Riverbend Equestrian Park was a pretty fancy name for a pretty fancy place. It was located just west of Lexington, Kentucky, in rolling green-pastured hills sectioned off with gleaming-white fences and was a "have-it-all" sort of enterprise when it came to horses, or nearly it all.
Colonel Jameson, the man who lived in the white-brick antebellum house in the middle of the complex and who seemingly controlled everything he could see, was musing about the "not all" of it one late afternoon. He was grousing to Tony Vera, the nameplate of the complex's School of Dressage, as they sat on the verandah of the "big house" and watched Sid Shelton put one of his jockeys and a racehorse through their paces out on the nearby practice ring. The show racetrack was located closer to the road winding out of Lexington so the Saturday and Sunday handicappers didn't traipse over the more manicured part of the complex, and the riding school stables were entered from a half mile down the highway.
"It's something we don't have."
"Yes, it is, that's for sure. But will it attract the right sort of people?" Vera queried the old colonel. Shelton always tried to defer to the Colonel with respect—although he always found a way to make the Colonel see the light—his light—of any issue. There could only be one man at the top of the heap here, and, while letting the Colonel think it still was him, Tony Vera and the rest of those working here knew it really was Tony. There was a hierarchy here. The stable hands and the riding school were at the bottom, the race course and Riverbend's own string of race horses and their jockeys were in the middle, and, even though the Colonel, sitting here in his wheel chair that would no longer take him beyond the portico of the big house thought he was at the top, he wasn't—Tony Vera's School of Dressage, the place where Olympic equestrians came to train, was at the pinnacle.
Tony liked to take new hires out to the entrance into Riverbend's administrative hub from the main highway and point to the unusual sculpture at the entrance.
"What does that look like to you?" he would ask, pointing to the art work rising on a knoll beside the intersection of the highway and the Riverbend drive.
"Why it looks like one of those Alaskan totem poles, but in bronze rather than wood," they invariably answered.
"Right," Vera would answer with self-satisfaction. "And what is unusual about it?"
"It includes the heads and legs of horses intertwined around the heads of men—riders."
"Precisely. And the first thing you need to understand around here is that there is a pecking order here. Everything falls into order. Those in the riding stables, like you, answer to and respond to anyone above them. Above you are the race track operation employees and above them are my dressage equestrians. And at the top of each of the separate operations are the men who ride. And I trust you can understand what I mean by the "men who ride." We are very special men here. You were hired because of that. Do you know what is special about your being hired?"
"No," the new hire invariably would say, hoping in his heart of hearts it was not what he feared, because men who were known to want other men were not normally hired into jobs like this.
"It's because all of the men we hire here prefer other men—and they only remain here if they honor and respond to the pecking order. Do you hear what I'm saying?"
"Yes, sir," most of the new hires would respond and then, to drive the pecking order concept home, Tony Vera would take the new hire straight to the tack room in the big horse barn, command him to strip and spread his legs, and would take first cocking rights. Others knowing of the new hire and being somewhere higher in the pecking order than the new hire would have also gathered nearby and, after Vera was done, would take their turn, from top rank down, in a rite of initiation that told the new hire exactly where he fit.
Occasionally a new hire taken to view the totem pole would note that horses were supposed to be king in Kentucky and at this enterprise. One had even had the gall to note that the face at the top of the totem looked more like a Wild West cowboy than a distinguished and refined dressage champion such as Tony Vera or even the white-bearded Colonel. When one did this, though, he was released from his job obligations right there and then and set out on the highway to Lexington to fend for himself.
Tony Vera had schemed hard to get to the top of that totem pole.
And it was for this reason that he probably should have been a little sharper of mind when the Colonel suggested an expansion of their operations.
"I think a rodeo would be a wonderful addition here. It would bring new life into the operations. What do you think, Tony?"
Tony hated this sort of thing. He usually found out what cockamamie idea the Colonel would have next and was prepared to ditch it or reshape it to his advantage before the Colonel brought it up with him. But this had come completely from left field—prompted, apparently, by the brochure of a rodeo troupe coming all the way from Wyoming for a performance at the Tennessee State Fair outside of Nashville.
"I think that would be great. That's a Wyoming-based rodeo, though, isn't it? It's not something permanently setting up back East." Tony felt reasonably safe to be agreeable about something that couldn't happen.
"I've had letters from them. They, in fact, are trying to find someplace to set up permanently in this area. I think the pasture by the lower forty might be a place to put in a rodeo ring. We could have an entrance put in right off the highway and there'd be no rodeo traffic to contend with up in this area. What do you think?"
"It's certainly something to think about," Tony answered.
