money. I’d wisely said nothing at the time, and her crappy electric runabout was in the dealers awaiting parts that timewise were presumably being shipped from the moon or beyond!. I’d seen the bloody estimate, and it would probably be cheaper to buy her another, but she was fond of the bloody thing and had poo-pooed that idea…unless it was another Porche, a new one. Naturally, I’d quickly poo-pooed that idea by return of serve and ensured it was well out of her reach!

Thinking back, buying her that used Porsche probably hadn’t been a good idea. That had been early on in our relationship, and I’d very much wanted to make the right impression on the bisexual little sexpot. I’d probably made the rod for my own back by doing that, hadn’t I? I’m not talking about more recent bamboo ones, either!

Anyway, talking of poo, had she taken Bozo for his morning ‘doo dah’ walkies, as she termed it. He didn’t look as though he was bursting for a pee or a poop as he occasionally did, nor was the poor fucker whining and scratching at the door as he’d been taught. That doggie diet she insisted on feeding the poor mutt had played havoc with his insides for the first few weeks, and I’d been profoundly thankful once she’d got him house-trained. Shoving his ‘muzzle’ in the stinking yuk that gushed out of his hollow tail tube and thrashing his butt till it was a bloody mush didn’t make one iota of difference to his metabolism. And there are no prizes for guessing who cleaned the foul mess all too often. “Deal with that, will you, Sweetie, while I see to him” Yeah, yours truly, who frequently was awarded the task while she dragged him outside. A right bloody palaver until his body clock had adjusted to both diet and the twice daily poo poo doo dah walkies routine.

For some reason, our bad-tempered exchange, that argument had left me feeling extremely horny, and I had no idea why. Maybe one of those clever Freudian head shrink types could explain it because I’d have thought it would have the opposite effect on the old libido. Perhaps it was because Trixie somehow looked that bit cuter when she got angry and animated. Blonde hair flying about, titties bouncing so delightfully in tee shirt or tight sweater and so forth. A kind of fully clothed version of that cute little  ‘wild woman’ who frequently shed such restrictive outer garments when she was flogging a pony in the stable. Perhaps it was a subliminal primal message that I missed, but not so my buddy downstairs, for it never took much effort from Trixie to get him stirring and interested.

That’s why my eye had fallen on Bozo in the first place, but I’d had him last night, not even twelve hours ago! Trixie had retired to bed early to head off one of her occasional migraines, and I’d been told, no ordered, to come up quietly and sleep in the spare room once the soccer match finished so as not to disturb her. It was a pity, even more so, when my team emerged victorious from the encounter by a satisfying 4-1 score line. I also had an odd habit of rubbing at my groin when we were winning. Had I been at the stadium, I’d probably have got myself arrested for obscene behaviour or something or maybe merely laughed at by fellow supporters. Imagine two or three hundred and more chanting, ‘Look who’s got a hard-on’, accompanied by an equal amount of pointing fingers!

Anyway,  as I got up to switch the TV off, I became conscious of my erection and that posed a problem. Well, not really a problem but a moment of thought. Under normal circumstances, Trixie would still be awake and probably reading, and even if she was asleep, it didn’t take much to get her stirred up and randy. Even semi-comatose, it wouldn’t have been the first time I’d screwed what amounted to a semi-conscious zombie, but she was a generous and randy little zombie who rarely had a headache unless, of course….Damn, that bloody migraine!

Well, I wasn’t about to head for the spare room and put five-fingered Mary to work, was I? Or should that be four-fingered Mary to be more anatomically accurate? I couldn’t even remember the last occasion I’d done that, and certainly not since I’d acquired Tink. Indeed, that was partly why I’d seized the opportunity that day when it presented itself to me in the shape of a prospective ponyboy. I’d always fantasised about owning such an exotic beast, and of course, it would come equipped with a couple of holes that I could indeed find a use for!

