A story written by Pete Brown (Part 25 of 30). (Here you can find all the parts of this story.)
The next morning after Jake had gone to work and I’d sent Reb trotting off to Mrs Farrar’s, telling him to stop off at ‘The Towers’ on the way and to go with Greg, and had given him a pair of modest bikini briefs which I told him he was to sure Greg was to wear under his tunic, I had a long leisurely shower. As I came out there was Karl, staring at me. I felt embarrassed, particularly as he kept watching me as I hopped around from foot to foot pulling my boxer shorts on.
“So, that’s the fag ass that my kid brother’s fucking…” His tone was far from conversational.
“Actually, no.” As I said this I knew I’d made a mistake – it would have been better to say nothing. He might assume – correctly of course – that it was Jake’ ass that was taking it, and he might not take kindly to that.
He looked as if he was going to hit me. I stammered “…. We kind of don’t do things like that. Just some jerking off, stuff like that.”
“My brother, a fag. And you. Playing with each other’s dicks!!
“Karl, a lot of guys do that. I mean, weren’t you and Reb doing that last night?”
“Listen, fag, what we were doing was perfectly natural. We’re two horny guys, watching porn. What do you think we do? We jerk ourselves off – we did it all the time in the marines. When you’re out in some foreign hell hole and they won’t let you off base for any of the local bitches, that’s what you do.”
“Well it doesn’t sound too different to me. You and Reb, looking at your dicks….”
“Get out of my way! I need to shower… I’ve got important things to do – go out and find a job”, he snapped, and I decided to stop the conversation. I think all his protests were too much – it looked to me like a ‘fag’ thing they were doing. And I didn’t want to disillusion him about the job, either, as he’d find nothing, I knew.
Having nothing better to do I decided to jog out to Mrs Farrar’s to see how Greg and Reb were doing as that would help keep me fit, and when I arrived I was gratified to see Reb working hard digging away at something. Greg was nowhere to be seen, though, although the trap was standing there by the front door.
I rang, and Mrs Farrar answered it herself – I suppose that’s what happens when you don’t have slaves. She insisted that I went in for “a little morning refreshment” as she called it, and soon I was seated in her floral boudoir with a glass of sherry and a thin tuile d’amande.
“I’m very pleased with the work your slave is doing, Mr Masters”, she told me. “But I’m afraid it may be more than he can do. The grounds are extensive here, and I fear he’ll only be able to fight back the chaos, whereas I’d really like to make progress – revitalise the vegetable garden so I could enjoy really fresh vegetables…”
“So if I had another slave, a slave who was as well looked after as Reb, who did not require the whip, you would be interested in employing him?”
“But of course!”
“And can I enquire how the pony is doing? I didn’t see him outside….”
“Oh he is excellent! Such a darling boy! He couldn’t be more helpful – he not only pulls the trap, but hands me in and out to make sure I don’t stumble. And he is so attentive at loading my packages into the holder, so that none fall out. I took him to a tea party for the leading lights of the A A S S yesterday afternoon, and everyone was entranced. So many of us find it hard to reconcile our moral position with our need for transportation, and the buses are so inconvenient…”
“So where is Greg now? I’d like to have a word with him. I’ll pass on your compliments, of course, but we do need to be careful that we don’t encourage him to have ideas above his station – he is only doing what a properly trained pony should do, of course – especially as he is a ‘fancy’, whose role is targeted at ladies of discernment.”
“Oh quite so, Mr Masters. It would be a tragedy to spoil him, or give him false hopes. It’s easy for youngsters like him to get overexcited.”
“Forgive me, Mrs Farrar, but isn’t the A A S S about giving slaves hope, for freedom….?”
“Not exactly, Mr Masters! We do need to be practical and pragmatic. Our country could not function without a degree of slavery, especially now there are so few jobs with the whole of manufacturing having moved overseas. No, our society would of course like to abolish slavery totally but pending a resolution of the world’s economic woes we instead focus on trying to influence owners to make their slaves’ lives meaningful, to treat them with respect, and, as far as possible, to ‘abolish’ slavery by getting the slaves treated more like free men.”
“I see. So provided a slave is treated humanely – no whips or other harsh punishment, proper feeding, proper housing, medical attention…. Then there’s no issue with members of your society using them?”
“Quite so, Mr Masters. But it’s the practical difficulties that then intrude: if we hire a firm of gardeners to tend the grounds and they turn up with a crew, how can we be certain that, out of sight, a lash is not being used, that they are being properly housed after work, and so on?”
