The Lifestyle Farmer (an Awakening)

Author’s Note: Before you read this story you should understand that it is a work of fiction and total fantasy. Its main themes are of non-consensuality and human degradation of an uncompromising sort. If this does not appeal then PLEASE DO NOT READ IT. I would also like to emphasise that the events described in the story would be completely abhorrent to me if carried out in reality. Nor is it my intention to offend any particular group, preference or orientation with what I have written. It is simply my first attempt at writing a BDSM story in which I have tried to give full rein to the darker corners of my own sexuality and I have to admit to a degree of shock and surprise at the result. I hope the result is erotic in its own grim way for others and would be very interested in any (constructive) thoughts or criticism. Thanks for reading.

Honorius

Honorius@gmx.co.uk

The Lifestyle Farmer: Part 1

by Honorius

Remember that Blur song; “Country House” from sometime in the mid 90’s? I always like to think they wrote it about me. There are differences between me and the song’s subject, of course; there’s nothing wrong with my health for instance and I don’t read Balzac, but the overall situation is the same; I made a killing and retired to the country. My money wasn’t made in the City either, another difference with the song, but in computers and the internet. I’d always been a computer nerd; I‘d received a ZX81 for my 9th birthday, way back in the early 80’s and I never looked back. The rest of my formative years were spent surfing the technological wave, writing code, exploring the capabilities of these fantastic machines and, of course hacking.

Of course, that had the usual implications for my social development. I’d always been pretty shy around others and computers were somehow comforting; they didn’t ask questions, or talk back, they just did as you told them, as long as you told them the right things. As a result, I became a ‘smelly bedroom hermit’ through my teen years, staying in my room for days on end, emerging only to eat and grunt something at my poor, worried parents. I had few friends, mostly other lads like me, and had difficulty interacting with others, especially females. They fascinated me in the usual ways to be sure, but I found them alien and even a little threatening; talking to them, even if they noticed me, was almost impossible. However, apart from my developing hacking hobby, I was no rebel. I was clever enough to stay away from anything that would draw notice, eventually gaining a good degree, with a little post graduate research - in computer science of course!

Things really took off after graduation. I set up a small I.T. company in the 90‘s the name and precise business of which is unimportant. Suffice it to say that I was canny enough to see the whole dot com bubble forming and not get too greedy. I sold up a year or so before things went south and found myself with more money than I knew what to do with.

I suppose the sudden acquisition of that amount of wealth would have driven many off the rails, but not me. I enjoyed myself in a moderate way, travelling the world, visited obscure places, had new and unusual experiences and met new people. I suppose the money distorted my relationships with other people over time. I became pretty cynical, coming to realise that most seemed to be interested not in me, but my wealth and what it could get them. An unfair assessment really, it’s not as though I was the most interesting or charismatic individual in the world. Women were the worst. I went from zero interest in me, to falling over themselves to be with me. Naturally, I obliged and there were a string of girlfriends, each more grasping and false than the last. That’s not to say I didn’t enjoy it. On the contrary I came to relish the game of exploiting them, holding out the bait of material things so they would do exactly what I wanted.

One of them introduced me in a small way to the world of BDSM; which meant sexy games involving furry handcuffs, roleplay and spanking her because she’d been a ‘naughty girl’. Mild stuff, really, but I see it as a milestone in my journey into control that started with computers and ended with me where I am today. How much she really enjoyed it I don’t know. I suspect it was mostly a ploy, something she thought exotic that would keep my interest, keep me on the hook as it were. Well, it didn’t and in the end that relationship went the way of all the others, quite acrimoniously as it happens. But it had left me with a doorway into controlling others in new and previously unthought of ways that niggled away at the back of my mind like a worm. I’d found my taste of BDSM, however tame it had been, intriguing and exciting and I wanted more. Things went from there as I experimented more and more; visiting clubs, meeting people and playing kinky games. But it was never quite satisfying, something was missing. It slowly dawned on me, that I didn’t want to play games. I didn’t want to pick someone up and spend a night or a weekend whipping and tormenting them only to have them disappear off to their day job on Monday morning. It felt like the limits were too restrictive, that the sub was actually the one in charge and that, as with my girlfriends, I was the one being used for their benefit. In short, I wanted to be utterly selfish, to have absolute control, continuity and permanence, like some ancient Roman despot.

This was the stage I’d reached perhaps two years ago when things changed suddenly and unexpectedly.  After I sold the company, I’d bought a failing hill farm in the Welsh mountains as a retreat. It consisted of hundreds of hectares of bleak moorland and some pasture. Several hundred thousand pounds later I’d transformed it from somewhere which still ran on pretty much Victorian technology to a state-of –the-art ‘des res’; a place I could relax in and enjoy peace and tranquillity while I decided what to do with myself. Not that I didn’t crave civilisation sometimes and I still travelled from time to time and made regular forays to the Metropolis. It was on one such that I ran into my neighbours, Malcolm and Chris in a BDSM club. To say I was shocked would be an understatement! They lived about two miles away, on the neighbouring farm and  rented some ground from me for their sheep. That and a couple of brief hellos in the local pub was the extent of our relationship at the time, though I was well aware form the local gossip in the same establishment that they were a couple. Chris was younger, perhaps in his thirties, a buff, tanned, chiselled hunk with dark hair and eyes, obviously of farming stock. Malcolm was an older man, perhaps in his late forties, slim and tall, with greying hair twinkling blue eyes and a slightly camp manner. They were an odd couple at first glance, but they seemed very into each other. Malcolm was the money, a successful investor who had provided the finance for their operation, while Chris donated the farming know how. It seemed a successful combination.  They wereas surprised as me as I was then but, after some initial reticence, we got on like a house on fire and quickly became firm friends. Over the next six months we saw more and more of each other, exchanging visits for dinner and drinks and meeting in London for nights out. In the course of it all I discovered they were much like me in their tastes and growing sense of disillusionment and dissatisfaction and we often sat about, sipping drinks and discussing what we’d like to do and why. In retrospect it’s obvious they were both testing me, egging me to assess just how serious I was and what my tastes were.