That’s not to say if it had been a female of reasonable age and appearance, lost and knocking on my door that day, I might have given it a go if the thought had occurred to me. I’ve never been quite sure why I’ve had the ponyboy fantasy. I mean, not being gay or bi in the conventional sense. I suppose it comes down to ultimate and absolute power or something similar and the urge to dominate and…and…and, well, it's fun whipping and fucking him, and there is nothing the poor thing can do to stop me!

Mind you, now I think about that afternoon; It’s probably as well that the wriggling unhappy object I’d just fucked was male, for God knows how Trixie would have reacted if it had been a female pony she’d caught me with! There was more than a touch of the ‘green-eyed monster’ lurking within her pretty head, and naturally, it only worked one way, given how many sexy girlfriends she could have or used to have! Tink she didn’t mind one bit and found the sight of me using him immensely arousing, and Buttercup likewise, probably because the middle-aged old nag was hardly eye candy. Watching me do to the Puritan bitch the sort of things her husband never had or probably was never allowed to amuse her intensely. That’s when she wasn’t doing things to the mare that the beast could never have imagined!

I could have relieved my post-match stiffness by wandering over to the stable, couldn’t I and bend Tink over the ‘rumpy-pumpy’ hurdle, as Trixie called it or perhaps Buttercup? She was as ugly as sin but an acceptable fuck. Now had Boobie not been off limits, Trixie’s personal ponygirl, then it would have been a no-brainer. She was a magnificent creature, and I’d lusted after her ever since that day I’d returned from that tedious business trip to find that I was no longer a two-legged pony owner in the singular sense.

The filly, well, given her age, she was probably more mare than a filly, but that was irrelevant given how gorgeous she was and so eminently fuckable despite that latticework of whip and cane wheals that covered whatever delectable flesh that wasn’t covered by her harness and punishing waist corset. The latter doing very little to support the two delightful, heavy, fleshy orbs above that never failed to excite me despite all the nasty attention they’d received from my sadistic little girlfriend and her nasty toys!

Unfortunately, it was a case of strictly hands-off so far as I was concerned. I could look, admire, and indeed lust after the lovely animal, but that was all. “Lay so much as a finger on my property, and I’ll hack your fucking balls off slowly!” Trixie had laid that law down with a particularly evil-looking serrated kitchen knife in her hand, and I knew her well enough to know that my straying over the line would not be a good idea. Yes, I was afraid of her. The girl could be very impulsive, act now, think later, and if she was in the right mood, she might carry out such a terrible threat!

Whenever I was tempted to sample the delectable beauty, a sudden image of poor Tinky strapped into that makeshift dentist chair while she worked on him came to mind. That chilling image inevitably stopped me dead; likewise, my buddy down below, who promptly shrank back to normal! The casual, callous way she’d used those dental pliers on the wretched creature over the course of the week was enough to chill anyone! I must admit that every time I helped drag him from his stall and secure him to that chair, I felt a twinge of guilt for the first time since acquiring him in that I was responsible for the coming atrocity.

On the other hand, Trixie hadn’t been bothered by what she was doing, but then she’d already proved herself to be a total savage in the stable. When we were sipping our morning coffee after her first assault, and she was planning round two, I had tentatively suggested giving him a week to recover, and I wasn’t entirely thinking of him.

“Oh, don’t fuss! He’ll be fine”, she’d shrugged, hardly listening, being more interested in an article in the woman’s magazine she was reading. “They all came out clean, and I’ll monitor him closely. Forty-eight hours, and then I’ll start again. I want his mouth and tongue ready to use ASAP without the hassle of ring and spider gags. There’s no way I’m letting him near my clit with those gnashers of his, and I’m way too fond of your beautiful cock to want it cut off in its prime! So no toothy peggies,  no risk, and we can enjoy ourselves Au Naturel, as the French say!”

I recalled giving a shiver as she said that without sounding the least bit bothered and said as much, “My, you’re a cold-hearted little bitch, aren’t you? I’d bet you’d slit the poor bastard's throat on a whim if it amused you to do so!” This time, she looked up from her magazine and seemed genuinely surprised and slightly puzzled as she responded.