“I see. So if there were an ‘ethical’ rental agency, you would use it? Rather as you are renting Reb and Greg from me?”
“But of course! And I would recommend it to all the others ladies in the A A S S.”
“So where is Greg at this moment?”
“Oh, he’s with my tailor! I hope you don’t mind, Mr Masters, but I thought that only having that one thin leather tunic, and those rather scrappy undergarments, was not sufficient. So I have summoned my late husband’s tailor, and I have commissioned a number of other costumes for him – I hope you don’t mind?”
“No, of course not…. You must allow me to pay for them…” I thought that was a nice touch.
“Certainly not! It’s my pleasure, to have something to organise. Now, Mr Masters, another sherry?”
I declined, as I said I needed to run home. I was offered Greg to take me but I thought it would be better to leave him there as Mrs Farrar was clearly enjoying all the arrangements she was making.
As soon as I was back in town I went into Scabbard & Drass, and hung around pretending to inspect the slaves – not an altogether unpleasant task – until I spotted Jake. He told me he wasn’t supposed to do personal stuff whilst on duty, but I told him to pretend he was showing me a slave. “And actually, you can be – are there any more ponies ‘out the back’ in the damaged stock, because I have a plan…”
Jake took me back out through the showroom and the ‘nice’ areas and into the deep recesses of the back where I had found Reb. He pointed at one of the cages, and there, lying right at the back, all hunched up and with his arms wrapped around himself, was a pony – somewhat older than Greg. Jake called to him to get up and come and display himself, then when the pony stubbornly lay there he went in to the cage and kicked him – not hard, not sufficient to do damage, but hard enough to remind the pony he’d better obey orders!
As the pony tried to get to his feet, though, I gasped in astonishment as his whole body – and I do mean whole body – was covered in deep whip marks: someone hadn’t only
whipped his back, but his front as well; and not only his upper body, as you might expect, but all down his thighs and legs. It wasn’t a simple carriage whip, either – this was a real whip: probably not a bull whip, but certainly one sufficient to cause bloody wounds, so probably a standard stock whip.
“What happened?” I gasped.
Jake ruffled through the documentation attached to the cage door. “It seems that he was a normal pony – perfectly OK as a colt. Not trained as a ‘fancy’, but as a normal young colt to pull a light trap. Then when he got to his nineteenth birthday, his owner decided he’d get a newer model – a young sixteen year old – and this one was put with the owner’s ponies who pulled his big four-pony carriage. It says here he was ‘totally unsatisfactory’ – I guess that means he simply didn’t have the power to do the job – and did not ‘form a proper bond with the other members of his team’, meaning, I suppose, he didn’t like those big guys you get on those heavy carriages fucking him. It then says he attempted to run away, and was summarily flogged for it, as he was under the statutory age for the standard punishment for escape of crucifixion.”
The pony was standing there then looking really miserable. There was blood running from some of his wounds, and he was clearly in pain. “Is that right?”, I demanded. “Were you a good pony when you were a colt?”
“Yes”, the animal responded. I forgave him for not calling me sir or anything, as it had clearly been a considerable effort on his part to speak at all.
“And are any of your bones broken or anything? Those wounds on you are ‘superficial’ and there’s no deep damage?”
“I don’t think so. It’s hard to tell as every movement hurts.”
I turned to Jake. “How much is he?”
“He hasn’t got a price yet – I guess S & D think he might look better in a week or two.
“But they’re not treating him…”
Jake shrugged. “So, maybe he gets better, maybe he gets infected and dies. S & D don’t care, I’ve told you that. Anyway, why do you want a pony?”
I quickly told Jake about my morning, then urged him to get on the phone to the office and see if there was a low, low price they would be prepared to accept to take the pony off their hands, and thus avoid the risk of loss if infection should set in.
It turned out he was surprisingly reasonable. Jake said he had enough money saved to be able to afford him, and we did some swift work to lend me his phone and get me to understand how to use it – it was a very old, cheap model – so I could go to the accounts office and pay as Steve Masters: Jake was not allowed to conduct private business.