Things came to a head one fine, late summer afternoon. I was at their place and we were swigging beers contentedly in the sunshine having just finished one of the best barbecues I’d ever eaten, courtesy of Malcolm’s impressive culinary skills.

“Jake?” Malcolm said, looking at me seriously as he took my plate and handed me another beer. “We’ve known you for a while now and we’re pretty sure that, despite obvious differences...”, he glanced at Chris who flashed him a grin and winked, “... we’re pretty much on the same wavelength. Would you agree?”

“Definitely,” I replied, “I’m would never have believed there was anyone out there who felt like I do. You’ve proved me wrong.”

Malcolm nodded and gave me an appraising look and I could feel Chris watching intently. I could sense he was about to say something significant and began to concentrate more, pushing aside the effects of the beers I’d drunk.  “Bearing in mind all we’ve discussed, we have something we think you should see, if you’re willing”

“What is it?” I asked, feeling intrigued and slightly apprehensive at his serious, secretive manner.

Malcolm removed the apron he’d been wearing to cook in. “Well, what would you say if I told you that Chris and I have gone further than simply talk about some of the things we’ve discussed?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, feeling that I wasn’t quite grasping what was going on and consequently a little stupid and befuddled to boot.

“I think that’s something best seen first hand” he turned to his partner, “Chris, have you prepared things?”

Chris grinned again and climbed to his feet, “yeah, they’re both all dolled up, ready, but not especially willing.”

They both looked at me expectantly. “Care to follow us?” said Malcolm.

“Sure thing,” I said, shrugging and following, as they led the way from their garden and into a square concrete yard. This area was surrounded on all four sides by farm buildings and Chris crossed it purposefully, heading for a metal gate on its opposite side. We passed through this onto a track running through a lightly wooded area through which, about fifty metres away, could be seen a outline of a small stone barn.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Wait and see” said Malcolm cryptically and obviously enjoying himself, “but I think you’ll like it.”

The barn was small and appeared a little dilapidated, with big, double wooden doors covered in peeling green paint and no windows. The doors were secured with a heavy chain and two padlocks which Chris unfastened before pushing one door open and disappearing inside. I heard the beeping of a keypad and realised he was disabling an alarm system, which intrigued me; why fit an alarm to an old barn like this? I followed Malcolm inside and was momentarily blind as my eyes adjusted after the bright sunlight, though my nostrils were assailed by the strong sweet smell of hay, mixed with something less wholesome, but involving stale sweat, urine and shit. The inside of the building was as a single long room, open to the roof rafters. To the right was a kind of workshop area, containing a host of equipment; workbenches, tools, lengths of rope and chain, a tiled area that appeared to be a shower and a charcoal brazier. At the other end of the space, to our left, was a ladder to a hayloft and, under it, four wooden stalls, looking for all the world like the sort of thing one might keep a horse in, though perhaps not as deep. We were stood in an open area immediately inside the doors, much of which was occupied by two strange wheeled carts. One was a light affair, little more than two wheels and two seats, but the other was more substantial with four wheels and a large flat wire frame at the back, presumably for storage. It looked like there was space for several beasts to pull it at once.

It took perhaps a couple of seconds, four at the most, for me to take that in, before it dawned on me what I was looking at and I noticed, the hanging bundles of leather tack and the racks of whips and floggers and other, less obvious, but ominous-looking implements and devices around the room.

“Pony play!” I exclaimed. I was of course familiar with the activity, but had always thought it a faintly ridiculous activity. I understood it’s attraction, but for me, it was an area that fell far too short of its potential due to all the usual restrictions and to be especially interesting.

“Oh, this isn’t play, Jake” said Malcolm, mildly, gesturing towards the back of the room.

That’s when I became aware of the room’s occupants. I’d missed them at first for they were stood in relative shadow opposite the doors and partially obscured by bundles of tack and harness. Standing there were two human ponies, a male and a female, both perhaps in their early forties, though it was hard to tell as their faces were largely obscured by the bridles they wore and their hair had been shaved into a sort of Mohican cut which was intended to simulate a horse’s mane. The bodies of both appeared quite hairless and toned, though the breasts of the female, at least a C-cup in size with large pink aureoles covering their ends, were sagging significantly. Both ponies wore elaborate, tight, black leather harnesses with highly polished silver fittings. This was not the full extent of their restraints for they each wore two leather pony hobbles one at the ankles and another above the knee, secured with padlocks. Also, I noticed, their arms appeared secured behind them and they were held firmly against a sturdy vertical post in front of them by a link connected to their bridles that can’t have been more than a few inches long. I wasn’t exactly shocked as I’d seen human ponies before, but there was something about this scene, something harsher and unrelenting, that stopped me in my tracks and made my cock stir spontaneously.

Both figures were squinting and blinking in the sudden sunlight from the door but, after a moment, they seemed to become agitated, making incoherent squeals and moaning grunts from behind the bits in their mouths which obviously made understandable speech impossible for them. The male began trying to stamp in the hobbles and jerked his head at the post, trying to pull away from it, while the female was shaking her upper body, twisting and trying to free herself from the tight leather arm glove that I could now see was imprisoning her arms to the shoulder, and making her breasts swing about enticingly.

“Ah, they’ve spotted you, Jake, I think and they weren’t expecting that,” chuckled Chris. “It’s the first time they’ve seen anyone but me or Malcolm since we acquired them and I suspect they’re hoping you’ll help them.” He picked his way past the carts and picked a long riding crop down from a hook as he moved towards the two helpless ponies.

“What do you mean help them?” I asked, puzzled.

“Butterscotch, Trooper! Calm down now!” barked Chris as he strode towards them. But the two ponies continued to struggle, shying away from him, squealing, but being brought up short by their leashes, their eyes switching back and forth imploringly between Chris and me.

