Giddy Up
Could you be, could you be loved?
Don’t let them change ya, oh
Or even rearrange ya, oh, no
“Giddy up!”
The crop stings. Mistress likes to use it. The group starts to trot, pulling the cart along. Six butts bobbing up and down, six tails swishing gaily, twelve hooves clopping and clicking. Me in between. I bite the bit and try to fall in with the general rhythm. Mistress doesn’t like chaos. I can’t see much, just straight ahead and down. Not that there’s a lot to see anyway. It’s a drab industrial complex, the road uneven and in state of repair, with an occasional pothole to keep our senses sharp.
I don’t know the pony in front of me. A straight back, long slender legs, not much of an ass. The arms are still strong and muscular, not the atrophied useless twigs one develops here after years of permanent bondage. No branding yet. He? She? must be new here, stumbling frequently, disturbing the inner harmony our little herd has developed. I hate it immediately.
The whip cracks, inspiring the leading ponies to speed up. I let out a loud whinny. Oh the joy to be running out into the green, exercise under the sun the whole day, then being doused with cold water and rubbed properly dry. Sometimes, when we are standing together in the stables, flashes of my former life come back to haunt me. The office. Going on business trips. Wearing a gray suit. Talking to boring people. Important decisions to make. Do I really want to go back? No.
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We have been running for half an hour now, give or take. The pony in front of me is sweating profusely. It lacks the elegance, the easy, fluid movements an experienced horse displays. I hope it will learn quickly, I’m not sure what happens to the poor creatures that don’t fit in. They tend to vanish quickly. My guess is that they are used for work on the fields or sold to a petting zoo if they are lucky. If they are unlucky, they are probably sold to some pervert who keeps them as house pets, indoors, under totally inappropriate conditions and might even engage in some unnatural act with them.
I try to figure out whether it’s a mare or a stallion. Work horses usually show only small sexual dimorphism, genitals securely locked away, breasts flat to nonexistent, and no traces of body hair left. Horses don’t talk of course, and so you can’t go by the voice, either. I bet that most of my companions have forgotten how to speak anyway. For some of them it’s likely an improvement.
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We are going uphill now, the trot slowing down to a steady march. We must be heading to the neighbor farm. I get a little excited. It is breeding season, and sometimes we are allowed to watch a bunch of well-built stallions mounting a mare. I like the racing horses most. The males are usually thoroughbreds, not very large but with a huge penis that can probably pump a lot of sperm into the receiver in one go; the mares lithe, but with strong muscular legs and firm perky breasts. No excess fat or wobbly udders.
Most farms nowadays employ geldings for routine work, since they are so much easier to handle. I guess a lot of the new arrivals from elsewhere have been fixed, but it is impossible to tell what is inside the belts (or rather what is not). I consider myself to be very lucky to work on one of those “humane” farms where they don’t go overboard with transformations.
Not that I have been ever allowed to use my member since I came here. How long has it been now? Ten years? Fifteen? Sometimes I wonder whether it is still there. At the beginning of my farm life, the mere presence of a hot female of the human species was usually enough to revive it and make it squeeze painfully against its tiny prison. When I was really in heat, even the scent of a juicy pussy could be enough to send me into blind, raging lust. There was a lot of talk that they were considering to neuter me after all. I can still remember very clearly.
Some of the girls liked to make fun of me and strip in front of me, play with each other or rub their wet crotches against my belt, even daring to lick my aching dick through the air holes. They really loved to torture me, see the frustration in my eyes, hear me snort and nearly go berserk with mad, unsatisfied rage. Which invariably ended up with me getting shocked with the cattle prod. Or worse. Those impulses have largely faded by now, and so the erotic display has also stopped.
Sometimes, when I’m in my box and wait for sleep to overcome me, I fantasize about mounting one of my companions in misery. But even those moments are very rare now and I never feel any kind of awakening between my legs anymore.
Once in a while one of the stable guys will use our ass if his girlfriend is “indisposed”. Which is, of course, strictly forbidden, and not a lot of fun for both sides involved if anybody finds out. It is certainly very degrading, but since it is now the only way we can get some satisfaction, a lot of the ponies seem to be looking forward to it, prance in front of an attractive boy, wiggle their butts invitingly, stamp their hooves, trying to draw attention to them. Not me, though.