There was a problem then about where we could keep him, and how we would transport him, and I solved the last one by going to the pharmacy and getting some strong pain killers, then requiring the pony to take a double dose. He could at least then hobble along, although he did look a sight, but a sweat shirt and sweat pants mostly solved that (although, as Jake pointed out, it might be painful for him later if the blood stuck to the fabric as it dried). As to where we were going to keep him – I strode purposefully down the ramp into the garage and stables underneath ‘The Towers’ and ordered the slave to show me where Greg was stabled. He didn’t argue, of course, and I showed the new animal (who’d eventually told me his name was Russ) into the stall, and told him to try to sleep.
I spent the rest of the day working on some spreadsheets and stuff on Jake’s really old computer – the spreadsheet program didn’t even correct errors totally automatically, and that shows you its age! Then it was relatively easy after that – I told Greg, as he came home that he needed to care for Russ and that they were sharing a stall, and then went up and told Stu what I had done – Ray was not at home.
“Whilst you’re here, Stu, can you help me with some figures I have? I know you must be an expert at looking at business plans and such, and I’ve put together a business case…. I plan to go to a bank with it, but I’d really appreciate your help….”
Stu was really excited. He told me that he so rarely did any ‘real’ work as the CEO as he spent all his time sorting or personnel issues and succession planning and seeing clients, and it as a ‘real treat’ to look at some proper business numbers again. Finally, he said “Steve, it looks good – but you need to prove it. If I was a banker and an eighteen year old came to me with this, I’d demand proof…”
“So if I have two ponies….”
“Yes, but you need more slaves like Reb, well, at least one more. ‘One swallow does not a summer make’, as they say.”
I nodded. “But, Stu, as we all know ‘one swallow’ usually follows from a whole lot of fun!” We both laughed, and Stu added “So my advice would be to wait – I know you’re young, and impatient – but gather some more evidence, find some more clients…”
“Thanks, good advice.” I always think it’s worth while being courteous, even if it’s not the news you wanted to hear. I couldn’t wait – although I had a small income stream now from Greg and Reb, I needed to make some cash urgently, to buy dad.
There wasn’t a good atmosphere when I got back to Jake’s apartment. I had to send Reb out for pizza as I’d been so busy, and the others thought I should have cooked something. What did they think I was? Some sort of slave? The real cause of the problem though was that Karl was frustrated, and like a lot of strong, active men who were not used to being thwarted, he was taking it out on everyone around him. He’s spent all day trekking between one government agency and another – the resettlement of veterans, the unemployment office, the social services, assistance to veterans.. and found that under one bureaucratic rule or another he didn’t qualify for help from ay of them as he had ‘voluntarily’ left the marines. So then he’d done the rounds of the employment agencies, and, as I had predicted, there was nothing for a marine like him without a college education..
Finally, after enduing a lot of his hurtful and sarcastic comments over dinner I said calmly and quietly “Karl, there’s a problem. We all know about it – that’s why your brother is working at a guard at S & D for a minimum wage. There simply are no jobs for guys without a college degree. So you’ve got very few choices – you could re-enlist, and serve alongside the slaves, or you can do nothing and sooner or later you’ll be found destitute and then be enslaved. Or… And I know you’re not going to like this… You can pretend to be a slave and work for me.”
“What the fuck are you going on about, fag boy?”
“The first thing you need to understand, Karl, is that language like that is unacceptable. If I hear more like it, the deal’s off, and you can take your chances.” I looked at him, and was pleased to see that Reb had put out a hand and had it on Karl’s biceps, sort of holding him back. Seeing he was calm, at least for the moment, I continued “I’m trying to get a business started, an ethical contractors’ business..”
“What the fuck is that?”
“One where the workers are treated properly. Anyway, as I said, I’m trying to get it started. I have Reb working away…”
“He’s a fucking slave….”
“Yes, but one who’s treated well. Ask Reb tonight, when you’re jerking off, about the way he’s been treated. And what would have happened to him if I hadn’t bought him. It might be a lesson for you about what might happen to you if you don’t find a job! Anyway, as I
said, an ethical agency who treats all the workers well. I need a second ‘employee’ and you’ve got nothing to do…”
“I’m looking for a job…”
“A non-existent job, bro’.”, Jake added
“And whilst you’re looking you’re bored, your body – which is a good one, I will tell you, Karl – and as you keep telling me, I’m a fag, so I know… Your body is going to lose its tone, lose its edge. Look at Reb – he’s fit and toned: how are you going to be, Karl, before they enslave you, if you don’t work? So what have you got to lose, working alongside Reb for a couple of weeks?”