SWISH, CRACK!.....SWISH, CRACK! Chris swung the crop twice in quick succession against the rumps of each pony and followed up with two more. A piercing shriek of anguish came from the female’s cruelly bitted mouth as the crop struck, accompanied by a howl, of pain and rage from the male, but the blows had the desired effect and both ponies’ struggles subsided.

“Now, stop it both of you!” Chris spoke more calmly now “Jake is not going to be releasing you. No-one is, so get that through your thick pony skulls!” Tears were running down the female face now, while the male stood glaring at us, his body still tense and pulling tightly against his restraints.

I heard Malcolm laugh, “You’re face is a picture, Jake.” I’m sure he was right! The way Chris had wielded his crop on the two told me immediately that this was no game. He’d used skill and force to inflict real pain, not the moderate symbolic taps one saw in the pony games I’d witnessed before. The reactions of ‘Butterscotch’ and ‘Trooper’ seemed absolutely genuine. I couldn’t believe that they wanted to be here, that they were enjoying their situation.

“What.....How.....Who...?” I didn’t know where to start; my brain was racing, but my  just couldn’t keep pace though my cock was now rock hard and pressing at the front of my jeans. I had never witnessed anything even half as erotic.

Malcolm laughed again, “close your mouth, Jake and take a closer look.” he gestured towards the ponies.

My legs felt as uncoordinated as my  with the shock of what I’d just witnessed and it seemed as though they were made of jelly as I made my way to Chris’s side. He grinned and stepped aside gesturing for me to examine the ponies more closely.

From this angle I could see the welts the crop had raised on Butterscotch’s rump. A drop of blood from one was trickling down one buttock. As I looked I could see other, marks forming a lattice across her back, rear and legs and even one or two across her breasts; the signs of old beatings. Then I spotted a curious regular mark at the top of her right buttock; a crescent moon facing to the right. It was less than an inch across and a deep reddish brown in colour.

Malcolm had joined us and saw my glance. “That’s our brand, we marked them pretty quickly using that.” He indicated the charcoal brazier in the workshop which I could now see was accompanied by electric bellows and a rack holding what were probably the branding irons. “It’s our registered mark and helps identify them and prevent theft”

A thousand questions were already swirling around my head and his remark just created more. What did he mean? Why would they need identifying, unless there were similar ponies elsewhere. Who on Earth registered brands used on human ponies? He was smiling again as I looked at him, his eyebrows raised expectantly as he watched my confusion.

I realised my mouth was hanging open again, closed it and asked the obvious question, unable to prevent an incredulous tone; “Where did you get them?”

“Serendipity really,” he said. “They came were on a family holiday walking the hills and turned up at our door one day in fog and pouring rain one day last March, looking for directions as they’d got themselves lost. They were wet and cold and we invited them in and pretty much then and there decided that this was a heaven-sent opportunity. It’s amazing the obedience one can encourage with a couple of shotguns, so pretty soon they were all stripped, hogtied and gagged in our living room. Simple as that! Please, carry on, there’s nothing like the feel of helpless horseflesh.” He nodded towards Butterscotch who was trying to stifle the occasional sob.

I cupped one her breasts in my hand, squeezing it and toying with the nipple, which hardened almost instantly between my fingers, eliciting a louder sob and prompting a flush of humiliation to creep up her neck and cheek. She jerked a little against her leash, trying to move away from my touch and turn her head to see me as the large blinkers she wore restricted her vision. I squeezed harder experimentally, my fingers digging into the soft flesh of her breast and used my grip to force her to remain still. She gasped but had little choice but to comply.

My head was reeling. There I had been, enjoying the late afternoon sunshine in Malcolm and Chris’s garden when, barely a hundred yards away, was the proof that the answer to my years of dissatisfaction and searching existed. I felt like Alice going down the rabbit hole, like a blind man given sight for the first time. I felt almost reborn.

“You’ve had them here, all that time, what – four or five months?” I asked in wonder.

“That’s right, getting equipment, sorting this place out, training them to be useful,” said Chris. “Demonstrating their new status as chattel property.”

Little whimpers were coming from Butterscotch now, as my hand continued its ministrations, her breathing becoming more rapid.

“She’s pretty responsive, isn’t she? Are you sure she doesn’t like it?” I asked. Butterscotch trembled and squeaked in protest at the suggestion. Given the degree of her dehumanisation, it was easy to forget she could understand my words.

Malcolm chuckled and nodded downwards “we’re no experts with females as you can imagine, but some things are obvious!”

I glanced down her body to as he’d indicated. The leather straps of the harness she wore was incredibly tight and it disappeared between the lips of her hairless pussy, which seemed hugely distended. I released her breast and felt for myself. Her thighs were slick with her juices and I could detect a hard presence beneath the soaking strap. “Ah, she’s plugged,” I said.

“That’s right,” said Chris, “but the plug’s mostly just a reminder for her, I think it’s the pressure of the strap, constantly rubbing away as she makes the slightest movement, that makes her most horny. It works for all of them eventually, it’s just a matter of finding the right degree of pressure and lubrication for the individual pony. Given how tight it is, I suspect she was a bit frigid before, I even wonder if Trooper here ever made her come. Whatever, he won’t be attempting to again. Malcolm and I aren’t fussed about whether they’re horny or not, the mares are here to work as far as we’re concerned. But we do enjoy the aethetics of a tight strap biting deep, combined with the plug. It’s not just any old plug you know.” I could see that just from the way it was stretching her. “Malcolm owns a couple of stallions we keep at a stud farm which make a fair bit of money in fees for us. It’s one of Malcolm’s interests. The plug is made from a mould of of one of their cocks - it’s over 3 inches in diameter and 10 inches long. Despite the discomfort, combine that with the tightness of the strap and five months of enforced abstinence and that’s what you get” he said indicating her dripping pussy.

Butterscotch began sobbing again, this time with humiliation, unable to move or get away from our attentions. Trooper too, though unable to see us because of his blinkers and inability to move his head, was starting to kick up a fuss, fighting his hobble and leash.

SWISH....CRACK! the male pony bellowed as Chris used the crop again, but quietened down, though he continued growling in his throat, a low, sound of impotent anger.

