Girlfriend Meets My Ponyboy!

Girlfriends herd 7

 Well, yes, I suppose I only had myself to blame, in a way. Trixie was right that I was the one who’d said, ‘I wish we had a work slave.’ But I hadn’t actually meant it. It was just one of those pointless things people say, like ‘I wish it would stop raining’ or ‘maybe we’ll get a white Christmas this year’. Well, maybe those aren’t the best examples, but you know what I mean. I was speaking in a what-do-you-call-it sense... hyp…, hypercritical, no hypothetical. Surely the silly little bitch must have realised that?

I stood under the covered porch of my farmhouse, moodily surveying the scene before me with decidedly mixed feelings. Of course, Trixie knew that; she wasn’t stupid, after all, was she? No, far from it. We’d once messed about taking IQ tests online, and she’d come out on top each time. I hadn’t been that far behind, but she was a competitive little devil, and in her book it didn’t matter whether she was one, ten, or a hundred points ahead. That was irrelevant because all that counted was that she’d bloody well emerged the winner!

Unlike poor Dirtbag over there, pushing that old wheelbarrow full of pony crap and stall dirt. He was one of life’s losers. The poor fellow had been at the arse end of the social chain, so to speak, when Trixie, on impulse, decided to add him to our livestock collection. The offer of a bottle of something strongly alcoholic had overridden any inhibitions the poor sod may have harboured about the wisdom of getting into a strange car with a strange girl in a supermarket car park. The donkey, blindly following the proffered carrot, had been a right ass!

A supermarket car park, for Christ's sake! Those places have security cameras everywhere! How many of those damn cameras had seen that happen? And knowing Trixie, she wouldn’t have parked in some isolated corner of the big car park. No, too damn far to push a laden trolley for the lazy little madam! Her, ‘don’t be silly, no one saw me, and who would care anyway,’ wasn’t terribly reassuring. Not the first part, anyway. Someone most certainly had seen the idiot climbing into the car, but she was probably right about the second. Who the hell would have given a damn about him? 

An agonised squeal of pain momentarily distracted me, the result of a leather lash on human flesh. The flesh was the scanty covering of Dirtbag's skinny frame, and the lash was the short whip in Trixie's hand as she offered what she called helpful ‘motivation’.

Dirtbag had received a considerable amount of said ‘motivation’ in the past month or so, entirely from her. I hadn’t laid so much as a finger on him yet. Trixie had designated him ‘my project,’ the ‘my’ meaning hers, not mine. ‘I found him, so I get to train him, okay!’ I was allowed to fuck him should I so desire, but only under her watchful eye. An invitation I’d yet to avail myself of, as I couldn’t quite erase that initial image of his filthy, flea-infested, emaciated body from my mind.

Somehow, that initial image of him lolling drunk and passed out in all his stinking ‘glory’ in the car always killed any ardour I might have felt as I watched Trixie ‘motivating’ the poor wretch. Usually, watching the sadistic young madam at work had the opposite effect… well, yes, I did rise to the occasion, but somehow, I couldn’t quite fancy availing myself of that poor bundle of skin and bone I’d had to add to our collection. Had he been a bloody fish, I’d have thrown him straight back in the sea, but since he wasn’t and Trixie had obviously made up her mind, I couldn’t, or perhaps dared not, knowing her temper! I’d shrugged. Well, what else could I do? I knew there’d be no point arguing with my ‘oh so sweet’ little girlfriend; there never was! I had to accept it as a fait accompli. Dirtbag screamed again as the whip caught him; evidently, his clumsy tipping and emptying of the wheelbarrow onto the muck pile had irritated his diminutive overseer.

Maybe if I’d made more of a fuss, put my foot down hard, and all the rest of it, she could have driven him back to where she’d found him and kicked him out of the car. She could have, for the bastard was so zonked on booze or drugs that he’d been virtually comatose here for the first couple of hours. I hadn’t, and so doomed the poor chap to Trixie and her whips and other things. Usually, she was a fastidious little Madam, but that hadn’t stopped her from using those ‘other things’ on the poor bastard. Her dildos and strap-on toys. Part of his training and conditioning, Sweetie, she’d told me while riding the screaming scrawny creature one evening. Shee, and I’d always thought she was the fussy one!

“Come on, move, move it, you fucking useless, sad sack of bones! This isn’t a fucking holiday camp, you know, “Dumbo!””

Poor chap, he was doing his best, I suspected, as he hurried back to the stable, his wobbling legs looking most ungainly, with Trixie striding purposefully after him, her whip poised and ready to strike. What a price to pay for a cheap bottle of supermarket own-brand white wine! Besides, he’d only managed about a quarter of it before passing out; half of it was still sloshing about in the bottle when Trixie tossed it in the bin, and the remainder was either soaking the car seat or sanitising the filthy rags he’d been wearing.

