Pony Boy

"Hello, Mr Mason," Mr H said as he approached. "Admiring our new recruit?"

"Harold! When are you going to get round to calling me Andy? You know I prefer it." Mr Mason stepped back from me and the moment, whatever connection there had been between us, was lost.

"Whatever you say, Mr Mason, whatever you say," Mr H replied. "Pretty little thing, isn't he."

"He's got a good heart, I'll tell you that. Fought like a tiger until he fell. I was looking forward to seeing that thug Jed taken down a notch or two. Still, maybe next time."

And, with that, I was very clearly back to being the pony boy. I was once again being measured by my ability to race, an ability which had been found wanting. Now I just wanted this evening to be over. I had had enough, but, by the way I was still in harness, I could tell, there was quite a bit more to come.

"I'll catch up with you later," Mr Mason said to me as, along with Mr H, he turned and went back over to the ponies who were still in the running.

I felt alone and despondent again. That little spark of humanity had thrown into stark relief the rest of my treatment. I just stood there, staring at nothing and I hardly noticed the last race being won and, somehow inevitably, Jed being the winner. He did a lap of honour around the track lapping up the applause. I wanted to hate him for it, I did hate him for it, but I had to admit I'd have done the same thing.

"Ladies and gentlemen, that brings our main race card to a close. As for the next bit, you all know the rules. All proposed races must be agreed by the stewards and put on the chalk board next to the stewards table who will also set the odds. There will be a thirty minute break before we start again so those wishing to enjoy the refreshments on offer should do so now."

We sixteen ponies were rearranged back into our original order and the punters, many with refilled drinks, came on over to discuss possible pairings. It would appear that any one who was prepared to put up a stake could propose any race between any or the ponies.

But that wasn't the only change to the proceedings. From time to time one of the ponies would be taken away to the 'backstage' area. Some would return almost immediately, some took a little longer. When they returned each and every one of them would have money, sometimes quite big money, tucked into their belts. Mr H and the minibus driver kept an eye on all this and would take the money off the returning ponies, keeping tally in a little notebook.

My bruised and battered ego was somewhat boosted by the way that I could see quite a few punters wanting to take me backstage. Mr H, however, was turning them down. Some were being quite vehement and, one that he turned down came over to me.

"I hear you don't put out," he said quite crossly. "What's up, aren't we good enough for you? Do you think your arse too precious." He unzipped his fly and hauled out his prick. "This is what you're missing, this! If I had my way you'd be on your knees...."

"Put it away, Kev, put it away."

I Looked up and there was Mr Mason. He seemed to have materialised out of nowhere.

"Come along, Kev, if you're that keen on a blow job have one on me." Mr Mason pulled a wad of notes out of his pocket and pulled off a couple of fifties. "Here, have a go at Black Coffee. I know you're always one for a bit of dark meat."

Kev muttered something under his breath but he did put his prick away and took the two fifties from Mr Mason. Moments later I saw him leading Black Coffee to the backstage area where, presumably, he had his way.

"No, I've got other plans for you," Mr Mason said to me. He went away only to return a few moments later with Mr H.

"Harold," he said, "I want to arrange a rematch. This one against Dark Arrow over eight laps. I'll put a couple of ton up for the winner but I want them racing for something more than that."

"What's that, Mr Mason."

"The loser has to give the winner a blow job, and not backstage, right here in front of everyone. Can you arrange that for me?"

"I'm sure I can," Mr H replied.

"Oh, and one other thing, I want a change of jockey for College Boy. Charlie is all very well but he's a bit rough and I think that Pete will get more out of him."

"It's your cash, Mr Mason, so you make the rules."

Mr H went off to arrange things and, a few moments later, a jockey appeared.

"Ah, Pete," Mr Mason said, "you saw the race. What do you think of this one against Dark Arrow."

"E's a bit headstrong, this one. Rushed in when he shouldn't and Charlie was spending half the race holding him back. The other half he was spending holding on. He's got the pace and he's got the stamina but he don't know how to use it. Look at the way he took that last corner, steaming in like there's no tomorrow. No wonder he went over. Mind you, he nearly made it. So, what's your instructions?"