“That’s fiendishly clever!” I exclaimed.

“I know” said Chris smugly, “I’m full of good ideas!”

“Take a look at the back too,” invited Malcolm. There I could see a realistic horse tail jutting out from Butterscotch’s behind before falling vertically. “It’s held in place with another plug, though not as large.”

Then I moved around to the front and grabbed the pony’s chin, forcing her head upwards tight against the short leash. I was looking in more detail at the bit which, I’d noticed, wasn’t quite like anything I’d seen before. I used my fingers to stretch the filly’s lips and force her mouth open and could see that the two silver rings at the edges of her mouth were linked via two curving metal pieces which disappeared inside, to a flat metal plate which held her tongue firmly down. The device stretched her mouth into a rictus and totally prevented anything resembling speech. It must have been very uncomfortable.

“Very perceptive, Jake,” said Malcolm, “you won’t see one of those being used in most human pony events. Trooper’s is different again, though no less elaborate”

“This is amazing, you two, I am bowled over with amazement – and jealousy.”

“We really hoped you would be, Jake.” said Malcolm.

“How on earth have you kept it secret?” I asked as I moved over towards Trooper, “haven’t the police been looking for them? Surely someone noticed they were missing”

“Of course,” said Chris, “but it was a day or two before anyone noticed they were gone, and by that time, we’d whisked them well away from this area and kept them under lock and key. The police found their car about ten miles away and launched a search of the moors. They came here too. We just waited a few weeks until things had died down. Combine that with our connections and it’s not too difficult to hide things, as long as you’re careful.”

“Christ! They came to my place too! I even helped out with the search! I exclaimed.

“Chris did too, didn’t you, dear?” chuckled Malcolm.

“I did,” smiled Chris, with a combination of embarrassment and amusement.

Shaking my head ruefully, I turned my attention to Trooper. He was equipped in much the same way as Butterscotch, branded and covered in welts from the whip.. I walked around him, running my hand over his flanks and down his rock hard thighs, noting his good muscle tone. “He’s in great shape,” I said.

“Yes, he’s the power house of the team, and we make him work hard, but feed him well, don’t we Trooper,” said Chris, tilting the pony’s chin with his hand and provoking snorts of suppressed rage from the helpless animal which was attempting to glance warily downwards, trying to track the crop Chris held.

“What’s this?” I asked pointing to the pony’s crotch where his penis was encased in a cruel-looking black plastic sheath. It was about 4 or 5 inches long and enclosed the shaft leaving the head free.

Chris, used the crop to lift the member to a horizontal position. “That keeps him out of trouble and reminds him he is property as well as providing a suitable site for chastisement.” Quick as a flash, Chris moved the crop allowing the penis to drop and simultaneously flicked it, catching the head perfectly. I was beginning to see how skilled he was with it. Trooper howled in pain and tried to bend double but was brought up sharply by his leash. Then, with sudden fury he straightened and tried to lunge at Chris, who stepped smoothly backwards out of the way, laughing.

“Definite behavioural management issues this one!” said Chris, “I still say we need to reduce the testosterone supplements, Malcolm.”

“I think we’d best follow the vet’s advice and keep them as is,” said Malcolm, “It’d be a real shame to waste all that muscle we’ve spent time building up. Besides which, you have him nicely controlled, I think!”

“Why are you giving him testosterone supplements?” I asked.

“Here, have look,” said Chris, using one hand to push the pony firmly forward against the post. Trooper struggled, still raging, but could do little, unable to gain any leverage hobbled and bound as he was. I could see that the pony currently had no tail as Chris used the end of the crop to scoop up the pony’s hairless scrotum, which lay slackly over the leather strap at its end. A healed, red scar was clearly visible running down its back.

“Shit!” I exclaimed, “you neutered him, no wonder he’s pissed off!”

“Yep,” laughed Chris, “we had the vet do it a few months ago now; quite a simple thing to do under a local anaesthetic. He was a bit of a trial to manage and it calmed him a little. But we thought he’d do well as a draft animal, so we needed him to build muscle. Plus, there was little prospect he was going to earn us anything in stud fees, or have any need to use them for himself! The supplements, combined with steroids give us the best of all worlds, although, they have their side effects as you can see. But we have several ways of dealing with recalcitrance, don’t we?” Chris, leaning on Troopers back and pressing him tighter still against the post, suddenly grasped one of his buttocks and unceremoniously shoved a finger into his hole. Trooper gave a high pitched yelp which I saw from the corner of my eye made butterscotch start, and he positively writhed against the post trying to escape the intrusion.

“That’s right,” continued Chris,”I like to give him a damn good shafting every so often. It helps him remember his place! Of course, we could always stop the supplements and turn him into a draft mare, he’d be almost as useful and not half as much trouble!” This threat obviously had an impact for the fight visibly went out of Trooper and he sagged against the post, choking, whining sounds that may have been pleading coming from behind his bit.

Moving around to face him, I realised he had been a tall, well-built man, even before his enforced exercise and regime of drugs had started to build his muscle mass. I reached up and grabbed Trooper’s bridle, pulling his face towards me and examining the bit which I had noticed, as Malcolm had said, was slightly differently shaped to the one Butterscotch wore.

“Hold him there for me would you, Jake?” asked Chris. I noticed he’d removed his finger from the pony’s fundament and was busying himself with what was obviously Trooper’s tail. “I need to fit this now, and in his current mood, he’s likely to make a fuss.” Grinning broadly, he held up the tail to show me the plug, to reveal it was coloured and shaped like a large human penis, complete with bulbous glans and veiny shaft. “Modelled on yours truly,” he said with mock pride, “and feels much like the real thing - like velvet over steel.” He winked at Malcolm lasciviously.

“Oh shut up and stop boasting, you oaf!” said Malcolm. “Jake doesn’t want to stand here all day!”

“Yes, Massah!” replied Chris sarcastically, turning to retrieve a large glass jar full of a red jelly from a shelf and beginning to smear it liberally over the shaft.