Another shriek floated out of the open stable doors, and I guessed it was going to be another long, painful day for our new ‘farm hand’, or to be more accurate, slave. Farmhands, after all, get paid, wear clothes, and don’t get whipped, and I believe some, if not most, have union representation. Meanwhile, Dirtbag had… another shriek came from the stable… yeah, instead he had Trixie and a nasty whip!

I’d reluctantly conclude that our latest, or rather, her latest, acquisition was somewhat inevitable. Trixie adored the fact that we had captive human animals to entertain and amuse us; they were her prime, indeed probably sole, ‘raison d’etre’ for moving in with me full-time. I probably came a poor second to them. An obliging living phallus she could mount once her savage, sadistic instincts had worked her up to that point that demanded the most intense orgasmic relief!

While the little bitch could put considerable effort into making the lives of those two-legged creatures miserable, her enthusiasm waned when it came to the more practical necessities of caring for such exotic livestock. ‘I work my fingers to the bone feeding them so you can clean them’ was the basis of one such argument about shared responsibility. There was, of course, a world of difference between mashing various ingredients into a plastic bucket twice a day and the arduous but necessary chore of mucking out stalls. Wielding a spatula, potato masher, and electric hand mixer was somewhat easier than a garden fork, spade, and wheelbarrow! Not to mention the delight she took in making the poor buggers eat her horrible creations! Refusal is never an option!

It was all very well to stand there, gloating over the sadistic dehumanisation of such exotic creatures, when nature took its course, which was never an extended journey through their innards for Trixie’s sloppy concoctions! That was the appropriate word for what went in one end, ‘sloppy’ enough to be slurped up easily, and it tended to lose whatever element of solidity it might have possessed. By the time breakfast or whatever emerged from their tail tubes not long after, a) it stank and b) it was virtually pure liquid!

Watching a captive two-legged equine defecate, with no control over its bowels or sphincter, was, on the one hand, quite entertaining, but far less so when it came time to muck out the bloody stall! Trixie had cottoned on to that fact pretty damn quick, and that was when Tink was the sole occupant of the stable. Now we had three plus, of course, Bozo’s big litter tray, Dirtbags cage floor, and who knew how many more we’d end up with! Yeah, going back to my earlier thoughts, I’ll bet the lazy little bitch had been planning something along those lines ever since we’d had that first argument about whose turn it was to muck Tinky out!

Another couple of pathetic screams came from the old barn cow, now converted full-time to a stable. I listened but couldn’t hear anything but the screams and the crack of the whip; it hadn’t taken Dirtbag long to learn to keep his mouth shut… apart from yelling, squealing and screaming, of course. All those initial silly protestations in his annoyingly shrill, weedy voice had ceased. Trixie had swiftly seen to that. It was the fact that he made them at all that had annoyed her, not the volume and screechy tone, which had irritated the hell out of me.

In terms of living quarters and so forth, Dirtbag differed from his stablemates in one significant respect, though the benefits of that might be considered dubious. Perhaps, to be more accurate, that should be ‘existence’ quarters. Our livestock existed in that sense rather than lived. I mean, they weren’t dead, although they probably frequently wished they were. No, I use the word 'living' in the general sense of the population as a whole, as we collectively go about our everyday lives. Dirtbag, we at least considered ‘human’, although given his initial state, one might add the word ‘barely’ as a prefix.

He didn’t spend his entire day standing around aimlessly, tethered in a stall, waiting to be abused in some horrible way like the other occupants of the stable. Mind you, given Trixie was his self-appointed foreman, overseer and task mistress, he probably wished he could. He didn’t have a stall, either, but a substantial steel cage, another of my girlfriend's expensive online purchases — and don’t even ask how I had to get the bloody thing delivered. Talk about a fucking complicated exercise in logistics!

Bolting it together by comparison was relatively simple, and to be fair, Trixie did her share. The girl was by no means incompetent with a spanner or a screwdriver. Of course, her sadistic inclinations had dictated its meagre dimensions; the term ‘never giving them an inch’ was appropriate to her and very apt in this case. It was six feet wide, five feet deep and four and a half feet high. Trixie had pondered that last dimension for some time and concluded that not allowing the poor bugger to stand fully upright was appropriate.

‘I mean, he’s got to suffer a bit, hasn’t he?’ had been her conclusion before she typed in her order. I suppose the poor guy had got lucky, for she had initially intended to cram him into something four feet by four feet by four feet! She would have, I expect, until I pointed out that the fucker would have to sleep curled up and that by the time he crawled out in the morning, he’d be useless for at least the first hour or two until he loosened up.