"I'm going to leave the tactics to you. Now, I've put two grand on him to win. You get half the winnings if he does. Can't say fairer than that."

"You certainly can't, Mr Mason. Leave him with me and I'll have a little chat. See what I can do."

"Just win, Pete, just win."

When the word got around that there was to be a rematch between Dark Arrow and myself there was quite a buzz, especially when the full conditions were known. I could see the bookies stalls doing good business though, to be fair, I wasn't sure how much was on me and how much on Dark Arrow.

Meanwhile Pete came up beside me and started to talk in a low voice so only I could hear.

"You thought you knew it all, lad, didn't you. First time out and you thought you could take an old campaigner like Jed. He's meaner and he's tougher than you'll ever be but you have two things over him, your speed and your stamina. My job is to tell you how and when to use them. What we're going to do is tuck in behind Jed and just sit there. We won't try and overtake, not for the first six laps. We'll let him tire himself out and then we'll go on lap seven. Now, I don't use a whip, well, not for racing, I use the reins. I'm going to get in the driving seat and show you. Nod your head, show me that you understand."

I nodded my head and he went behind me and sat on the sulky. Then I felt first the right rein, then the left rein, and then both together, being flicked rather than pulled. He put the reins down and came back to me.

"OK, have you got that," he asked. I nodded in reply.

"The other thing is, you're doing it all wrong. You're pulling with your wrists and they're not strong enough for that. Push with your stomach," he patted my tummy, just above my belt. "Now just try it, just for a foot or so."

I leant forward and let the chain that ran from the belt to my cuffs take the strain. This strain was then taken by the link that connected my cuffs to the shafts so that my belt was effectively pulling on the shafts.

"That's it," Pete said, "just use your hands for steering and a bit of stability round the bends. Do it like that and you and me, sunshine, we're going to win this one. So, have you got that? Push with your tummy and don't go until I tell you."

I nodded in reply.

There were quite a few other races to get out of the way first so there was a bit of a wait until, finally, Jed and I were led out to the start line. The crowd hadn't thinned one bit and it was well understood that this was a needle race.

And then we were off! Jed went off like a bullet and, at first I was trying to catch him but I felt the gentlest of tugs back and so I just concentrated on not letting him get too far ahead. Pete's advice about pushing with my tummy worked a treat and I knew I would have no problems lasting all eight laps. As for Jed, for the first few laps he was using his strength and experience but by the fourth I could tell I was gaining and by the end of the fifth I was back on his shoulder. He glanced behind him as we rounded he corner and he put on a little spurt as we went into the sixth lap but I could easily keep with him. As we turned into the start of the seventh lap I was waiting for Pete's signal and, there it was, the double flick. I kicked into full power and was about to go round the outside when I felt Pete gently tug me the other way. Surely there wasn't room on the inside, surely we'd crash but, as I powered up behind them Jed, thinking I would come around the outside, moved away from the rail.. The gap was now open and I didn't need the double flick of the reins to tell me to power on through. I was there! Before Jed knew what was what I had the inside track as we went into the corner but I didn't get carried away and I was ready for the slight pull back to slow down and take it in a controlled fashion.

After that it was plain sailing. It was the non smoker against the smoker, the healthy diet against the street food and, for all Jed's toughness, there was no way he was going to catch me. In fact my storming past him seemed to demoralise him and he slowed considerably so that, by the end of the eighth lap I was all but lapping him. He had, after all, run more races and I was fitter and fresher. The cheers as I came over the finish line were all that I could have wanted and I was back in seventh heaven.

With the race over I was led back to the centre enclosure but not back to the line of waiting sulkies. Rather I was led to stand in front of the stewards table. Mr Mason ceremoniously handed over the two hundred which was tucked into my belt. But then, sweetest of all, was to see Jed being led up to me and, when we were face to face, pushed down, onto his knees. The straps holding my prick were undone and, before we had even started, I was already hard, hard enough that the condom they slipped over it fitted with ease. Jed's bit was unfastened and, with a bit of persuasion, he leant forward and took me in his mouth.

