Pony Boy Ch. 08

Gosh, has it really been eight months since I last posted. Oops Sorry. I guess you'll need a catch-up as much as I did. So here's the story so far.

Ben, when desperate for a little extra cash, discovered that there was good money to be made running in races as a 'ponyboy'. Despite being assured that the worst he would be subjected to would be a 'certain amount of groping' he has found that this led, inexorably, to a life as a prostitute. Moreover, Andy Mason, his pimp, along with Archie, Mr Mason's enforcer, has made it quite clear that, as long as there is money to be made from renting him out, quitting is not an option.

Among the many indignities Ben has been forced into is performing in a sex show where, cross dressed as naughty schoolgirl "Belinda Bombshell", he gets caned and sodomised for the entertainment of the punters. The show, and Belinda in particular, is such a hit that Mr Mason has seen yet another money making opportunity and he is keen that Ben should perform as Belinda as much as possible. But, more than just the stage show, he is now looking to make even more money by renting Ben out as a transvestite escort.

But, for all Ben is finding this demeaning and degrading, he is also discovering sides to his sexuality that had previously lain hidden. He may loathe Belinda and all she stands for but that doesn't stop him getting a certain frisson of pleasure whenever he puts on her panties.

And, all the while, there's the complicating factor of his growing relationship with taciturn and secretive Jed, at first his arch rival but, latterly, his lover.

At the end of the last chapter we heard Mr Mason tell Ben that he has a double date with Carl on Tuesday, a photo session as Belinda on Wednesday morning, a ponyboy session on Thursday evening and a Belinda stage show on Friday evening. Ben is going to be a busy boy.

Now read on...

*****

Carl was already in the car when it arrived to pick me up on Tuesday evening. We chatted together as it whisked us down into one of the better parts of Knightsbridge, finally coming to rest in some mews behind some very grand buildings. We were led through what was obviously the tradesmen's entrance to a room where we found several people of around my age waiting. I say people because, unlike all the other places I had worked, here there were as many girls as boys. However, girl or boy, we all had that slightly haunted look that came with the job and it was clear we were all there for the same thing: to entertain the punters.

The second thing I noticed was the range of ethnicity. White, black, African, Asian or European, the punters then they were going to be able to take their pick from both genders and a pretty complete range of skin tones. A veritable smorgasbord of sexual entertainment.

I was still musing on this when, suddenly, I realised that I knew one of the girls. Standing not ten feet away was Jenny from my Social Studies course. It had taken a moment or two to place her; she was so out of context and her clothing was so different from the rather prim and proper outfits she wore to college. I was still staring at her when our eyes met and I saw a flicker of both fear and surprise cross her face. It was probably matched by similar emotions crossing mine. She gave a slight shake of her head and I understood completely. She did not want to be acknowledged and, to be fair, neither did I. I turned back and continued chatting to Carl.

A major-domo arrived, counted heads and ordered us to get changed into the uniforms they were about to provide. I should have guessed what was coming. For the girls this consisted of the pretty standard 'kinky' maid's uniform where the skirt was short enough and flared enough to demonstrate that panties were not involved anywhere combined with a bustier that lifted and offered the breasts rather than covering them. For us boys it was the same sort of split side running shorts that were worn at the after race parties. This was turned into a waiter's uniform by the simple addition of a cuffs and a collar complete with a fake bow tie, the sort of thing beloved of pub stripper-grams.

Once we were all changed the major-domo lined us up and checked us over, making sure that we met his exacting standards. Then we were trooped through to a kitchen area where there were trays of canapés and drinks waiting. Just as with the after race parties we were each given a tray and then taken through to the main body of the house where a dinner party was just getting under way.

At first there wasn't much to do. The guests were few and far between and all we had to do was stand around looking decorative and offering drinks or canapés when appropriate. This gave me a chance to observe and try to work out who it was that was hosting the party. As far as I could make out we were at some quasi-official do sponsored by one of the central African states. To be sure the hosts were had the deep black skin tones I associate with central Africa and, while I couldn't place the accent, it had a definite African lilt. The guests, on the other hand, were a mixture of all sorts and, while my judgement may have been biased by my role there, they all seemed to be just as shady and corrupt as the guests at the post race parties.