That argument registered, as did the ‘crawl’ element. That’s why the cage had only a smallish door at the front left corner, forcing him to crawl in and out on his hands and knees at her feet. ‘All part of the ongoing induction and educational process’ had been the girls' indifferent comment. Anyway, small cage or not, I suspected that, if given a choice, Dirtbag would opt to spend his days in there rather than be an upright ‘human’ under Trixie’s' merciless direction.

I recall her astonishment once when I’d sarcastically asked her whether she’d been fond of pulling the wings off butterflies as a kid or sticking knitting needles into kittens. ‘Why on earth would I want to do that?’ was her surprised comeback. Higher IQ or not, I’d been astonished that she hadn’t grasped my meaning at the time, for an otherwise bright girl. Her mum and dad were two of the nicest people I’d ever met, so I had no idea where she’d got that sadistic streak from!

It had gone quiet, so they’d maybe moved on to that mini aircraft hangar I’d had erected next to the stable, the ET extension, as Trixie called it. No, not Extraterrestrial, but an exercise and training arena. Well, yes, I’ll give her that. It was a useful addition in that sense and vastly more secure than keeping them outside in the open, where, despite my remote location, we were still accessible to the general public. When I’d first acquired Tinky, just having him available twenty-four-seven to be whipped or fucked, and frequently both if the mood took me, had sufficed. I sometimes wondered whether I’d have remained happy with that simpler state of affairs. It would undoubtedly have been a hell of a lot cheaper!

Trixie's arrival and subsequent permanent occupancy, coupled with her dissatisfaction with the limitations of my old barn, quickly changed that, as did the arrival of more livestock, taking my fantasy far beyond anything I’d previously envisaged. The barn-cum-stables were adequate for accommodating the beasts but lacked the space for ‘proper training and usage’, as my girlfriend put it, which the new huge addition provided. The other side of the coin was the damn cost of the thing. Hell, I could probably have bought a second-hand jumbo jet for that price rather than a building capable of housing one. Come to that, maybe purchasing a stripped-out 747 minus wings and engines would have been a cheaper option! I exaggerate, of course, but not by much, given the cost of the bloody hanger, as I sometimes called it!

Probably a bit restrictive, though, a 747 fuselage for carriage riding, I mused, crossing the yard and absently veering towards that place by the stone wall where we lit the occasional rubbish bonfire. I’d found it smouldering a couple of times when it should have been extinguished, so it had become automatic to check, even though the last one had been a while back, probably when we’d incinerated that filthy, flea-ridden collection of rags Dirtbag had been wearing. Trixie had insisted on that, even though we’d sealed them in a black plastic refuse sack. She hadn’t been happy until I’d consigned those garments and their horrible tenants to the flames.

We’d both scratched absently for days after that, even though we’d meticulously inspected each other that night like a pair of monkeys hunting for tasty little treats and found no stowaways. Not that I’d got off scot-free. My keen-eyed little girlfriend had spotted a few scattered white hairs in my thatch and insisted on yanking them out with a pair of tweezers because she didn’t want to share the bed with some grey-haired old fart!

One of those ‘pot calling kettle black’ moments, I thought, but wisely kept quiet. As far as farts went, young or old, there was only one of us who regularly broke wind that way in bed, and it certainly wasn’t me! Dirtbag tended to fart a lot as well, but Trixie fed him the same slop she fed the ponies. Unlike them, he seemed to eat it with, well, I won’t say relish, but perhaps a tad more enthusiasm than they did. Then again, he was more bone than skin when we’d stripped him! He still was, to a certain extent, for owning a ‘fat pony’ wasn’t on Trixie’s bucket list. Her feeding concoctions were never generous.

His real name was Colin Wilson, but that was irrelevant. Despite her frequent ‘Dumbo’s, Trixie had named him Dirtbag, and so Dirtbag he would be for… well, the foreseeable future. The long term, so far as our various captive livestock were concerned, was an unknown factor, and not one I cared to think about. Anyway, it was irrelevant for the moment and the immediate future, which was enough for me.

I cocked my head and listened, but all had gone quiet for the moment. Maybe Trixie was making life miserable for one of our animals while Dirtbag put what few muscles he’d still retained to shovelling up more piss and shit from their stalls. ‘Yeah, some work slave, I’d snorted derisively once, after she’d stripped him down and secured him with a chain around his ankle and cuffs behind his back. ‘More like a concentration camp inmate. Next time, pick one with some meat on its bloody bones!’ Of course, all she did was stick that little pink tongue of hers at me and mutter something about keeping it in mind for next time, which kind of floored me. Next time!