“Why on earth would I want to do that? He’d be no good to us dead, would he? Don’t be ridiculous! How much fun could we have with a corpse? All I’m doing is making him a bit more useful to us and finally getting some mileage out of that time I wasted doing dental nurse training!”  she shook her head and returned to the magazine article, muttering, “You do spout some rubbish at times, darling”.

Rubbish! I’d been sorely tempted to argue the toss with her on that one but wisely refrained on two counts. One, we didn’t appear to be on the same wavelength in terms of the horror she was so casually inflicting upon our ponyboy; more importantly, two, I’d lose or annoy her. Trixie was one of those people who would always come out first if she followed you into a revolving door!

 No, I’d decided; it just wasn’t worth the risk. No doubt, at some stage, I might be allowed to sample the lovely Boobie, once known as Annabelle, but Trixie was one of those girls with built-in radar. I’d lost count of how often she’d appeared from nowhere at an inappropriate moment. Early night, migraine or not, if I put so much as a finger on the catch to open Boobie's stall, she’d be standing in the stable doorway, arms akimbo and blasting me verbally for such wanton foolishness. Nor would she be above grabbing a whip and giving me a taste of the business end for my temerity, and having seen her at work on our livestock so many times, I’d rather not be a recipient, not even for a few of her ‘little love taps’ as she called them!

Besides, it was raining outside. It had been damp and miserable all day, drizzling, and now it was chucking it down by the sound of it. I’d have to swap my well-worn slippers for a pair of rubber boots, slosh my way across the muddy yard with a torch, and then tackle the security lock on the stable door. Then, there would be all the hassle of getting a pony from its stall suitably secured and positioned. All I wanted was relief. Nothing prolonged or formal, just a quickie!

He wasn’t to know, but that probably wasn’t the best moment for Bozo to shuffle around in his big wicker doggie bed in the corner, trying to find a comfier position for his cramped, doubled-up limbs. No doubt he was patiently waiting for me to put the light out and retire so that he could go to sleep and perhaps dream of the days when he’d been a happily married middle-aged man rather than a lowly gimp-suited doggie belonging to a sadistic young blonde miss.

Well, a little delay wouldn’t hurt him, would it? Something else perhaps might, but then it wasn’t as if he was unfamiliar with my cock or Trixie’s numerous penetrative toys. He was permanently tail plugged apart from a brief respite to do his doggie business during walkies. His puppy tail butt plug now being solid, unlike those of the stabled ponies. His diet, horrible as it was, kept him far more solid than the stabled ponies whose hollow butt plug tail tubes and diet kept them,  well, very Au naturel in an animal sense, to use Trixie’s term. What’s the French for stinking their damn stalls out, I wondered?

It was probably the kibble, the doggie bix, that formed a large part of the pup's diet that kept his poo poos more poopy than phooey, as Trixie put it. Maybe, but it was irrelevant to me as long as he crapped and pissed outside, I didn’t give a damn. Of course, lacking any teeth, he couldn’t crunch the stuff, so Trixie crushed them up for him, mixing it with whatever liquid she chose and then adding it to his mashed doggie chunks. Suitable for using up the last of the milk that was on the turn was one option. ’Waste not want not, eh Bozo!’.

As I’ve previously written about, Trixie attended to all their feeding and dietary needs. Ever since that first afternoon, she'd been fascinated by the entire ‘what goes in must come out ‘ process and was forever experimenting and monitoring the results. I teased her about it, of course. Never mind leaving school to study dental nursing; she’d probably have been more at home among the piss bottles and bedpans of the other sort!

Anyway, the point I’m making is that butt plugs, and rear-end penetration were a fact of life for our captive livestock twenty-four-seven, and it wasn’t just part of their animalisation either. Trixie and I had discussed it more than once during our customary pillow talk sessions. If we’d kept them as human slaves in a dungeon or cages, they’d still be plugged to add to their humiliation and to emphasise how complete our total and absolute control over them was! The delectable Boobie and the considerably less delectable Buttercup, both shaven cunt’s, frequently housed a sizeable knobbly dildo but were designed more to stretch, hurt and humiliate rather than provide any pleasure.