I began to feel more confident. “Of course since I’m starting this up on the basis of using slaves, you’ll have to pretend to be a slave…”
“No fucking way! I’m not a slave….”
“Yes, you’re not a slave, Karl – well, not yet, anyway. And I’m not suggesting you should be a slave, merely that you should work alongside Reb as if you were a slave. Where’s the harm in that? Reb will tell you I’m a good owner, and I don’t use the whip or tawse or paddle…”
“I told you, I’m not going to pretend to be a slave!”
I shrugged. “Well, OK. But when you actually are a slave, as you haven’t been able to find a job, don’t blame me.” I paused and went on “I’m surprised, though – perhaps you’re scared? I saw you and Reb having a jacking-off contest last night, and I guess Reb won. And so it’s natural you’d be worried about doing less well in the real world of hard tough, manual labour than Reb? So I suppose that’s understandable…”
“I can work Reb into the ground! Just as I…” He stopped. I smiled inwardly So these two ex-marines were in a contest to see who had the biggest dick, or could shoot the most, or the furthest, or whatever.
“So how about you try it, just for one day? Go out and work with Reb tomorrow – I’ll pay you the minimum hourly wage – which is more than Reb gets – and if you don’t like it, that’s it. But if it’s OK, I can guarantee you employment at least for the next few weeks….. Whilst you make up your mind if you want to go back into the marines, or not…”
Karl seemed to be thinking – evidently a slow process for him. “Well, I suppose so…”
“Excellent! Now, as you’ve got to go out early tomorrow, we need to find suitable slave wear for you – even though it’s cold, I like to keep Reb in shorts as it reminds everyone that he’s a slave, so you’ll need to wear the same…”
“I’ve got jeans…”
“As I said, you need to look like Reb. And just be grateful that I’m a ‘good’, ethical owner, or you’d find you and Reb working naked. And Reb wears a sweat shirt, too, and I guess Jake has another one of those you can wear.”
Jake nodded. I hoped he was impressed by the way I was managing and organising things. “So the only thing we need to be concerned about is your slave brand – as I think you’ve seen, Reb has his rather prominently on his upper arm, and if it goes warm tomorrow and you strip off the sweat shirts, it might look a little odd if one of you is branded and the other is not.”
“No fucking way are you going to brand me!”
“No, of course not!” I smiled to myself, as perhaps there should be a ‘yet’ on the end of that sentence, as if Karl didn’t shape up he’d certainly end up as slave and by then I might be able to afford to buy him. The thought of having Jake as a lover and Karl’s delicious ass to plough made me get a hard on. I continued “So you’ll need to wear a collar, and I got this length of chain from a hardware store this afternoon…”
“So you had time to go buying stuff like that, but not to get dinner”, Karl almost sneered as he said this.
“Yes, Karl, I did. Business before pleasure, as they say. I’m working to secure all our futures, you know, and I’m tired of all these complaints about having to eat pizza – there are millions of Americans who are glad to be eating pizza tonight, and millions of slaves who would, if they had the opportunity. So stop being so fucking stupid, and let me try it on you.”
The chain I’d bought, anticipating this event , was a really heavy link one: the seventy centimetres of it that I’d bought felt cold and ominously heavy. I told Karl to take his shirt off, then stood there in front of him as I wrapped the chain around his neck – he flinched slightly at the coldness of it – and I locked it on with a small padlock. My erection was rising strongly as I did this, as there’s such a huge significance to locking a collar on a man. Karl stood there running his finger around between the chain and his skin, and held out his hand for the padlock key. “No, Karl: I don’t want you taking the collar off during the day. I’ll keep this until tomorrow night.”
“Well take it off now…”
“I think it would be better if you got used to it. When you and Reb are having one of your jack off contests tonight, you’ll then look like two slaves doing it, and not one slave and one free man – that will make it more of a level playing field, won’t it?”
I have to say that it was a good thing that Karl stopped arguing then. I’d found the whole thing of collaring him really exciting, and my dick was pressing hard against my clothes and I thought I might cum at any minute. I wondered if I’d made a mistake in having Reb branded – there’s something about closing a collar round a guy’s neck, and then being able to play with it when you’re in bed, that must be a whole lot more of a turn-on than simply tracing the outline of a brand in his skin. Or, of course, why not both? I made a mental note to buy more chain tomorrow and fit Reb with a matching collar.