Neither of us knew what his background had been or how he’d ended up on life's scrapheap, and we didn’t care. ‘Cheap booze and maybe drugs,’ Trixie had said. Plus, a diet of junk food, judging by that mouldy burger. Don’t worry, with healthy exercise and diet, you’ll see. I’ll make sure he’s a valuable addition, so stop worrying!’

I’d helped her carry him from the car to the stable, and boy, talk about a stinky bundle. By mutual, unspoken consent, we dumped him in an inert heap on the floor, washed our hands in the wet area, then pulled on disposable latex gloves and similar plastic aprons we used when scrubbing down our two-legged animals. Trixie then went to work with a box knife, removing the filthy clothing he was wearing, while I carefully thrust each piece into a black refuse sack. Next time I lit a bonfire, I knew what would go on first. Trixie refused to allow me to wait that long, though, as the state of his infestation became more obvious.

His possessions were scant: a folding pocketknife, a disposable lighter, a wallet containing a long-outdated credit card, and a few other scraps of paper, almost unreadable. I think one might have been his NHS number for medical services, and the other might have been for social services. I wasn’t prepared to play detective or strain my eyes. Trixie wasn’t the least bit interested either, or, thinking back, perhaps I should have been more interested had I not been fuming. over his unexpected arrival!

Another old wallet, empty except for a battered photo of a smiling blonde girl, an ancient iPhone with a small, cracked screen and a dead battery, and a small leather coin purse containing two pounds and twenty-six pence in small change. No jewellery, not even a watch. Oh, and that half-eaten Big Mac, in a box, squashed into one large coat pocket. I surmised he’d perhaps had a pack with a sleeping bag and other gear stashed nearby and had promptly forgotten it when Trixie waved that bottle at him. She said he was nine-tenths gone already as he staggered towards the car.

Boy, did he reek when fully naked, and if anything, it was worse than the clothing she’d cut off him. He also had fleas, just as I’d feared—some tiny bugs, at least, because I’m no expert, but they were clearly visible hopping about in his beard and hair. Trixie’s reaction when she spotted them was predictable. She stood up quickly and backed off, letting out a sound of utter disgust and revulsion. I thought it was pretty funny watching her, as her instinct to flee the scene battled her desire to get the job done, as it were.

Besides, she was the one who’d raised that suspicion outside, so she shouldn’t have been so surprised. As I suspected, her sadistic streak overrode her sense of hygiene, and she returned to the attack on our comatose visitor with a vengeance. I noted later that she took the longest shower I’d ever known her to take and even washed her hair, even though it wasn’t a hair-washing night. Mind you, so did I. Talk about making your skin crawl and itch for days. Yuck!

Colin or Dirtbag remained dead to the world until we dragged him over to the wet area. By then, he was wearing a pair of leg irons and a leather bondage belt that secured his wrists with thick cuffs on either side. One of Tinky’s old cast-offs, though he was somewhat bigger around the waist. The belt was as tight as we could get it, but it was still a relatively loose fit on his skinny frame, and I’d had to take it over to my workbench and punch a couple more holes in the tongue, which meant his wrists were a little more to the front than at the sides, not that it mattered. It was clear that our latest acquisition had been on short rations for quite some time, at least as far as food went. Probably why he was saving that half-eaten burger we found on him for later!

He was about my height but probably weighed no more than Trixie, and she was a tad lightweight for her height. His head and beard looked as if they hadn’t felt the touch of a razor or scissors in years, but Trixie made short work of those matted tangles. She kept an old pair of dressmaking shears, once her grandmother’s, among her many grooming utensils, and a few savage snips reduced the greasy, flea-infested mass by about fifty per cent, top and bottom. She stopped at that point and shrugged, looking at me. ‘I kind of like him hairy, that wild man look, so I don’t want to go too far just yet. Let’s see how it looks when we’ve cleaned it up a bit, yes?’

Well, the bugger would certainly be pretty wild when he was entirely sober, I thought. Inwardly, I was still simmering about the whole damn situation, and I’d already suggested we might like to ask him a few questions once he was awake and hopefully sober. I felt it was pertinent to ask how his presence might affect our immediate future. Naturally, Trixie had jumped at the idea. “Interrogation, oh yes, Sweetie. I love that idea! I’ll make it talk! Just like those German guys used to do. I’ve seen them in the movies.”

“Vee haf vays of making you talk!” I immediately growled sarcastically.