Trooper was shifting nervously, his blue eyes glaring at me from between the straps of the bridle which criss-crossed his face. I tightened my grip, holding his head firmly in place as Chris bent behind him and began to work the tail into place. The pony struggled and grunted in protest and discomfort, but to no avail. The tail slid into place with an audible wet sound and Chris straightened, wiping his hands on a rag.

He looked at me, smiling and said; “any moment now.”

Suddenly, Trooper began to make rapid, high pitched sounds in his throat, shifting his hobbled weight from one foot to another while swinging his rear back and forth as if trying to dislodge the tail which swung from side to side as he did so. I hear Malcolm laugh as I continued to hold the pony’s head and looked at Chris quizzically.

“In light of Trooper’s poor behaviour this afternoon, I used my ‘special’lubricant. It’s a mix of normal lubricant and hot chili paste. It should keep him pre-occupied for the rest of the afternoon.

I laughed for, true to his word, Trooper’s pressure on the bridle had indeed slackened as he seemed to be focussed on what was going on inside his rectum.

“That’s brilliant!” I said, “You are an thoroughly evil man, Chris.”

“I do my best,” he replied modestly, smiling.

Tears were now trickling from Troopers closed eyes and he was trying to toss his head from side to side. Holding him steady I returned my attention to his bit, using one hand to pull his mouth open and lips to one side.

“Careful, he’s been known to bite,” said Malcolm.

“Thanks, Malcolm,” I replied, “I’m just trying to see how this bit works.” As with the device Butterscotch wore, two curving pieces of metal disappeared into the pony’s mouth, but they ran further back sitting inside his cheeks.

I stopped suddenly and peered more closely into the beast’s mouth.  When the metal pieces reached half way into his oral cavity, they were joined together by a flat bar running across his mouth. It was obvious that, in order to make it fit, several of his back teeth had been removed and I could see no sign of a tongue !

“I see you’ve noticed,” said Chris. “In the early days, Trooper liked to swear, threaten or plead with us and attempt to communicate with the rest of the team whenever his gag came off even if only for a few seconds. Ponies don’t talk obviously. He’d also try to bite when we were fitting his bit, or at any opportunity really. In the end it all became tiresome. Nothing seemed to dissuade him so I decided to get the vet to remove a few teeth so that I could fit this bit. It’s more severe, less comfortable and give much better control, by exerting more pressure on the corners of the mouth because it’s set deeper inside. I find a pony with front teeth at least more aesthetically pleasing, so to make a point I had the vet remove his tongue too. It’s not like he has no need of it.” Chris shook his head;”Trooper used to be very much an alpha male in his former life and it has taken a while for him to get the message that he’s now just an animal, an ‘it’ really. He still has a way to go, but we’ll get there in the end!”

I was in some awe, I was witnessing things this afternoon, that I didn’t think possible, that I hadn’t considered in my darkest dreams. Releasing Trooper’s head, I stepped back and glanced at Malcolm who had been watching proceedings quietly.

“I don’t know what to say, Malcolm,” I said, “all this time since we met you’ve had these two here on your farm and you kept it absolutely quite!”

“I apologise for that, but it was necessary, we had to be sure of you first. I can see  from your reaction that we shouldn’t have worried,” he nodded downwards, eyebrow raised and I felt myself blushing as I realised my erection must be clearly visible in my jeans. It felt like I could punch a hole in the barn door with it.

I resisted covering my crotch “Don’t worry, I completely understand, I’m just grateful you let me in on it in the end. You may have changed my live. No exaggeration.”

Malcolm grinned. “I’m glad and know exactly what you mean. We both felt the same way when we had our first encounter with this sort of thing.” I wondered what he meant and where their first experience had been and was about to ask, but Malcolm pre-empted me ”Anyway,” he said, “what’s all this about ‘these two?’, have a look over there at the rest of the team.” It seemed the afternoon’s surprises were not over yet.

Malcolm had gestured towards the stalls which were deep in shadow, so I moved in that direction, looking at him quizzically and grinning in anticipation. I wasn’t disappointed for two of the stalls were occupied, by two more ponygirls. Both were young, perhaps in their late teens and, as I saw them a light bulb went off in my head. Malcolm had said that Trooper and Butterscotch had been on a family holiday when they’d taken them.

I turned to him, a look of disbelief on my face “These are the...”

“...daughters,” he finished, grinning, “and not a bad pair of fillies either. That’s Blossom” he said, indicating the closest stall, “and the other is Jezebel.”

Blossom wore the same leather harness as her mother, tightly-cinched and cutting deeply between her pussy lips, although she did not appear to be accommodating an intruding plug there or, if she was, it wasn’t on the same scale as the one on which Butterscotch was impaled. Overall, she was above average height for a female with a shapely yet toned body and small, pert breasts with prominent upturned pink nipples. She wore a padlocked leather hobble above her knees and, as with the other ponies, her arms were tightly secured behind her back in a leather glove, pulling her shoulders back and thrusting her chest out. A ring gag held her mouth wide, distorting what would otherwise have been a pretty, finely-boned face with the same large, brown eyes as her mother. The whole effect was again topped by a Mohican of honey-coloured hair which hung between her shoulders. Currently, she was standing in the stall as far back as the leash attached to a large silver ring hanging from her nose would allow, looking from me to Malcolm, eyes wide with apprehension.

Malcolm moved up beside me crooning gently; ”it’s OK, girl, nothing to worry about, just a visitor to see you.” Then to me “she’s more, shy and skittish than the others, but usually more tractable.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sugar lump, which he pressed into my hand. “Hold it out on your palm.”

I put my hand out over the stall door and Malcolm continued; “come on, Blossom, I know you like sugar lumps, don’t you? Show us how much you want it. Come on, girl, ask for it like a good pony.”

The pony didn’t respond, but continued to stand there, slightly crouched, her eyes flicking from my hand to our faces.