It was with some trepidation that I watched Reb and Karl leave the following morning – they really did look like a fine pair of matched worker slaves, though, and my only concern was that Karl would say or do something stupid. But Reb had winked at me as they were leaving, and said “As the lead slave in this team, I’ll keep him under control, Steve! He’ll be used to that – my unit was always the best, and the guys in other units always needed to follow our lead.” Karl had punched him – playfully – on the arm then and muttered “Did that hurt your brand, slave boy?” And I could tell they were a couple of real buddies scoring points off each other, as guys do.
I went down to the pony stables under ‘The Towers’ later that morning expecting to find Russ still in Greg’s stall, but instead he was in the gym – running, albeit very slowly. I complimented him on this, and he asked for permission to speak – always a sign of excellent training in a pony, I think, and when I nodded he told me “The guys here were really great, master. They could all see the state I was in, and they all helped me: gave me a shower, shared the best bits of their feed, massaged pony oil in to me to make my skin subtle… And I felt so much better this morning that I wanted to get back into peak condition for you, master.”
“Excellent! Keep it up, as I want to take you and show you to a potential new owner tomorrow…”
“Please, master, no, please… All the ponies here know from Greg that you’re the best owner a guy could have, and you rescued me, master… Please don’t sell me…”
“It’s OK… When I said ‘owner’ I really meant a new ‘driver’…”
“No, please, master… It was my last driver who started all the problems, I used to be a good pony until he moved me into the team, and…”
“Russ, it’s not right for a slave to blame his owner! I admit it may seem harsh to you now, but perhaps your owner or driver needed another pony in his carriage team? You can’t know what was in his mind, and all any slave can do is to obey orders and try to make the best of it. I certainly expect that of you, and although I am a generous and kind owner, should you ever fail in your duty as a slave to me I would certainly not hesitate to have you punished.,” I saw Russ’s eyes fall as he realised his mistake, and continued “But now let me take a proper look at you… Get off that exercise machine and get into the ‘display’ position.”
It was a very nice touch, I thought, showing that Russ’s training had been of the highest quality, that he quickly picked up one of the gym towels and roughly ran it over his sweat-soaked torso and scrubbed at his pits and pubes before standing there in the normal position. I know it’s tempting to start at the front and make the slave’s dick a focus of your attention, but on this occasion I was more interested in Russ’s back, as that’s where the worst of the whipping had taken place.
He had that classic male shape – broad shoulders tapering to slim hips, before his butt flared out to stand there proudly on his long, lean muscular thighs. As I ran my hands over his shoulders and down his body he shuddered under me – probably from residual pain rather than sexual excitement, I suppose. But when I ordered him to bend over and pull his butt apart (I had avoided kneading his butt muscles as they were the most deeply wounded), three was a definite squirming as I ran my fingers over his hole, and a lot of resistance when I tried to push my finger in.
“Did your owner not use you for sex?”
“No, master. We were forbidden to have sex as our owner thought all ponies should ‘show hard’ when we were working. “
“I assumed you’d been raped by the other carriage ponies…”
“It was all wrong, master! We’d been ordered not to have sex, and I did try to obey, master, even though it’s nearly impossible to sleep without jerking off when you’re a young guy. But the carriage ponies demanded it, master – I was made to suck their dicks, master, and they did this thing called ‘fucking my throat’… I hated it, master, and I was terrified my owner would find out.”
This was getting better and better. I wondered if I should fuck him there and then, but then thought that perhaps I should wait – anticipation is a powerful erotic sensation, after all. But then I thought better of that, too: if I was going to have a lot of ponies, other people might think I had a bit of a ‘farmyard’ mentality if I kept fucking them. So I told Russ he should stand up, and then went to inspect his front – he had nice sensitive nipples and tried his best not to squirm and cry out as I pinched them, and in spite of some small whip marks on the shaft of his dick, he sprang to a very hard, very high erection the moment I held it in my palm and stroked it with my thumb.
“So you have not cum for some time, Russ?”
“No, master. As I said, my last owner didn’t allow it…”
“Well I do, Russ. I want you to know that I am a kind, benevolent owner. So do you want me to jerk you off, or do you want to do it yourself?”