Hmm, hardly an Oscar-winning performance, I thought, but I wasn’t surprised by her enthusiasm. Little Miss Gestapo herself, all set to start pulling fingernails as well as teeth! Well, recalling Tinky and what she’d done to him to render him fangless, it was hardly a surprise! No, not when all our animals were also sporting a brand, mercilessly applied with a glowing red-hot iron by that same small hand. I also noticed that the poor bastard had already been downgraded in her eyes from him to an it!

She did make him, or rather it, talk later. The one-time Dirtbag was permitted to do so without restraint, verbal ones anyway. The ones that held him secure to the whipping frame didn’t count in that respect, while Trixie’s whips and canes encouraged him to be somewhat loquacious. Indeed, it was hard to shut the poor bugger up once he got going, and we got his whole life story in between all the screaming and indignant protests that she couldn’t do this to him and he’s done nothing wrong!

The latter, of course, was irrelevant because she continued to prove that she could do ‘this’ to him and any other wrongs or rights were irrelevant! In fact, he had no rights and had nothing other than to accept and obey the sexy little bitch doing her best to flay what little skin he had remaining from off his bones! Of course, she didn’t go quite that far, but did have to revive the poor bugger twice during his ‘introduction’ as she put it. I didn’t step in as I had one time with the delectable Boobie, for I found nothing delectable about Dirtbag!

My interest, indeed, arousal, was centred solely on Trixie, who, having stripped down to her panties to perform the introduction, was more than delectable to my eyes. I don’t think Dirtbag found the sexy sight of the young miss in action quite so appealing! He did, however, provide his tormentor with his life's sad history without her having to pull a single fingernail. The upside was that we had nothing to fear from the sad loser going AWOL from mainstream society. Indeed, it might be said that Trixie had almost done said society a favour!

Looking back, I think part of my resentment stemmed less from the new security risk and more from the fact that my cute little girlfriend had added no fewer than four livestock items to our inventory in a very short time. I’d fantasised for years, and I felt pretty impressed with myself when I acquired Tinky boy, thus fulfilling that long-standing sadistic sexual fantasy of obtaining a non-consensual captive ponyboy of my very own. I remembered the expression of indignant disbelief on Trixie’s beautiful young face the time I was withdrawing my spent cock from Tinky’s captive rectum. I saw her standing there, mouth wide open in astonishment.

Now, I was the ‘gob-struck’ one to coin a phrase, the indignant extra to the operation as she’d so effectively and casually added no less than four more captives to our…. our collection, I suppose you’d call it! Herd didn’t seem quite correct now we’d added Dirtbag and poor old Bozo, who was permanently canine now rather than equine.

Tinky was supposed to be a one-off, but... yeah! I shrugged and walked over to the stable. My very own ponyboy, fuck and whipping toy. Hell, we couldn’t go on like this, could we? It was perhaps time for a serious, a very serious chat. Apart from the law of averages shrinking considerably in terms of the... and let’s not beat about the bush. The law catching up with us to exact dire retribution for our many evil sins. It also raised logistical questions. I mean, five of the fuckers to look after and keep an eye on 24/7! Hell, if we got any more, we’d need full-time help that didn’t need supervision.

That was the main drawback of having Dirtbag; you couldn't exactly leave him on his own to get on with things most of the time. By contrast, the ponies, like Tink, posed no such problems. Our so-called ‘work slave’ needed to use his hands for most tasks, whereas the ponies didn’t. Hence the need for strict supervision. How long would it be before a sure young madam became bored with that chore and laxity set in? I’d wondered.

I’d kinda gained the impression that Dirtbag wasn’t likely to challenge his young Mistress’s score if he ever took one of those IQ tests I mentioned, but there was such a thing as ‘animal cunning’, wasn't there? It wouldn’t take much, just a slight laxity brought on by familiarity and overconfidence. Given the opportunity, he’d be legging it for the hills, as they say. True, he’d frequently worn leg irons till she found something else. Still, he was no tightly harnessed and restrained pony like Tink was, but she seemed to have solved that one.

Talk of the devil, as they say, I received the usual hate-filled glare from Tink as I entered the stable. “Sticks and stones, boy!” I laughed, pausing by his stall to admire him. My very own pony boy. Strange, is it not, how our minds sometimes work? I wasn’t the least bit gay in the conventional sense, and yet I’d lusted after just such an animal almost as long as I could remember. Not every drop of sperm that soiled my pyjamas and bed linen during my teenage years was down to glossy soft-porn centrefold babes and the like. Fantasy-wise, doing evil things to a tightly restrained pony boy had always been a close second wank fantasy to those over-painted, big-titted beauties with their artificial smiles! Like I said, strange!