He should have paid more attention to what the Colonel was saying, perhaps. But just then, his eyes were on the practice racetrack and he noticed that Sid Shelton was lifting the new jockey prospect, who was being interviewed for a position, off a horse and setting him on the ground. Even from this distance, Tony could see that they were kissing.
This was outrageous, he thought. The jockey wasn't even hired yet. Tony hadn't given him the totem pole talk followed by a proper initiation. He left the portico as soon as he could break away from the Colonel, not hearing at all what the Colonel had gone on to say after suggesting the addition of a rodeo, and marched deliberately toward the racetrack stables.
Sure enough, he found them in the corner of one of the unoccupied stalls. The jockey's jodhpurs and Shelton's trousers were hanging provocatively and challengingly on the side of the stall, and they hadn't even bothered to swing the stall door shut. They were down into a pile of hay, the jockey on his back, with his legs spread wide and held out with his hands while Shelton was grunting and groaning between the small jockey's thighs, working hard to get his thick cock into the small hole. He succeeded and started pumping away, bringing moans of satisfaction from the jockey, who was pumping his hips up into Shelton to get the full length of the plunging cock as Tony stood at the stall door and watched, his hand traveling down to his own basket.
As the jockey groaned and Shelton's back and flanks tightened and shuddered at his ejaculation, Tony did what he could to freeze up Shelton's second of pleasure by cutting in with an icy voice. "When you are quite finished there, Sidney, I would like to see you in the tack room, please. The jockey can remain here awaiting my pleasure—or he can just take his things and leave. Whether this interview is satisfactory or not is completely up to him now. I'll make the decision on hiring or not."
In the tack room, Sid Shelton was brought back into line on the pecking order while he was laying on his back and, in addition to receiving the same fucking from Tony he'd just given to the jockey recruit, he was given the painful week-long memory of red welts on his buttocks and thighs from a stinging riding crop.
When Tony came back for the jockey, who he'd learned was named Jason, he didn't do him there. It was getting late, so he took him home.
Jason was one talented jockey, able to give Tony a blow job like Tony had never had before, and then had taken Tony's cock in every conceivable position, many of which Tony had never experienced before. Needless to say Jason got the job. He also became the employee Tony took home at night, putting out the notice that Jason was his alone from henceforth.
All was back in order then for the next few months.
Tony Vera didn't especially enjoy those months, however, as he had to stand by and watch a rodeo ring being constructed on the pasture in the lower forty of Riverbend.
It wasn't long before he met the head wrangler of the rodeo, a tower of man muscle and rough chiseled features who went by the name of Luther Stone and whose "howdy" grip on Tony's hand when they shook almost broke the delicate bones in Tony's paw that he relied on to give subtle direction to the sensitive thoroughbreds in dressage.
It wasn't Tony who showed Stone around the various operations buildings and arenas for the first time. The Colonel had kept Tony at the house where they were working out logistics and arrangements with the rodeo's administrative staff. It was Sid Shelton who did the introduction honors.
That evening, as Tony was leaving the big house, he noticed Shelton stumbling out of the racetrack stables over by the practice ring and fall to the ground. Seeing that something was amiss, Tony ran to him to find Shelton lying, panting, on the ground, and with a big, sloppy grin on his face.
"What is it? What's the matter?" Tony cried as he reached the man.
"That new guy, the head of the rodeo. Oh, god, oh, shit."
"Yes, Luther Stone. What about him?"
"He's got a gigantic one that won't stop. You know that totem pole out front? That's him; that's his cock. He's already been through half the guys here. It was just my turn—they're standin' in line for it. God he's a stud. And everlasting. Oh, God."
"He's not above the racetrack, let alone the dressage school," Tony bellowed indignantly. "I've assigned the rodeo to be just above the riding stables. We'll just see about that."
"He's gone. Can't do it tonight. He went off. Took Jason with him."
Jason. Jason the jockey who Tony had reserved for himself and took home at night. Tony was beside himself with anger. He seethed all night—alone. He could hardly wait to get back to Riverbend the next morning.
His mood wasn't a bit better the next day when Luther Stone drove up in his Ford 150 pickup truck an hour late and Jason stumbled, nearly delirious, out of the passenger side of the cab and hobbling toward the racetrack stable.
Tony stood there, on the top of the steps of the portico at the big house, glowering, and slapping his riding crop against his thigh. The guys at Riverbend had never seen him so keyed up, and they were gathering, not too close, but close enough to watch events unfold and hear any eruptions.
There were no eruptions. Luther slowly unfolded from the truck and sauntered over to the steps to the big house's portico. And he just stood there, looking up at Tony, but almost at his head level as massive as he was, even compared to Tony. And he smiled a smile of challenge.