As more and more guests arrived the party became more and more animated. However, we waiters and waitresses were still mostly ignored and left alone. At this point the contents of the trays we were carrying were of more interest than we who carried the trays. That didn't stop my backside from being groped from time to time.

After an hour or so the party goers were all called to the dinner table. It says much about the scale of the house that the dining room could seat them all. We boys were recruited as serving staff while the girls were assigned to pouring the various wines.

During the meal we waiting staff were mere functionaries and not worthy of notice. It didn't seem to phase anyone that we were all but naked; they were merely interested in having their food and wine served efficiently. One of the girls was nudged by a clumsy guest which, in turn, made her spill the wine she was pouring but this just resulted in nothing more than a sharp rebuke.

The wine had been flowing freely and, after we had cleared away the desert course, the diners were relaxing over brandy and cigars. Many stayed at the table but double doors were opened onto a drawing room with groups of armchairs and about half the guests made their way through. Under orders from the major-domo we serving staff cleared away the rest of the table, taking away the used dishes and, inevitably, replacing them with discreet bowls of condoms. With no more food to be served or dishes to be cleared we were arranged around the edges of the two rooms, quietly waiting.

And we didn't have long to wait. The principle host, who others had been addressing as 'ambassador', got up from the table, and, along with one of the guests, wandered about inspecting the serving staff. Between them they picked out three of the girls who they took back to the table and stripped of their bustiers. As far as I could tell there was some sort of discussion over breast sizes, about how African girls have fuller breasts than their Asian cousins and, after a certain amount of poking and groping, the winner, or should that be loser, was down on her knees, opening the fly of the guest and fishing out his prick. That didn't mean that the other two were reprieved. One had to service the ambassador, the other the guest sitting on the ambassador's other side.

And that opened the floodgates. It seemed that a post-dinner blow job was just the thing to go with the brandy and cigars. Admittedly, at first, it was only the girls but soon enough we boys were also called into action. I was brought over to one of the hosts who was busy chatting to a businessman who, by his accent, was American and, probably, Texan. The Texan already had a girl working away between his thighs but that didn't stop him from talking.

"So, Darweshi, what's with all these boys?" he asked as I approached. "Look at this one. Even his toenails are painted. What a faggot!"

I blushed. I had forgotten that my toenails were still varnished a bright scarlet.

"Oh, the boys can give just as much pleasure as the girls, sometimes more." He tugged down my shorts and turned me around, bending me over the table. "Tell me you wouldn't want to fuck a tight little arse like this one." He gave my buttocks a hearty slap. "I know I will before the evening is out."

"I didn't know you were that sort of guy."

"I'm not." Darweshi laughed dismissively. "It's just that sometimes I like plain cooking and, sometimes, I like things a bit spicier. But don't take my word for it; push that little tart aside and let him take over. If you really don't like it we can swap back again but I'm betting that you'll find that bit of extra spice just the thing to make a change from the normal."

"Really, He's that good?"

"That different. Try it and see."

"OK, just for you, Darweshi." He pushed the girl between his thighs out of the way and, with my shorts still around my knees, I knelt down and took her place.

I knew what I had to do. It wasn't just the blow job; that was a given. Darweshi had promised the Texan that I would be better than the girl and that was what I had to try and achieve. If I failed to live up to the mark, it was just the sort of thing that would get back to Mr Mason and the consequences of that didn't bear thinking about. I set to with an enthusiasm that belied my actual feelings.

"God, look at the little faggot, he's loving this, isn't he?"

"Oh, yes. The boys and girls that the agency supplies are very willing. We wouldn't have it any other way. If you have any... special interests then all you have to do is ask. They're paid to be versatile and, after your generous offer this afternoon, the very least we can do is make sure you have the best of what's available. We do, of course have private rooms if you would prefer a little privacy but, as you can see," he waved his arm indicating the rest of the room, "there's no need to be shy."