Tink, of course, never smiled. At least I doubted he did; there was no reason for him to. Besides, his mouth bite would effectively mask any such attempt anyway. For my part, I was rather proud of him, though, and of my own… what shall we call it, daring, I suppose. I’d actually had the balls to capture the beast. He was bulking out more since we’d added the adjoining Jumbo jet hangar and now had the room to exercise him despite his meagre diet. Hanging around in his stall all day long, with nothing to do but eat and shit while waiting to be whipped or fucked, wasn’t exactly conducive to staying fit and healthy. I grinned at that thought, noting the many whip wheals and lesions that covered his body. Well, leaving those aside, he looked fitter than he’d been for a good while! Maybe that vast addition had been money well spent, not that I’d stop grumbling about it, of course!

Perhaps that’s why I didn’t feel so attracted to Dirtbag, and I was leaving gender out of it. A hole was a hole, wasn’t it, when you had a stiff erection, and I’d become somewhat blasé about where I put my cock. I’d fucked the hell out of Tink more times than I could recall, and I’d been up Bozo’s doggie rear a fair few times. Yet somehow they felt more… more wholesome than poor Dirtbag, who still resembled something out of Auschwitz or Belsen, so maybe that was it. Rib cage, Ronnie needed to flesh out a bit, and I still shuddered at the thought of those fleas! Psychologically, no doubt, but that hadn’t seemed to bother Trixie. He’d already danced for her a few times on the end of a massive dildo!

‘It’s not got a bad body’ was Trixie’s critical assessment during one of her sessions with him. I assumed she meant his general physique rather than his condition at the time, which, given the whip she’d been using, didn’t look terribly good! I disagreed with her follow-up, though, when she added, ‘Better than yours, I expect, if I build him up a bit. No paunch on him!’

Nor had I appreciated the nasty smile she’d flashed at my midriff when I’d objected to that statement, which was grossly inaccurate anyway. I did not have a paunch! There’s a big difference between a beer belly and the need to lose a pound or two! The bitch had been teasing me about that for months! The offer that accompanied that nasty smile wasn’t welcome either. ‘Maybe I should put you on the pony walker for a few hours a day, Sweetie, and provide a little encouragement!’

I’d given her a similar smile of my own by return. ‘Thanks, but no thanks, Love!’ I’d made the mistake once, long before our present set-up, when I’d put myself in a submissive position one night to the little bitch. No way would I ever repeat that, especially not now she’d had ample opportunity to practise her sadism on our captive livestock. They say that many addictions, whether drugs or pornography, mean you inevitably need stronger and stronger fixes. I suspected that might apply to sadistic tendencies as well, and yes… I paused for a moment of contemplation.

I mean, I’d been quite happy at first, just beating and training Tink, hadn’t I? But I’d raised no objections when Trixie wielded those terrible dental pliers on the poor fucker. Then again, there had also been the delightful prospect of ramming my cock down his throat without needing a ring gag to hold his teeth at bay. There was method to her ‘madness’ or should that be ‘badness’? But then her branding the poor fuckers with a glowing red-hot iron… now that was pure, out-and-out sadism, wasn’t it!

Her, ‘That’s so they’ll know who they belong to’, didn’t ring true, given that unless they had access to a full-length mirror or were highly accomplished contortionists, they’d never see the brand on their rumps. They’d see each other's marks, so I suppose that counted. I pondered for a moment and concluded that, although I’d not been the one to use those horrible pliers or apply that fearsome branding iron, it was still guilt by association.

But that applied to everything we did, and I’d not done anything to stop the sadistic little madam, had I? Plus, I was the one who’d started this particular ball rolling in the first place with my sole acquisition. Tink wasn’t a bad physical specimen, though, and I always felt a... Well, I suppose a kind of pride in owning him. He was mine... well, mine and Trixie’s, but mostly mine, or at least I thought of him that way. Broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted, with a gorgeous backside, and yes, Trixie was doing a pretty good job on him. He looked far better than when I’d first cut off his clothes that day I captured him. He was the one with a ‘bit of a paunch’. Mind you, back then, I wasn’t overly concerned with how he looked, but more with what my whips and then my cock were going to do to him!

He could glare at me like that as much as he wanted, but it didn’t bother me in the least. He’d been doing that ever since I’d acquired him, and he was hardly in a position to enforce those hate-filled looks, was he? Water off the proverbial duck's back, so far as I was concerned. If I felt like beating him, I could; if I felt like fucking him, I could. It was a pleasant feeling that always made me think… what's that word… omnipotent, or something like that. I could, and he couldn’t. End of story!