Bozo had briefly struggled as I grabbed his heavy dog collar and heaved him out of his basket, dragged him along the floor and then heaved him upwards to bend over the arm of the sofa. It was a not unfamiliar position for the mutt, and he knew what was coming even before I grabbed his short doggie tail, his ‘wagger’, as Trixie called it. I wrenched it from side to side, then pulled hard so that the impressive butt plug holding it emerged with rather a satisfying plopping kind of noise.

Five minutes later, well, I said it was a quickie. I inserted that big plug back in his anus with far less effort than it had taken to remove, courtesy of all the cum I’d just deposited. Who needs lubricant when good old sperm will do the job just as effectively? Anyway, he’d been tailed, dildoed and fucked so many times that nothing extra was required these days and if he was a bit raw and sore, well, so what! I mean, quickies are just that, quick! Deep, hard, fast and over almost before I’d begun, so what should he complain about?

Naturally not the most outstanding ass fuck I’ve ever had, but it had bit it sufficed to remove that awkward stiffness that might well have kept me awake, and I did sleep well despite missing Trixie’s comfortable sweet scented warmth next to me. I can’t speak for Bozo, of course, but at least it was only a straightforward fuck with no painful preamble. Trixie liked to give him a hot bottom with a paddle, or worse, if she was in the mood for a bit of deep strapon or doggie tongue action, and it took time for her to build up a full head of steam. Her idea of quickies probably meant ten minutes of bottom blistering agony followed by a session of humiliation and deep penetrative pain and discomfort for the chosen recipient!

Finally,  that brings me back to round two the following morning, there I was with another hard-on stretching my pants, and I wasn’t really in the mood to bend Bozo over the sofa arm again. Besides, he was more of a handy convenience, a sad specimen that no longer provided much stimulation. Whereas his ugly wife was far more lively as was Tink despite the….well, god knows how many times we’d fucked his pony cunt. Bozo, despite being confined in that horrible suit, seemed to have adapted a little bit too much, whereas those over in the stable far less so.

 I made my mind up and noted that it had finally ceased raining as I crossed the yard to the old barn cum stable. That was the upside, but the downside was that all those potholes along the track towards civilisation would be full of water, and that meant you’d no way of knowing which one was shallow and which was likely to have a catastrophic effect on your suspension! I always took it slowly in such conditions, but….I shook my head, thinking of the way Trixie had set off, foot to the damn floor. She could forget about a new Porche, maybe a bloody tank or one of them; what are they called? Half tracks would be more appropriate!

*****

“What in the name of….I mean bloody hell, woman! You’ve gone and done it again, haven’t you? Jesus fucking Christ!” I could only stare in horror while Trixie gave an unconcerned little shrug, seemingly more concerned about counting Amazon boxes and big cardboard envelopes, with a frown on her pretty face.

“I think this is everything. I got a bit confused, and I think they may have doubled up a couple of orders in the boxes. I hope so anyway and... What? Oh, yes, him!”

“Oh yes, HIM!” I didn’t exactly scream it aloud as I stabbed a finger at the scruffy figure slumped in the passenger seat.

“Oh, don’t be a grump! He’s soused, pickled. He was pretty much that way when I tempted him in with a bottle, and he passed out after a few swigs. He’ll be alright once we clean him up a bit, and he’s way younger than he looks. I pulled into that place the burger van normally uses, but it was empty today. There was nothing else there, not a single truck or anything, while I checked him over. I’m not stupid, you know,” she defended herself, seeing the expression on my face.

I looked at her, looked through the window at that hairy; there was no other word for it. That hairy individual apparently fast asleep in the big vehicle and then down the approach lane, just as I’d done some months back. I half expected to see them approaching with flashing sirens and blue lights, but the rural scene remained peaceful and serenely untroubled. There wasn’t even the slightest breeze to stir that willow tree's low, overhanging branches.