“Come now, girl,” you know you want it, “and only good ponies get sugar lumps. You’re a good pony aren’t you? Now show me”, said Malcolm, his last words acquiring a slight edge. That was seemingly enough for Blossom for she nodded her  head up and down, and pawed the ground as much as the hobble allowed with her foot, then emitted a high pitched sound in her throat that was a good approximation of a whinny. I could see she bore the same brand as Trooper and Butterscotch and her flanks and rear were criss-crossed with the marks of crop and whip.

She shuffled forward, continuing to nod her head and whinny. “Good girl, good pony,” soothed Malcolm. Blossom halted in front of me and bent her head towards my palm. Briefly her eyes, filled with tears of shame, met mine and then I felt her breath, hot against my palm, followed by her soft, wet, tongue which chased the sugar lump around my palm, before managing to scoop it inside the ring gag. I was amazed. Here was a pretty young woman, the type of girl who didn’t used to give me a second glance in my youth and the type who had tried to manipulate me for my money in later years, utterly helpless and literally eating out of my hand like an animal while acting like a pony under the threat of the whip. My erection was approaching painful proportion.

“Good pony!” said Malcolm, ruffling Blossom’s Mohican as we turned away to the Jezebel’s stall.

This pony was perhaps a year or so older than her sister, shorter, but with a stockier build and darker hair, again in a Mohican cut. She was accoutred almost identically, but more heavily restrained. A light chain leash was padlocked to a ring in the hay-covered floor of the stall and was clipped to her nose ring, but was so short she was bent double. Instead of the hobbles the others wore, her ankles were joined by a spreader bar which held her legs apart. I could clearly see she had also been branded and was marked extensively by the whip and a string of drool was issuing through her ring gag and forming a puddle on the floor. She was making small whimpering noises in her throat and I could see why. The angle of her body meant her breasts, which were larger than her sister’s, more in line with those of her mother, were hanging pendulously, stretched by the small metal weights attached to clamps on her nipples. I could just about see similar weights dangling between her legs.

“Jezebel, is much more spirited than her sister,” said Malcolm. It seemed that the pony had not been aware of for, as he spoke and we leaned on the stall door, she raised her face and looked at Malcolm. Her eyes blazed with hate which gave way to pain as her movement made the weights swing and she slowly lowered her head and resumed her efforts to stay still. “Yes, I went for a spin on the sulky earlier and she was recalcitrant. I wasn’t at all happy with her efforts so I decided that a few hours with the weights would help motivate her.”

I continued to look at the suffering pony for a while, trying to order my thoughts and feelings. It was surreal, like stepping into a dream. These ponies had been a middle class family a few months before on holiday together. The parents, comfortable, healthy and past that mad striving for success that comes with youth, the daughters, young women, full of potential, about to embark on their lives. Then, some bad weather and just one unlucky decision led them to the doorstep of Malcolm and Chris and everything changed. Abruptly, all that potential was blown away and replaced with the prospect of a life as draft animals, held captive with no rights, literally no voice and subject totally to the whims of their owners, including physical pain and mutilation. I knew somewhere inside that as a good citizen I should be appalled by what I’d seen, that I should flee the scene and return with the police, but that isn’t what I felt at all. Instead, I found the thought thrilled me to the core. It felt like I’d found something that had been missing from my life; that there was a hole in it the size and shape of which I had not been able to see clearly. But now I could. I could see exactly what I wanted and I knew I was in a good position to get it.

I stepped away from Jezebel’s stall and cast my eye again over the barn’s interior and the abject degradation of its unwilling occupants. I didn’t want to leave, but there were things I need to do and think about. Questions that needed answering.

“Jake,” I heard Malcolm say, “we were wondering if you would like to leave your car here tonight and we could harness up the ponies and take you back across the fields.”

I laughed, looking across the barn at the pathetic figure of Butterscotch. I wondered what she had been called before, what she did for a living. Perhaps she was a housewife, spending her time at home, seeing friends and talking about shopping, celebrities and the foibles of each other’s husbands and children. If only they could see her now, shaven and whipped, bridled like a horse, her cunt violated and distorted by a facsimile of some thoroughbred’s massive cock, with her juices running down her thighs. I found I didn’t really care; she was just an animal now, though the contrast between the two worlds was fundamentally exciting.

“That sounds fantastic,” I replied.

“Well, why don’t we go and have another beer and leave Chris to harness get the harnessing sorted out?

“Sounds good to me,” I said and, with a last glance, turned to follow him out of the barn and back into the sunlight.

“How do you feel about what we’ve shown you, Jake?” asked Malcolm quietly, as we strolled back up the wooded track towards the farm.

“Incredulous and utterly excited, like a child in a sweetshop. The possibilities seem endless. I can’t really put it into words,” I ended lamely. “There are a few questions though.”

“I’m glad you are so positive, Jake. Approaching you was a big worry, a gamble almost and could have been disastrous and unpleasant for all concerned. It’s a massive weight off my mind.”

I wondered what he meant by ‘unpleasant’, but decided not to ask as it seemed fairly obvious to me. Instead I asked; “but why tell me at all?”

Malcolm opened the gate into the farmyard. “You have to realise, Jake, that we are not alone. There are others with similar tastes out there.”

I nodded; I’d already gathered as much from some of the things that had been said.

Malcolm continued, “There are quite a few of us. Wealthy people. Influential people who are able to pursue their interests and indulgences and get what they want, whatever it may be, by using that influence and their money. We are a diverse group and global in our distribution. We include, men and women, old school European nobility, Japanese corporate leaders, Swiss bankers, American TV preachers, military officers, politicians, rock and film stars, criminals and simple lottery winners. The range of ‘tastes’ and ‘enthusiasms’ is equally wide. There are Arab sheiks with harems straight out of the Arabian Knights, pony enthusiasts like us, slavers who acquire subjects to order, II myself have attended a ball at an French aristocrat’s estate which he keeps as though it was a nineteenth century household, staffed with young men and boys in various stages of feminisation and dressed in period clothes. I’ve even heard tell of a South African rancher who  keeps herds of black women on his ranch and organises hunts after releasing them. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if it were true, among us pretty much anything goes as long as it doesn’t endanger the group.”