As for our human livestock, he was probably second in the standings for looks and overall presence, if I can put it that way, for outright good looks and sex appeal. Boobie was at the top of the list, but she was entirely off-limits for me, and I didn’t see that changing anytime soon. The stunning pony belonged to Trixie, my little girlfriend, and she wasn’t the sharing type when it came to certain things. Our relationship, our partnership, was a matter of what was mine being ours, and what she considered hers was hers!

I glance around, noting the two empty stalls. Trixie must have our female ‘collection’ next door, ‘enjoying’ the delights of our training facilities' latest equipment. That was another bottomless pit for my finances, and if it had a bottom, Trixie could be trusted to dig it ever deeper. She was adept, almost clairvoyant, at finding ‘useful’ things on the internet. Useful, in her vocabulary, meant items such as ‘pony walkers’, flogging frames and benches, along with lightweight two-wheeled carts designed explicitly for human motive power!

I’d been amazed, even gob-smacked as they say. I mean, who the hell could expect to make a living out of selling such stuff, but evidently, they did. Partly I assumed it was because of the outrageous prices they charged, and partly because… well, I’m not sure I believed Trixie, but I had to consider the possibility that she was right. ‘We’re not the only ones, you know, silly,’ she confidently assured me. ‘There are probably lots of Tink’s and Boobies and similar stalled or what have you, around the world. Millions or so of people go missing every year, don’t they?’

That casual remark of hers was even more mind-boggling. Once I’d absorbed the implications and the attendant security implications, it was. I mean, if Trixie could find such sites, then presumably so could those in authority. And if we were openly ordering such stuff willy-nilly, well, didn’t that lead directly to us? Her reply to my worries had been somewhat contemptuous. ‘Is it perfectly safe? You don’t think I’m going on Amazon or Googling for this stuff, do you?’ That last had been part question, part derisive snort. Trixie was vastly more tech-savvy than I was, and I gathered that some guy in the IT department at her last job had been sweet on her and had shown her various things he probably shouldn’t have, such as Dark Webb stuff!

Of course, she’d offered to explain it all to me, but I’d declined. I was one of those people, like ninety-nine point nine per cent of the global population, who are happy to use the internet but have no interest in how it works! Trixie had shrugged off my apparent lack of interest as only to be expected from a tech-ignorant, ham-fisted, two-finger typist like me. However, a part of me couldn’t help wondering whether she had somehow found out about similar… well, maybe other places where such equipment was used on very unwilling subjects. Perhaps she was even in contact with one or more of them. It was one of those things that sometimes came to the fore, but I’d yet to pluck up the courage to ask in case I didn’t like the answer. The Facebook captive human pony group, or whatever, for instance!

Anyway, I shrugged it all off as something I wasn’t going to get excited or worried about. Trixie might be impulsive, but she wasn’t stupid, far from it. If she thought there was nothing to worry about, I’d go along with it. Anyway, what choice did I have? I could hardly let Tinky and co loose with an apology for inconveniencing them, could I? Forgive and forget, wave them goodbye and no hard feelings, eh!

That thought made me smile, a grin that grew into a chuckle as I saw the look in his eyes shift from pure hatred to apprehension—another of his expressions I knew well. I was still leaning against the front of his primitive stall, so I think he was expecting some devilry from me. Indeed, my cock twitched slightly as that thought crossed my mind. It must be nearly a week since the last time I’d disciplined him, and even longer since I’d enjoyed his ponyboy pussy. Perhaps the two of us were due some ‘quality time’ together soon, but not today, I decided. I hadn’t turned celibate; merely, Trixie’s pussy had been somewhat cock-hungry for the past week, and I needed to save what was left in my tank each day for the coming night!

That look in his eye shifted to surprise as I winked at him and said, “Not now, boy. Maybe next time we’ll have some fun, eh?”

I really wasn’t feeling up to it. Technically, I was living the wet dream of every over-sexed, sadistic pervert. I had an abundance of pussy and arse to fuck, mouths to fellate me, and ample flesh to feel the bite of a whip and a cane. Well, perhaps not an abundance; that was a bit of an exaggeration, but more than enough to keep me sated and satisfied without having to attend to my insatiable girlfriend's demands!

I speculated that ‘kid in the candy shop’ syndrome had set in. Limitless goodies were available to me whenever I chose to partake. Then throw in Trixie and her demands on top of that, and well, I wasn’t so much feeling sick from sugary excess as fatigued from too much sex! Hell, that was something I never thought I’d be thinking to myself. Maybe those wiseacres were right, and you could have too much of a good thing… or a bad thing, in my case.

Anyway, five animals were more than enough to keep me happy, unless Trixie took it into her damn head to add to the scoreline again. Unlike me, she was not a fan of the beautiful game, otherwise known as football, or soccer to those Philistines over the pond. The young miss in question, though, wasn’t averse to gleefully pointing out the numbers. The score at this stage of the game was 1-4 to the away side, since she was the visitor!