She’d done it again, hadn’t she and…and…I  was temporarily deprived of the ability to speak. Gobsmacked, I believe, is the common slang term for the condition. Which was probably just as well for the sake of our continuing relationship; otherwise, I’d have been saying or probably shouting and screaming one hell of a lot of unfair things at the silly little bitch, given that self-satisfied smile she had on her face. I’d have made that earlier antagonistic session look trivial, but instead, I remained dumbfounded. Deprived of the ability to speak, I merely stood rooted to the spot, alternating my gaze from her to the blissfully unconscious yeti occupying the passenger seat.

 I’d heard her approaching five minutes or so earlier. Apart from ourselves, virtually zero traffic came down that narrow, severely un-maintained country lane. Thus, my ears have become accustomed to any vehicular sounds over the years. Incidentally, although I welcomed the isolation, I’d become concerned about the deteriorating track, especially the final stretch that led to my place. Thus, I’d had my solicitors look at my property deeds and liaise with the relevant local authority regarding access to my property.

 So far, it was inconclusive, with authority maintaining that their responsibility ended along with the tarmac at the big farm that was my nearest neighbour, but that was a couple of miles away, and that the gravel and dirt extension to my place was a private drive and thus my responsibility. “Ridiculous!”  was Trixie’s' reaction when she saw the letter. “We don’t own any of those fields on either side, do we?” That was a good point, and so it was ongoing. The only conclusion I expected was that the ultimate legal bill would be expensive for yours truly!

I’d been doing a few odd jobs in the old stable, having enjoyed a ‘not so quickie’ session with Buttercup, the middle-aged wife plump and one-time wife of Bozo, our human pup. The pair had been decidedly overweight when Trixie added them to the ‘herd’. They might have been keen walkers, a hobby that had led them to my door, but they’d not walked very fast, had been Trixie's observation of the bloated white bodies we’d acquired.

They’d both lost a lot of that excess poundage over the succeeding months, strict dieting in Bozo’s case and diet plus regular exercise in his wife’s case. The poor pup was taken outside for walkies or waddles, given his restricted limbs, twice daily. Farmhouse to a patch of dirt far enough away from the house not to cause problems when he pissed and pooped yet near enough to be convenient. We don’t bother with those little plastic bags that owners carry these days. Why should we, for it was dead ground, and Trixie had trained him to wipe his stumpy little legs on the big coir mat outside the kitchen door if he accidentally trod in his own mess! Hardly what you’d call exercise, and I invariably chickened out if the weather was bad and cut his time short if it was my turn.

Buttercup had lost a lot more and even had a discernible waist now, even with the cruel waist waspie corset she permanently wore. ConCurve now rather than convex as Trixie described it, often adding that the mare would have to pay a small fortune at a health spa to achieve that so quickly! “I should apply for a job in one of those expensive upmarket ones!”.

I somehow doubted that Trixie’s idea of a suitable diet would go down well with either management or clientele. Even fat-free natural yoghurt, fruit and green salad could be made appetising, whereas Trixie’s concoctions were…well, hardly haute cuisine. Yeah, maybe they would lose weight, but only after extensive bouts of vomiting the revolting crap back up. That reaction wasn’t unknown among our livestock, the difference being that they’d better ensure it ended up back in their feeding bowls and not on the dirt floor. Refusal of a meal was never an option, and they’d end up eating it eventually, even if it contained ‘extra’ additives that had been scooped up with it when she returned it to their food bowl from the stall floor!

Nor did those overpriced fashionable establishments enforce their regimes with whip and cane. Refusing to eat, as I’ve stated, was never an option, and indeed, refusing any command from their owners was never an option for our resident ‘clientele!’ We required. They obeyed, and if not at first, then eventually would, for pain is an excellent motivator, not to mention being fun to administer, and poor Buttercup got it both ways.