Russ was panting, his breath coming in slow little gasps as he tried to contain himself. “Please, master, would it be OK if instead I waited until tonight? Greg wanted to do it last night but I was in too much pain, and I was also worried, master. But tonight…. I’ve never had another guy do it to me, master, and Greg says he knows a lot of tricks…”
I smiled, remembering how enthusiastic Greg was about sex. “Very well, Russ. It’s your choice. I do not lay down rules for my slaves and sex – it’s up to them. Just remember that, if anyone ever asks you if I am a good owner.”
Russ nodded eagerly, and I told him to start exercising again, and went away well pleased with myself.
It’s a huge problem not having a phone – almost everything I wanted to do was made slower and more difficult without one. And even though I’d asked, Jake had said that I might be his best buddy and were fucking each other, but there’s simply no way that you can lend your phone to someone else. I made a mental note to ‘borrow’ it one night, and take a look through Jake’s stuff on it – if he was so not keen to share it with me, it must be very exciting! Fortunately the town council of Scarsdale had decided to keep one phone booth – a real relic of the past, dating back to the turn of the century, I guess, and I’d often seen it at the station as there was a plaque on it saying something like it was for the use of the poor and destitute. No one at the station ever used it, of course, and now as I looked at it I felt peculiarly ashamed as presumably I was now ‘poor and destitute’. I really hoped no one would see me.
There wasn’t a screen to be able to look stuff up on as it was for voice calls only, and it took me a long time to figure out that I needed to speak to some sort of computer and get
it to look up Mrs Farrar’s number before I could call her. I explained that I was having problems with my phone, and hence she couldn‘t see me, but that I had found a pony I’d like to show to her friend. She was delighted to arrange it, and suggested I took the pony around to her house at tea time.
I went back into ‘The Towers’ and now told Russ that I really needed to get him cleaned up. He stood there in the shower and never complained as I soaped him thoroughly – it must have stung in places – and picked off some of the worst of the dried scabs. It was quite interesting, actually, to then have him lie there as I massaged the pony oil into him, and I thought it was something Jake and I could try on each other one day – you may or may not know that pony oil is specially formulated to ‘sink in’, leaving the hide with a sheen rather than an oily appearance, and it does look good.
There was then the problem of what he should wear, given the still bad state of him, but I rooted around in some of the other pony stalls and eventually found a pair of long-ish running shorts and a plain cotton T that decently covered his torso. Just like Greg, Russ fretted about not having his legs free to run properly, but I pointed out to him that we were not running exactly and it would be a walk, and that in any case to shut up and do as he was told.
We walked out to Mrs Farrar’s later, and to any casual passer by we might have been two buddies out for a stroll together – I was wearing a sweat and jogging bottoms so I could keep up the pretence of exercising and thus explain why I was not in my own trap, and Russ in his shorts and T looked a bit like a jock, too. On the way I told him that this was his last chance – he needed to behave, and be a proper ladies’ pony, or else I would have no hesitation in selling him as a potential pit pony in the mines. “Emulate Greg”, I told him, and you’ll have an easy life.”
I told him to stay outside when Mrs Farrar let me in, and I was introduced to her friend, a Mrs Wilkinson. After I’d had a cup of Earl Grey tea and an elegant slice of Victoria sponge, the ladies were eager and ready to listen to my news. “I have located a suitable pony”, I told them. “But you must be prepared to be very shocked, very shocked indeed.”
The ladies clung to each other and I continued “When I got Greg he was in a terrible state as he had been cruelly mistreated by his previous owner. But, as you can see, with kind treatment and attention, he is the perfect pony for a lady. This new pony, Russ, is a little older – no bad thing perhaps, as Greg can be a little ‘frisky’, and with a few more years, Russ is calmer But he too has been shockingly treated, and as yet has not had time to heal properly although he has a sweet temperament and once the superficial wounds on his skin heal I believe he will make an excellent, biddable, faithful animal that any lady would be proud to own.”
The ladies nodded, although Mrs Wilkinson looked uncertain. “Shall I bring him in? He is of course totally house trained, or will you come outside to inspect him?”
“Please bring him in, Mr Masters. I believe seeing him in a secure place like my drawing room will lessen the horror”, Mrs Farrar told me.
I brought Russ in and he stood there and I hissed “Display” at him, and he at once fell into the approved position. “Of course clothed like this you cannot properly make out the extreme depths of the cruelty of his previous owner…”
“Perhaps we should see”, Mrs Wilkinson ventured, so I ordered Russ to take off his T. There were gasps of astonishment from the ladies, especially when I ordered Russ to turn around and his back was revealed.