Before that point I'd never had a blow job. Of course I had dreamt about them, what young lad hasn't, but, even in my wildest dreams, I would never have imagined a scenario such as this one. My fantasies had always been a bit confused but they had never involved another guy in full pony gear kneeling before me in front of a crowd of onlookers. But that didn't stop it being sweet. I was a king, claiming his crown and the cheers of the crowd were my just deserts. I had been on edge all evening and Jed was no amateur at blow jobs so it didn't take long before I could feel myself coming. I threw my head back and pumped, pumped my seed into Jed's mouth. Oh bliss, oh joy, oh ecstasy!

And then it was over and I was spent, exhausted, drained. I had given my all in every single way. I glanced down and there was Jed, still knelt on the floor in front of me and, for a moment, our eyes met. A chill ran through me. It didn't take much to read the hatred in his eyes. I may have won the day but, as far as he was concerned, the war was only just starting. I would be watching my back from then on.

"OK, folks, that's it for now. Come along, the next race is about to start," Mr H bustled in and Jed was helped to his feet and we were both led back to the line of waiting ponies. I wondered if Mr Mason had watched. I was sure he had done so but I hadn't been able to see him in the crowd.

That was about it as far as I was concerned. There were plenty more races and there were plenty of ponies taken 'backstage' but I was involved with neither, despite the protestations of some of the punters. And then, come two in the morning, it was all over for everyone. The last few punters were helped into waiting taxis and it was time to pack up and go home, or so I thought.

Whereas our jockeys had fitted our harnesses taking them off was a very different affair. With the punters gone the emphasis was on tidying away there was no need for ceremony. We were simply unclipped from the sulkies and our right wrist freed before being ordered to go backstage, get out of the way and get on with it. One by one we trooped back to the row of chairs where we had undressed. I looked along the line until I found the relevant plastic bag. I started to take the harness off. The bridle was easy but the plug in my arse was another matter. For starters it wasn't easy to reach and, although some of the others were helping each other, I didn't feel that relaxed around them yet. What's more, I was far from certain whether they would side with me or Jed over our little feud and I didn't want to find out the hard way.

I was still struggling with various contorted positions when the lad next to me suggested that I 'put one foot on the chair, that's easiest' and when I tried it he was right. Slowly, carefully, I eased the plug out of my battered backside. My arse still felt stretched and sore but at least the invader had gone. I gave my neighbour a smile, thankful that I wasn't persona non grata with everyone. After removing the plug the rest was easy and, free at last from the harness, I tidied up the bits and pieces and handed them over to the minibus driver. I was expecting to get dressed but, when I reached for the white plastic bag, I was told to take off my trainers and get back under the showers.

I was slightly surprised with the thoroughness with which everyone was taking this, the second shower of the evening. As with the first shower, the minibus driver was watching over us and ensuring we did a thorough job. I could understand the shower before the racing but why now, why have another when it was all but over? That's not to say I didn't need one. With the plug finally removed from my backside it was nice to wash away the remaining lubricant, even if I knew it was still going to stay sore and tender for a day or so. Indeed, looking around, I wasn't the only one concentrating on that area, a few were even soaping each other. Eventually the minibus driver felt that we had done enough so we were ordered get towelled down and return to the row of chairs.

As soon as I saw the chairs the reason for the shower became apparent. We weren't going home, not yet. The bags of clothes, along with our trainers, that we had left there had gone missing and, in their place were pairs split sided running shorts. I picked mine up and examined it. It was made from black silk with a generous cut and an elasticated waist. They may have looked like running shorts but these were more about posing than any sporting activity. I put mine on and found that the split side, along with their cut, meant that they didn't in any way impede access. Indeed, they were so short and so flimsy that a flaccid penis would be in danger of poking out of the bottom and an erect one make an obvious tent. The minibus driver chivvied us up and, once we were all sorted, he herded us back into the main body of the warehouse where the minibuses were waiting.

I wanted to ask where we were going but I was still unsure of my status and didn't want to raise my profile too high so I just kept my head down and followed the others. As we piled into the minibuses I made sure I wasn't in the same one as Jed. Then the door was closed behind us, and we were off. This time, as we were all but naked, I was happy that the minibus windows had been blacked out. However, it was a little cool to be wearing so little. I tucked myself away in a corner and hoped I would be left alone. Of course, that wasn't to be.