Having relieved my morning post-argument stiffness as it were within the delightfully tight confines of Buttercup's anal passage, I’d decided against returning the animal to her stall and elected to put her on the pony walker in our substantial new extension for the morning. A not unusual experience for the middle-aged mare who had become far more appealing from a fuckable perspective due to all those hours she’s already spent walking, trotting and even galloping around in an endless circle under Trixie’s ever-ready whip!

She was nowhere near as tasty a proposition as Boobie,  her younger stable mate, but still, regular ‘healthy’ if painful exercise had trimmed her down so that her short body was less…less dumpy. Her big whip-scarred udders made for convenient meaty handholds while her pudgy face and sour ‘we do not approve’ Queen Victoria-style expression was hidden mainly by head harness, bit and blinkers. That was irrelevant anyway, for I’d bent her over a hurdle face down, removed her tail and screwed her arse good and hard!

Once again, returning to our occasional pillow talks, Trixie had formed a theory about Buttercups' sexuality and sexual preferences or, rather, lack of them. We’d been discussing them when she snuggled up to me, giggling and hypothesising that Buttercup had probably received more fucking in the past couple of months than in her entire previous life. “I bet Mrs Po face was a right Puritan bitch! When I was burning all their stuff on my little bonfire, there were a lot of religious pamphlets and booklets in her bag.” I’d shuddered at that point, recalling the conflagration I’d witnessed on my return that day, the casually discarded petrol can and the proximity of the damn bonfire to my house!

“I’ll bet we’ve both already had her far more than poor Bozo ever did? I mean the way she squealed those first few times., sheesh! You’d think she was a virgin from all that noise and fuss!”

“Well, butt wise, she almost certainly was”, I pointed out. “I can’t see her and that mutt of yours doing anything other than in the missionary position, and I agree; I doubt they did that very often, even when they were newly married”, I considered. “Yeah, I can’t even envisage the animal presenting her rump to hubby! I wonder when the last time was she let Bozo up her cunt?”

“Yonks back, I expect” Trixie had yawned. “Now shut up about them. I’m sleepy and don’t want to get all worked up and randy again, so hush!”

That was typical of the girl I recalled as Buttercup writhed and squirmed beneath me as I squeezed her ample udders while thrusting vigorously in and out of her tight rear hole. Start a topic of conversation and then blame someone else! She’d been spot on about the squeals, though, and Buttercup hadn’t changed much in that respect. Bozo tended to suffer my sexual assaults in silence, whereas his wife squealed and screeched and verbally registered her protests most amusingly. Not even the threat of a subsequent beating ever shut the bitch up, and it amused Trixie to leave her like that, unlike our other animals.

I’d removed her mouth bit along with her tail tube purely for the fun of listening to her outbursts when I decided to use her rear passage to relieve myself of that inconvenient erection. Trixie was probably right, for I doubt the mare had even heard of anal sex, let alone experienced it! Her indignant outbursts always seemed that bit more frantic and desperate when one of us was fucking her rear end instead of going through the front door. Maybe in her mind, normal rape and assault she could live with, or kind of live with? Whereas anal sex, willing or unwilling,  was surely going to condemn her to an eternity in hell for such deviancy!

If that were the case, Trixie and I would already have booked her soul a first-class one-way ticket downward by now! Maybe she should direct her appeals for deliverance from evil and suchlike in that direction! Given how she protested, I suspected she’d been garrulous when running loose in the wild. Her vocabulary was extensive, although as if to emphasise that puritanical streak, low to non-existent when it came to the coarser and less polite elements of her mother tongue. Strange, I reflected when so many foreigners seem to prefer good old-fashioned Anglo-Saxon profanity when the need arises!

Tink, Boobie and even Bozo weren’t afraid of expressing themselves and their absolute hatred for us in the most basic and primitive way. Well, correction: initially, they hadn’t been when their mouths were briefly freed to eat or for other purposes, but we’d soon dealt with that foolishness. ‘A little bit of attitude adjusting goes a long way!’ was one of Trixie's favourite sayings. However, I’d noted she rarely, if ever, applied the ‘little bit’ part when doing said attitude adjusting!