“These wounds, painful though they are, are mostly superficial”, I told them. “But underneath all the damage I’m sure you can see that the musculature is excellent, and he has big, powerful lungs.” The ladies nodded, and I continued “But it is the poor animal’s buttocks and thighs that took the worst beating….”
“Perhaps we should see?”, Mrs Wilkinson asked timidly. Well, that was certainly unexpected – did she believe the pony had a jockstrap or something on under the running shorts?
“Drop them!”, I told Russ, “But cover yourself.”
He did and stood there in that ridiculous pose a guy has to adopt when he wants to conceal his dick and balls with his hands. I had him turn his back to them and pointed out the exceptional butt muscles and long lean thighs. “As you will observe from the lack of tan lines, his previous owner used to run him totally naked, so in the summer, of you provide him with a tunic and it is too hot, there will be no problem with him removing it – he is trained to run naked.”
“The poor boy”, Mrs Wilkinson said. “What’s his name, and how old is he?”
“He answers to ‘Russ’, a good, strong pony name – I don’t know what his birth name is, as he was almost certainly re-named. And he’s twenty, going on twenty-one.”
“The same age as my grandson! To think, if things had been different it could be my grandson standing here almost naked, rather than poor Russ.”
“So, ma’am, I understand there is a strong moral objection to buying and owning slaves, but would you be able to rent Russ from me?”
“I’m not sure, Mr Masters. Compared to that adorable little Greg, Russ seems somehow bigger, and a little more threatening…”
“Well he is larger, certainly – Greg’s a proper ‘fancy’ whereas Russ here could pull a light trap for ten miles if needed. And a bigger pony can certainly look threatening, especially when he is all but naked like this, with those terrible scars. But in a nice uniform – perhaps you could use Mrs Farrar’s tailor? – he would seem quite different.”
“Perhaps I should wait for a ‘fancy’….”
“I can quite see that. I have other interested people, of course, as I cannot afford to keep a rescue animal indefinitely, and I expect you’ll see him around town. Someone else will have the enjoyment of being seen as a rescuer.”
“Mr Masters is right, Marie-Claire!”, Mrs Farrar said. “Everyone is always wanting to hear how I saved Greg. Think of how good it would be to be able to parade Russ at an emergency meeting of the A A S S, whilst he still has those dreadful wounds and scars, and to then become known as the saviour who undertook the rescue of him! And we can arrange for the gentlemen to separately view him, as I’m certain those nasty lashes also extend to his private parts, and that will make a particular effect on them as men are so sensitive about that sort of thing.” She saw me smiling and blushed faintly. “Oh, sorry, Mr Masters, but my late husband always had concerns about his….” she stopped.
The arrangement were swiftly made after that, and I told Russ to dress. He forgot about covering himself as he simply reached out to pick up his shorts – I guess he was used to being naked and thought nothing of it. Although the ladies could of course verify that the marks did indeed extend to cover his dick.
I walked Russ back to town, and was feeling pretty pleased with myself. I now had two ‘rentals’ on ponies, and was hiring out Reb and Karl by the day: I was making a lot more money that Jake with only a very little effort.
I wanted to take Jake out to celebrate – I could always pay him back the money later – but he was a real bore, saying that he was tired, and that he had to go off to his second job. I waited for Reb and Karl, therefore, and when they came in they were in great good spirits – they were laughing and joking, as on the way home they’d found one of the few bars that served both free men and slaves, (well, as I’ve told you, Jake’s apartment was not in a good area), and Karl decided to buy Reb a drink from his dwindling stash of cash… only to be refused service as slaves were not actually allowed to buy the stuff themselves, and Reb (his brand neatly covered) had to do it. They’d clearly had several beers, as they were playing
some silly game that had started in the bar with Reb playing at being a free man and Karl playing at being a slave.
“You’d never guess, would you, Steve?” They spluttered, clapping each other on the back and almost falling about with laughter.
“Oh yes, it’s easy, really. I could do it blindfold.”
“You couldn’t!”, Karl challenged me.
“Five new bucks?”
Karl looked worried, as I suspected his money was all but gone. Little did he know I had none.
“Hey, it was a joke…”
“Well if you’re so sure that I couldn’t tell you apart, Karl, the joke’s on you – losing the chance of five new bucks in winnings from me.”
“No feeling the collar, no groping Reb’s brand?”
“OK, you’re on!” Karl looked around and asked “So how shall we blindfold you?”