"You should have reported to me directly yesterday," Tony said coldly. "We have certain protocols here. And I am always the first stop. If you will come with me, please, I have something to show you."
"The totem pole?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact." Tony's voice was icy. Where in the hell had he already heard about the totem pole from? Tony's eyes scanned the gathering group of men. Did he sniff a hint of rebellion in the air? This needed to be rectified immediately. "Please come with me. My car is at the side of the house."
"My truck is right here. We can take that."
They stood there, facing each other. Tony realized that Luther wasn't going to budge. And he was still smiling that sneery sort of half smile. This wasn't a time to stand here playing "who's got the biggest balls?" This cowboy needed to be put in his place immediately. So, Tony descended the stairs and went over to the truck and climbed in as if this had been his idea from the beginning.
The ride out to the Entrance of Riverbend was a short and mostly a silent one, the only noise being from the sound of a saddle on some sort of stand in the truck bed that was making a metallic sound when the truck hit a bump or rut. Tony turned and looked through the back window and saw that the stirrups of the saddle were slapping at the sides of the stand, which looked like some sort of saw horse.
"What's that in the truck bed?" Tony asked.
"Mechanical bull. We use it for practice. Like the ones they have in cowboy bars. You can get quite a ride off those. It can be run off the truck motor."
That's all that was said before they got out to the base of the totem pole.
When they were out of the truck, and the other workers were beginning to gather again, Tony went to the top of the knoll where the totem rose on high. He wanted to wait until everything was in place. He only wanted to do this once. He wanted a good-sized audience.
Luther continued standing at the base of the knoll, hands on his hips, a half smile on his lips.
"You see this pole? You know what it represents?" Tony asked in a big voice when he was satisfied it was time to proceed.
"Yeah. I hear it symbolizes the pecking order around here."
"That's right." Once again Tony was a little put off by Luther's knowledge of the ritual initiation—and especially that he didn't act concerned about it.
"Yes, we have a system of hierarchy here, as the totem indicates. You apparently aren't aware yet where the rodeo operation fits in the scheme of things here. You are above the riding school. But you are below the racetrack operation, and the racetrack operation is below—"
"I'll go with the totem, I think." Luther interrupted Tony to say.
"The totem seems to say it well. Look at the top figure. Doesn't that look more like a robust cowboy to you than a namby-pamby fancy-dress dressage boy?"
Tony was speechless with rage and couldn't find the words he needed to say.
And Luther didn't give him any time to regather his forces.
"Maybe it's time for you to find out how a real horse of a man rides," Luther declared in a loud voice. And then he was striding up the knoll and laying his hands on the smaller Tony and propelling Tony down toward the truck. Tony struggled with him, but Luther gave him a backhand coming and going across his face, and Tony went into a daze as Luther let the tailgate down on his truck and tossed Tony unceremoniously up into the truck bed. Then, with Tony not yet out of the daze, Luther hopped up into the truck bed, stripped Tony's clothes off, tossed him up into the saddle of the mechanical bull, and then stripped himself and crowned his cock with a lubed condom.
Tony was trying to come around as Luther bound Tony's feet in the stirrups and pushed his chest down onto the front of the mechanical bull and tied off his wrists at either side of the bull in front.
Tony was screaming bloody murder when Luther, having hopped up into the saddle behind Tony, pulled Tony's pelvis up with broad hands gripping and separating his buttocks and thrusting his gigantic dick home up between Tony's butt cheeks.
The champion equestrian hollered his indignity and pain as Luther skewered him deep. And then Luther turned the bucking mechanical bull on, and, in front of most of the employees of Riverbend, Tony received the wildest fuck he was ever likely to experience in life. And it was all the more cowing because it was his first experience as a bottom.
After he was done and the bull had stopped bucking—but while Tony was still babbling at his thorough taking, Luther hopped out of the saddle and pulled his trousers on and addressed first the gathered, hush crowd with the statement, "As you can see, the rodeo is now at the top of the Riverbend pecking order," and then he spoke directly to Sid Shelton, who was standing near the truck, jaw dropped down to his chest. "Mr. Shelton. Please go up to the big house and tell the Colonel that Mr. Vera and I will be taking the rest of the day off to become better acquainted and to discuss the flow of operations with the establishment of the rodeo here."
Then he untied Tony and helped him off the bull and to the ground.
Tony made to pick up his clothes, but Luther said, "No, we're not done yet. Get into the truck" in a commanding voice.
Whimpering, Tony hobbled to the truck. He had to be helped up into the cab.
Luther took two days off rather than the one, and a much chastened and reeducated Tony came back to work a week after when he got out of the hospital.