“You’re wicked, wicked, wicked. You’ll burn in hell forever, you and your…no, noo, please, not that again.…mpffff!”  I’d dragged her through into the new extension, secured her collar to an arm of the pony walker, and popped her mouth bit back, cutting off the flow of ‘wickeds’. That seemed her favourite word today, but I was bored with hearing it. Indeed, I’d thought the verbal part was a tad disappointing compared to the usual diatribe!

I set the speed to alternate at random intervals between standard and fast walking and pointed to a wall-mounted camera before hitting the start button. “You know the rules, Buttercup. Nice high pony steps, knees up, and so forth. You’ll be recorded, and you know what Mistress Trixie will do to you if she sees you slacking!” I emphasised that last remark with a hard slap to her right udder as I hit the button, and the tether immediately jerked her forward.

I watched as she stumbled obediently in response for half a circle before finding her feet and performing as she should. She always did that, which was odd for you thought she would have learned to anticipate and be ready now. Boobie and Tinky had, for the moment, that long arm above them hummed and twitched into life; their knees were up, and they were stepping smartly out in almost perfect coordination with their mechanical master.

That old saying, ‘Patience is a virtue; find it if you can, seldom in a woman and never in a man’, tended to be the reverse in our case. I had a degree of patience as opposed to my diminutive lover, who had next to none for our animals. That’s why Tink and Boobie were so fast from the off, especially when she was standing there whip in hand. I’d once read that racing jockeys rarely used their whips other than during the very final stages to encourage their flagging mounts towards the finish line. A rule that didn’t apply to Trixie, nor would she ever be reported to the stewards for ‘excessive use of the whip’ either!

I left Buttercup to her morning exercise and went back into the adjoining old stable, stuffing my cock back in my pants and zipping up my fly, reminding myself of how easy it can be to forget such things given our lifestyle and comparative isolation. I gave Tinky a quick grin and stood for a moment admiring Boobie's prominent namesakes, which had inevitably received more than their fair share of the whip from her owner. Such a pity, but in a way, those livid marks and scars kind of added rather than diminished the gorgeous animal's attraction.

I gave a regretful sigh and decided I might as well make myself useful; it was a mucking-out day, after all. I’d just finished Buttercup's empty stall, a nice fresh layer of dirt, sand, and sawdust for her, plus a big pile of bedding straw in the corner to kick to wherever she decided to sleep. To be honest, I didn’t know why we bothered, for it flattened down to virtually nothing, even if we put in a huge bundle. Plus, it cost a small fortune for what was basically dead vegetation! Ridiculous, but Trixie liked the idea. ‘Much more animal-like for them!’

I was about to steer the wheelbarrow outside to the manure heap when I heard the sound of an engine and recognised it was her return, not some unwelcome visitor, as it had occasionally happened. I suppose, in a sense, I spoke too soon, for as she swung the big vehicle into the farmyard and pulled up near me, I realised she wasn’t alone, taking me back to where I started this article more or less.

“We can call him Dirtbag. That would be suitable, don’t you think? It kind of suits him, doesn’t it? Although I expect he’ll look a bit different once we clean him up a bit.” She’d climbed out of the driver's seat and joined me at the passenger side. “That hair is definitely going to need a major trim, provably all off and might as well do the beard while we are at it. Fleas and God knows what else living in it, I expect. Ugh!” she gave a little shudder. “We’ve still got some spray cans, haven’t we from that time, Tinky picked them up somehow in the stable, so we’d better spray the car as well! Or maybe just hose him down and a good scrub. That hairy look sort of suits him in a way, don’t you think?”

I said nothing, merely gaping at her. Why did I have some down-and-out drunken bum in my car?

“Why are you looking like that?” She raised a hand and pointed a slender finger with a long pink nail at the abandoned wheelbarrow. “Weren’t you saying only yesterday that it was a pity we didn’t have a work slave for the dirty and boring jobs? You know, all the ones that tend to take the fun out of owning such lovely animals.” She smiled that sweet and very wicked little smile here. “Well, darling, now we have!”