"'Ere, what's all this about you won't let the punters fuck you?" one of the lads asked.

"Err... yeah, that's right," I replied.

"What, so they can fuck us but they can't fuck you. How do you work that one out? What are you? Some sort of posh cunt who thinks that they're better than us," another cut in.

"No, no, really, I don't think that." I could see the look of disbelief on their faces. I had to give some sort of explanation, and one they would believe and accept. The fact that I was scared shitless wasn't going to work.

"It's a plan that Mr H dreamt up," I replied. "As soon as he heard my accent he told me I had to be coy, play the shy virgin, sort of thing. It's all Mr H's idea. Look, I really don't think I'm better than you. After all, if I did I wouldn't be here."

I could hear a sort of grudging acceptance going on.

"So, how does this work then? You can't stay a virgin forever; you've got to get fucked some time. Oh, I get it. Mr H is going to auction you off, isn't he? You play the virgin and then the highest bidder gets to pop your cherry, sort of thing? I can see the punters queuing up for that one, tight little virgin arse and all. What's more it's just the sort of thing Mr H would think up."

"I don't know, he didn't tell me," and I really didn't. If that really was Mr H's plan then there was precious little I could do about it. When I had met him in his office he had seemed pretty trustworthy, well, maybe not trustworthy but at least he seemed to play it straight. Now I wouldn't put it past him to have lured me into god knows what and I would be lucky to come out of it intact.

"Where are we going," I asked. At least, now we were talking, I could find out what was going on.

"To the party."

"What party?"

"God, you're green. The after race party. We're part of the entertainment. Remember, lads..."

"Keep the customer sweet, that's what brings in the cash," they all chorused.

Although I was, in some ways, more worried than I had been all evening, it was reassuring that the lads had swallowed the story about the whole shy virgin thing being Mr H's idea and, at least I was becoming accepted. We chatted away about this and that and then, a short while later, the van drew to a halt and we were there.

I didn't get to see much of the house from the outside. It was dark and we were whisked in through the back door. However, even that brief glimpse was enough to tell me that the house was vast and the opulence and size of the kitchen was enough to show that it was expensive. There was no hanging about. Despite the fact that there were a number of waiters and waitresses going back and forth, we were handed trays of canapés and ushered straight through and on into the main body of the house.

The party was spread out over a number of rooms and, as such, it was hard to say how many guests were there but, as I went around with my tray of canapés, I recognised one or two from the race meeting. It was quite clear that the tray I was carrying was a mere excuse to have me circulate; I was on offer just as much as the canapés. As I handed them around many took the opportunity to check me out and my backside was constantly being pinched or groped and quite a few hands made use of the open leg of my shorts. It was often a struggle not to spill the tray. It wasn't long before I was waved over to where there was a group of four guys sat in leather armchairs arranged around a glass topped coffee table.

"Come here, boy, I haven't seen you before," one of the guys said as I approached. He was a big, thick set man with a pretty impressive beer belly and not what I would have preferred but, from the moment I had entered the house, it was clear that it wasn't down to me to be choosey.

"He's that College Boy, that new kid. Harold says he's look but not touch," another added.

"Look, not touch? What the fuck is that all about?"

"You had best ask him."

"Well, boy, are you look but not touch?"

"Yes, sir," I replied.

"And why is that then?"

I thought fast and came up with "Please, sir, I'm saving my self for 'Mr Right'."

That earned me a round of laughter.

"Mr Right. Are you Mr Right, Si? Steve? George?" They all shook their head. "Sorry, sonny, you're not going to find Mr Right around here, I can tell you that for free. My name's Mr Arthur, is that close enough? Come and sit on my knee. You can do that, can't you?" Mr Arthur patted his right thigh.

"Certainly, sir," I replied. I wasn't sure what would have happened if I had refused but I didn't want to find out. I put the tray down on the coffee table and sat myself across his knee. I had to play along so, to get in role, I thought of myself as some kind of gangster's moll and draped myself over him. He then put his hand on my thigh and slid it up into the leg of my shorts. He didn't mess around; his hand went straight for my prick. I sighed as if this were the most wonderful thing ever.