By now we were back in the garden and he was handing me a cold bottle of beer he had taken from the barbecue cool box. Part of me didn’t believe what he was saying, but after the evidence I’d seen his afternoon I couldn’t dismiss it.

He continued, “Jake we all have money in common, that is nothing special to us. But we also stay in touch and help each other out when needed. What that means is that skills are currency among us; providing them, doing favours is what grants status, gets one’s name known and garners influence. In our case, I’m a financial type and am quite able to be ...‘creative’ on the behalf of others when required. Chris is a farmer. That might not sound like much, but he has a genius with livestock care and control which he has transferred successfully to the human kind as you’ve seen. his input and advice is in demand. You, Jake, are a computer boffin and bringing you into the fold will help us out and, from what I’ve learnt, enable you to fulfil some of your most lurid dreams and fantasies.”

Again, the whole idea seemed too fantastic, but I kept coming back to Trooper, Butterscotch, Blossom and Jezebel, the four degraded ponies in the barn.

I looked at Malcolm and nodded slowly. “I could ask for time to think about this, to ponder, but I would be wasting everyone’s time and causing annoyance to whoever it is you might have watching me to make sure I don’t tell.” Malcolm had the grace to look embarrassed and uncomfortable. I laughed. “Don’t worry, I’m teasing. Plus, I knew almost as soon as I entered that barn that I’d say yes to anything you said, as long as it meant I could get something similar! I am sure I will be totally in your debt for ever anyway.”

He smiled with relief, “I am so, glad, everyone will be so happy to hear you’re onboard”

We then spent another twenty minutes chatting, generally as I tried to find answers to some of the questions and discover more about the ponies who, it turned out had been much as I had guessed. They had been the Parson family, relatively affluent and very middle class. Trooper, formerly Michael, had owned an accountancy firm, while Butterscotch, formerly Caroline, had spent her time in voluntary work and running a local Girl Guide Group. Their daughters, Imogen and Abigail, now Jezebel and Blossom respectively, had been at university, Jezebel approaching the end of her last year. The Easter holiday had been intended as a last blast before Jezebel’s final exams and the hoped-for start of a career in law. But it was not to be and now they were someone else’s property. I found I loved the thought of that.

We were still deep in discussion when I heard a couple of sharp cracks from the direction of the barn and then a series of shouts of “Yah!, Yah!” There was jingle of harness growing louder by the second and a metallic rattle and the four ponies appeared beyond the garden wall pulling the larger of the two carts I’d seen, with Chris standing on the frame, a long thin carriage whip in one hand and the reins in the other. “Woah!” called Chris, pulling back on the reins, distorting the ponies’ faces even more as they fought to slow and stop and relieve the pressure on their tender mouth corners.

“Very dramatic, Chris,” said Malcolm drolly.

Chris laughed, “just impressing our guest, babe.”

Malcolm turned to me, “well, here’s your ride, Jake. Thanks so much for coming over, I hope you’ve enjoyed yourself.”

“You have no idea, Malcolm. Thanks you both. I have a lot to think about and plan for.”

“Well, don’t worry, well introduce you to a few people soon, so you can get to know more of us and what we do. I’m sure they’ll be interested to meet you. See you very soon.”

“You too,” I replied, turning and walking towards the cart.

The ponies were hitched in pairs, one behind the other, Trooper and Butterscotch in front and Jezebel and Blossom behind. Chris, gestured to the closest seat and sat in the other. I lowered myself onto the seat and was rewarded with a nice view of Blossom’s almost perfectly shaped, branded rump, the red and pink lines left by past encounters with the whip contrasting nicely with her otherwise pale flesh.

Chris flicked the whip, making contact with Trooper’s rump making him yelp sharply. “Settle down there Trooper! Behave!”

“He’s skittish and fidgety; still feeling the effects of his tail” Chris said. I could only imagine what Trooper must be feeling physically, his anus and rectum stretched by the dildo and burning fiercely from his master’s fiery lubricant. His mental anguish didn’t even bear thinking about. Here he was, a formerly successful man, harnessed and treated like a beast, castrated and regularly used anally, all of which was witnessed by his former wife and daughters. It was awful, yet fantastic thought!

“Walk on!” called Chris, snapping his whip with a sharp crack over the heads of the ponies. Evidently, none wanted it to come any closer to their flesh, for they leaned into the traces as one and the cart began to move, gradually picking up speed as they strained.

“I know they’re not a well-matched team physically,” said Chris, but training and practice has compensated for that and they pull quite well now, though I’m sure the matching pony purists wouldn’t be impressed. It’s good enough for farm work.”

I nodded, watching the ponies as they gathered pace. Chris cracked the whip again as we crossed the field heading towards my land and the ponies renewed their efforts. I could hear their rasping breathe now and their formless grunts of effort. Their bestial status seemed very clear, almost natural, now. I was sure they wouldn’t agree with that assessment, but it didn’t look like they were likely to get a chance!

The whip cracked again and then, like lightening twice more, its tip licking Trooper’s rump and that of Jezebel, leaving a livid red mark.  Trooper’s bellow was almost eloquent and seemed to convey both his anger and desperation, while his daughter threw her head back and emitted a high-pitched squeal.

The track curved around entering a patch of woodland, plunging us into green shade through which lances of sunlight projected and shadows flickered as we sped forward. It was utterly exhilarating and I could easily see the attraction of it to those   practitioners I’d encountered before today, although how much better it was with real whip play and thoroughly reluctant ponies. They wouldn’t be shedding their harness after this and climbing into cars to head home for a hot bath after a day of kinky play in the country. Instead, I imagined, they might have the worst of their harness removed for cleaning, but then the most they had to look forward to was a rough grooming and a hobble, gag and leash, before resting in the hay of their stall for the night. The thought was totally intoxicating!