There is a new boy right now. Middle aged, very muscular. Always a huge bulge in his pants when he tends to us. I wonder who of us will be the first.
I think of the pony running in front of me. Poor thing. Very unlikely it will be selected for breeding, or even as an emergency fuckhole.
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We have reached the top now, all of us exhausted and drenched in sweat, shivering from the exercise. Mistress steers us to a nice green patch, birch trees everywhere, light shining through the leaves. We stop, and she unshackles and unbridles us. Lets us run freely on the soft green grass for a while. Some even stretch out and roll around on the lawn. I scamper over to a fresh brook, water running briskly over the stones, some dragonflies buzzing around. I like it here. It’s relaxing, and no nasty flies.
The other pony has followed me. I can see the tiniest little breasts, AA or even AAA. Likely a mare then, or rather a filly, it is very young, not older than twenty. Probably still a virgin. Can’t be sure though, the geldings also develop little breasts quite often. It is not a beauty, not a racing horse or even a proper carriage horse for sure, just a plain, ordinary little pony that seems to be a bit forlorn.
It tries to bend down to drink, stumbles, falls over. I hope no one has noticed. It is impossible to get up without help, and such basic blunders don’t sit well with Mistress.
I look around. The others are playing in the grass, Mistress is sitting in the sun, sleeping or dozing or reading something. I kneel down very quietly and carefully next to the other pony. It tries to use me as a support to get up again. Needs several attempts. We are both very slippery from the sweat, and it is really exhausted and lacking coordination. Finally it is afoot again, helping me in turn to stand up again. I move up close, our heads touching, noses rubbing against each other. Its eyes don’t yet have that vacant look that most ponies here show after a few years, the point when you know they are never going to come back from this life.
Tears are running down, and it is sniffling softly. It tries to say something. “Shhh!” I shake my head, kiss its mouth quickly to silence it and it seems to understand. It doesn’t want to break the kiss, probing with its tongue, sighing, rubbing against me, desperate for some affection. Finally it gives up and turns to the running water. It must be terribly thirsty and tries to reach down again. I push it away, carefully, so that it doesn’t stumble. It looks at me with confused eyes, full of tears, very large and deep blue, with long, beautiful eyelashes. I nudge it over to the water trough. No ice cold water after such a workout. Oh dear. Still so much to learn. I feel pity for it. I doubt it is going to last very long, and I wish I could help it.
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The whistle pipes up, and we are back to work.
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We have returned to the stables, ready for our evening routine. Mistress comes over, two sharp dressed men at her side. This is unusual. She comes up to me, praising me and my performance. I have to show the full range of exercises, prancing around, running, trotting, turning on command, reacting to the slightest nudge of the leash. Even an old horse can show some tricks. She opens my mouth, shows them I still have all teeth. Pulls my tail out and shoves her whole fist in. After all those years we are all stretched properly. She turns to the men, potential buyers apparently, and I can hear parts of the conversation. Quite a high price. One guy asks something and she nods.
She leads me over to a separate shack. My heart stops. The new pony is standing there, hobbled up, trembling uncontrollably. It looks very small and vulnerable. As we come closer, it begins to whimper softly. A blond girl I haven’t seen before is stroking its mane and back to calm it down. She is very beautiful, long blond hair, a perfect figure, nipples showing through her shirt’s fabric. She hails us, and one of the guys waves back. His daughter, or maybe his partner?
We walk over and Mistress removes the pony’s plug, exposing a tiny little opening. Mistress invites the girl to inspect the hole. She inserts first one, then two fingers, lubing it up with a copious amount of spit.
No no no no no no please!
I begin to shake and try to break free. Mistress strokes my ears and kisses my neck to calm me down. She still knows me so well.
Mistress takes off my belt now, and my member springs to life. Amazingly, after all those long years, shriveled and curled up inside, it is still fully functional. I try to think of something else, hide my arousal, hope the erection goes away, to no avail. Mistress strokes me with expert hands, the same hands that have seduced me so many years ago, in another life. The men are whispering. The girl comes over to have a good look. She licks her lips, obviously satisfied with what I have to offer. I can smell her wetness steaming up.
Mistress shoves me forward and I mount the little filly, sliding into its tight virgin ass, finding my rhythm quickly, giving the performance of my life.