I glanced sideways and, although my view was restricted, I could see that I was far from the only one of the waiting staff down on their knees. It wasn't quite a full blown orgy but it was fast heading that way. Darweshi had unzipped his fly and the girl discarded by the Texan was busy fishing out his prick and slipping on a condom.

And all the while the two men chatted away as if this were perfectly normal.

"If you'll excuse me a moment," Darweshi said after a while, "I'll just..."

He grabbed the hair of the girl between his thighs and used it to pull her to her feet. He spun her round and bent her over the table before coming up behind her and plunging into her arse. The Texan followed suit and, moments later, I was bent over next to the girl as the Texan plundered my backside.

My face was pressed to the table and, to prevent my nose from being crushed, I had turned my head sideways. That meant that I was looking straight at the girl and, as our respective clients pounded into us, we shared a smile of recognition. Not so long ago I would have wondered how a nice looking girl like her could have ended up in this position; now I knew. We were birds of a feather.

It didn't take long before first the Texan and then Darweshi reached their climax and, after a couple of moments to get their breath back, they returned to their seats. The girl and I remained bent over the table until, rather impatiently, we were dismissed by Darweshi.

"Not so fast, fag boy, I haven't finished with you," the Texan called after me. "And lose the shorts."

I turned back and he crooked his finger to indicate that I should stand next to him. I took off my shorts and went to stand beside him. He grabbed me by the shoulder and spun me around, looking at me closely.

"Well, I ain't no faggot but I will admit this one has got the sweetest little ass. As you say, it's... different." He turned me back to face him. And look at his dinkie little wiener. I do believe he's got a boner. I guess his sort really do liked being fucked up the ass." He reached down and held my prick with the tips of his fingers. I did have a bit of an erection, anal sex does that to me, and now, with his fingers manipulating my prick, I was stiffening up nicely.

"Are you a betting man, Darweshi?"

"I like the occasional wager. Why, what do you suggest?"

"This little fag is about to pop his cork and I've got two thousand dollars which say he can shoot his load farther than any other fag you want to choose. Are we on?"

"Any I choose?"

"Any one at all."

"That's a brave bet. Let me go and see what's available."

Darweshi got up and wandered around the room looking at the other boys. He didn't have much choice. Most were already taken. However as news of the contest caught on, others were keen to participate. It was therefore decided that each 'owner' would place a thousand dollars on the table and we would all compete at once with the winning owner taking all. And that's where the Texan suggested another rule. Each owner would be responsible for doing whatever they felt appropriate to stimulate their particular boy. The competitors would have to stand with their hands clamped behind their necks.

Under the Texan's direction they set out a row of chairs and on these our 'owners' sat with their knees apart while we competitors stood in front of them facing outwards. The ambassador was appointed judge and, on his orders, each owner reached around and started wanking his particular boy.

I don't know whether the Texan was perceptive of just lucky but this appealed to the exhibitionist in me. Sure, none of the boys available were exactly shrinking violets but the same part of me that got off on being abused as Belinda Bombshell was getting off on this. What also helped was that, unseen by the others, the Texan had slipped a condom over his thumb and had shoved it up my backside. Meanwhile he was snarling obscenities about what perverted faggots all us English boys were and how pathetic we were when compared to real men like those from Texas and how, if he had me back home I'd be fucked until...

I couldn't suppress a groan of pleasure as, deep, deep into my role as fag boy, my prick exploded with pleasure. The Texan gave a wild 'yee-ha!' as he pumped the spunk from me and, to his delight, it shot out arching maybe as much as four feet or so in front of me.

As I recovered my breath I looked around at the other 'performers'. While they were all playing along at having the best time of all it was easy to see that, for some, their hearts weren't in it.