As we emerged from the woods, Chris pulled on the reins slowing the team. Their tails were moving back and forth in unison and I watched the muscles in Blossom’s legs and rump working below her skin. It was almost mesmeric. How did they run with the tail-dildos impaling them? I guessed they had little choice despite any discomfort. It was that or a whipping. That brought the enormous horse cock shaped intruder that had penetrating Buttercup to my mind. Was she still wearing that? He didn’t think could be, but hadn’t noticed when he’d climbed onto the trap. Even if she were, she was running as well as the others.

They were approaching the gate that led through the hedge onto my land now and Chris brought the ponies to a halt in front of it.

“I’ll get it,” I said and got off the tap. As I held it open I watched the team go past. None met my eyes. They were sweating profusely, panting heavily past their bits and mud was spattered up their legs from the puddles we’d gone through in the woods. My vantage point allowed me to see some of the changes in the ponies harness as they went by. Trooper’s cock sheath had been pulled tightly back and clipped somehow between his legs, presumably to stop it flopping about as he ran. I caught a glimpse of the livid head of his member, as his tail swished to the side, pointing backwards below his buttocks as he passed, the slack folds of his scrotum draped over it pathetically. I saw that Buttercup no longer was indeed no longer plugged with the dildo, but noticed that Chris had bound the breasts of all three mares tightly, again presumably to stop excessive movement. All were cinched at their base with thin leather straps giving them the shape of bulbous mushrooms. They had turned a deep shade of purple an jiggled nicely with the mares’ movements.

I climbed back aboard the trap and Chris moved it on again, slowly now on the final approach, my house visible a few hundred yards away.

“They’re barefoot,” I observed, “doesn’t that injure them?”

Chris shrugged, “at first, it caused a few injuries, but we were careful to stay on grass initially, and take things slowly. The soles soon harden up with use and the application of a few things which helps kills of the skin and form calluses.” I marvelled at my neighbours’ thoroughness and ingenuity.

And then we were pulling up at the side of my house.

“Do you fancy a beer, Chris? I asked”

He considered momentarily and grinned; “I hoped you’d say that. But first let me deal with the ponies. I came prepared, wanna give me a hand?” He retrieved a sack from the rear storage area and proceeded to pull several smaller backs with a series of straps attached to them, followed by four water bottles.

“Here,” he said and handed me the water bottle. “Just squeeze it all into their mouths. I’ll follow with the nose bags.”

I laughed, “nose bags? You really have thought of everything haven’t you?”

Chris smiled, “maybe not, I keep coming up with more ideas.”

I started with the closest pony which turned out to be Blossom. Her breath was rasping, her chest was heaving making the little purple knobs of her tied breasts topped by two jutting and thoroughly erect nipples, jiggle away. Short gasping whines were issuing from her throat behind the bit and I could see her hips shuddering involuntarily.

“Are you sure this one doesn’t enjoy it, Chris?” I asked.

Chris looked up from where he was locking a hobble on Butterscotch’s legs for a moment and then chuckled. “No, that’ll be the effects of the strap. She’s like this mare,” he reached up and slapped Butterscotch’s buttock, making her squeak and start, “a tight strap really gets her going.” He paused and looked at me mischievously. “Watch this.” Quickly he climbed back into the driving seat, picked up the whip and snapped it.

With an audible groan the ponies, including Blossom, heaved at the traces and Chris quickly whipped them up to full speed, steering them skillfully around the field and pulling them to a stop again in front of me. As he did so I could see Blossom had been pushed over the edge and was trying to bend forward in the traces, making a series of moaning yelps and twitching uncontrollably as a massive orgasm coursed through her body.

“That did the trick!” laughed Chris as he alighted again.

“It certainly did!” I chuckled. I caught her chin in my hand to steady her and shoved the bottle spout between her lips. Her eyes were shut and I could feel her trembling in the aftermath of the orgasm as a I squeezed the bottle. The bit meant she found it difficult to swallow, and water spilled from her mouth running down over her breasts. However, her throat also worked furiously sucking down the water so I was happy she was getting enough. Quickly, I watered the remaining ponies as Chris followed me, buckling the nose bags, which were less deep than those of biological horses, tightly to their faces. Immediately, they began shift their heads up and down and from side to side.

Chris saw my puzzlement. “That’s the only way they can get the food in through the bits; using their lips and movements of their head. It’s semi-liquid mix of milk,raw vegetables; cabbage, carrots, spinach, turnips etc and soya protein all liquidised together. Not appetising, but it gives them what they need. I wondered when they’d last been fed, for all four ponies were working at the bags furiously.

Chris then busied himself fitting hoods that covered the ponies’ eyes and the top parts of their heads. “These are like the hobbles; they are another measure to make them helpless. Plus they incorporate pretty good earplugs to restrict hearing.” Jezebel, shied away, squealling from his efforts, her head tossing as Chris tried to fit the hood. He simply slapped her rump hard and caught hold of her bridle.

“Here could you hold her while I fit it?”

I complied and the hood went on.

“She really doesn’t like it. It’s a form of sensory deprivation. All they’re aware of really is their bodies’ their exhaustion, the aches and pains, the plugs and discomfort. No distractions. I’ve found it to be a useful disciplinary measure.” He laughed, “sometimes they even fall asleep standing in the traces! Now how about that beer then?” asked Chris.

“Fair enough, let’s go get it.” tearing my eyes from the degraded pony flesh before me I turned and took Chris inside.

In the end we had two beers and an hour of enjoyable chat as I learned more about Chris’s thoughts on the control and handling of human livestock. Though the window of the living room we could see the hooded ponies, standing there, their heads down and still, the nose bags, now empty, still attached. They looked a picture of dejection and debasement.

Chris glanced at his watch.”Shit! I’d best be going, before I lose the light.” I looked out again and sure enough the sun was setting and the light was dimming. “Thanks for the beer and see you soon, yeah?” said Chris as he rose.

“You can bet on it, Chris,” I replied walking him to the door,”bye for now.”

I watched him removing the team’s hobbles and hoods and mounting up and waved as he cracked the whip and swung the carriage towards home, before closing the door and going upstairs to my study. I had much to think about and more to plan.

End of Part 1