My counter was that 1-2 was more accurate, since I didn’t think she could count Bozo and Buttercup, given how bloody old and sad they were. Hardly grade A stock, were they? Naturally, she’d suddenly become a bloody expert at that point, maintaining the 1-4 mantra. ‘After all, Sweetie, once the ball is in the back of the net and the goal is officially given, even if it was a silly handball or whatever. They all count, don’t they? So why be such a fusspot! Consider the two of them as penalties if you like!’

I suppose there was some logic to her argument, though I wouldn’t admit it. Blimey, who knew what crazy adventure it could spark if she started feeling smug about it. I mean, it was only the other day she’d come back from a shopping trip, raving about a ‘really cute and sexy’ girl she’d seen manning the checkout at our local supermarket and kept going on about. Knowing her predatory bisexual instincts, I wasn’t surprised, but what was surprising was that she’d actually found someone manning a checkout counter at our local supermarket! A rarity at most such places these days, in my experience! Whenever I went there, I seemed to spend most of my time standing by the self-checkout machine, held captive by the flashing ‘please wait for assistance’ sign!

A surreptitious sideways shuffle from Tinky caught my eye, putting an end to my thoughts and reflections. The poor animal was doubtless nervous about my leaning on the door of his stall, and, given my use of him over the months, for good reason. I smiled and noted with amusement that even that simple twitch of my facial muscles and a brief glimpse of my teeth were enough to make him back away as far as his tether would allow. Pure animal instinct!

My cock made its presence felt again in my trousers as I watched Tink shrink back like an abused dog, terrified of its master. I grinned, or rather, like a well-whipped, frequently fucked ponyboy, equally fearful of its owner. That word had such a... a nice ring to it. Owner! It was a word that appealed to Trixie and me, and one we’d even discussed. We did own them, every single bit of them. They were ours to do with as we wished, whenever we wanted and for as long as we desired. No restraints, well, not on us anyway, and no one to answer to for our actions.

We’d been discussing that very subject the previous night, pillow talk after a very energetic bout of ‘rumpy-pumpy’, as Trixie sometimes called it. I grinned again and winked at Tink, which made the poor beast even more nervous. Now, there was an animal that had been on the receiving end of countless ‘rumpy-pumpy’ sessions from his owners! Trixie and I had been engaged in what you might term natural ‘loving’ sexual relations, whereas there was very little loving when we vigorously pumped Tinky’s abused rump!

I gave him a reassuring smile and shook my head. “Not today, boy,” I told him. “I hate to disappoint you, but…” I shrugged. “The old energy level is a tad low this morning. Maybe later or tomorrow, eh? You know how it is, boy?”

I chuckled at that, looking into his eyes as I headed for the door to the new extension, wondering whether the poor beast knew or remembered what it was like. Tink had been wearing his restrictive cock chastity device almost since day one and must be on what, Mk 4 or 5, by now. Another area of experimentation for my evil little girlfriend, to the detriment of my bank account! Orgasms were for owners, not captive animals!

They say tomorrow never comes, and I’ll bet Tinky wished that were true. Given Trixie’s inclination to experiment, day-to-day life was likely to get worse for him, even if he could become acclimatised to his miserable existence. It was true, though, that I felt completely ‘shagged-out’ after last night. Trixie had coaxed every bloody drop I could produce out of me and then some, and I hate to admit it, but neither I nor my buddy downstairs were quite the boys we’d been a few years earlier! Christ, but that demanding young miss will kill me one of these nights!

Anyway, returning to where I was, back to pillow talk. The subject of ownership had come up, and we’d been discussing our situation: we technically had no limits, and we'd jointly wondered how things had stood in those ancient days of slavery in Rome and Greece, or, more recently, in the pre-Civil War era in America. Had there been local or even national laws relating to the keeping and treatment of slaves?

I’d been of the opinion that there probably had been some, especially in the later period. In contrast, Trixie had disagreed, arguing that they were considered ‘property’ and thus the sole responsibility of their respective owners, not anyone else. Anyway, it wasn’t something we were going to argue about, and we’d both dropped it before reaching any conclusions. I suppose we could Google it, but somehow it no longer seemed important, so why bother!

The sound of leather lash upon pony hide from the adjacent training area put an end to my various musings, so I deliberately aimed a suggestive leery wink in the direction of my agitated ponyboy before directing my steps in the direction of those sounds. Yeah, my buddy below definitely seemed a tad more recovered than I’d given him credit for, so maybe……I chuckled and gave Tink another suggestive wink before pushing the ‘hanger’ door open.