Maybe I shouldn't have been proud that I won. After all, being the most aroused by being abused in this way is hardly an achievement to boast about. However it delighted the Texan and, suddenly, I was his favourite little fag boy and the rest of the evening was spent knelt at his side as, slowly, the party drank itself into submission. That didn't stop him loaning me out a couple of times, once for a blow job and once to a guest who tried to sodomise me but was too drunk to get it up. Moreover, when it was finally time for him to leave, after demanding one last blow job, he told me to 'open wide'. When I did so he stuffed a wodge of notes in my mouth which, when I counted up later, came to a thousand dollars. Not a bad tip for a night's work.

A pale dawn was rising by the time Carl and I were sharing a taxi back to East London. All I wanted was a shower and then bed but I had my gym session to go to followed by a photo shoot as Belinda.

The gym session was pretty low key. However, I was working away on the treadmill when Mr Mason arrived and, in preparation for the photo shoot, checked that I had shaved all over. He reminded me that I was due at the studio for nine o'clock and that I should bring along all my Belinda outfits. I promised to do just that grateful that he didn't know about the dress Jed had bought for me. At least there was one outfit left unsullied.

The photographer was no more an early-bird than I am and we were both a bit slow off the mark. However, he put on some dance music and had me dance along to it and, after a while, we were doing fine. We started with the 'Belinda as sex kitten' shots and then moved on to the 'Belinda as high class escort'. The photographer even gave me plenty of hints about how to appear alluring; how to flaunt the feminine whiles I did have and, more importantly, appear to flaunt those I didn't.

We were still working away when Mr Mason arrived. He looked through the shots taken so far and, grudgingly admitted to being satisfied. However, we hadn't done any with me wearing the baby doll so we got on with those with Mr Mason overseeing.

And then, as I was washing off the make up and changing back from Belinda to Ben I overheard Mr Mason and the photographer chatting through the thin partition wall.

"So, you can have all this on line by this afternoon?"

"No problem. He's pretty much a natural so they won't need much photoshopping. I should be finished by three or four in the afternoon. I'll give you a call if you like."

"Thanks. Usual rates."

"Usual rates but you'll make that back in no time with this one."

I finished getting changed and carefully packed away my clothes.

That afternoon I should have been at lectures but, quite frankly, they had gone by the wayside. I was far too busy working for Mr Mason to attend to my degree. Anyway, I hadn't slept in over thirty six hours so I just collapsed on my bed and, within moments, I was asleep.

I woke around five feeling like shit. I made myself a cup of coffee and powered up my laptop. In my naivety I hadn't even realised that Mr Mason would have a web site but, as he photographer had said that the Belinda photos would be on-line by four, I wanted to check how they came out. I fired up my web browser and googled Belinda Bombshell.

It didn't take long to track down the web site and, when I opened it up, I was in for a few surprises. Firstly I was on there as College Boy with a number of photos from the race meetings. I should have expected that and I also should have expected the pricing. I was down as 'out call only' with prices at one fifty an hour and seven fifty for overnight visits. I knew Mr Mason would be taking his cut. Now I could appreciate just how much of a cut it was.

And, on another part of the web site, there was Belinda. She was down as a pre-op transvestite. I suppose that was accurate enough although pre-op was pushing it as, if I had anything to do with it, there was never going to be an op. However, within the confines of on-line escort ads I suppose it was as accurate as they come. The pricing was pretty much the same as College Boy but, again, I could be sure that Mr Mason would take his generous cut.

Out of idle curiosity I searched through the site until I came across Jenny, or Rosalind to use her professional name. I wondered if she, too, had been tempted by 'easy' money and was now locked in, forced to work for Mr Mason or suffer dire consequences.

Still, as Jed had made quite clear, there was no room for self pity. We had all made poor choices and now had to make the best of a bad job.

I needed a meal although, heaven knows whether it would count as breakfast, lunch or dinner. To this end I went out to the local kebab house and bought myself a donner and I was still eating it on the way back to my flat when my mobile went. With a sinking feeling I fished it out of my pocket and answered it.

"Hello?"

"Belinda's got a date. You're to wear the black dress. Pick up is at eight o'clock. Understood."

"But... but I'm not ready to go out as Belinda."