Aunt Ann's Pony Life Ch. 08

The love we made for the next hour was an odd mixture. There were David and Ann, kissing softly, fingers caressing, touching, tickling, and saying "I love you" back and forth. But then a touch or tickle or pinch would seem to trigger and that she-wolf would be back, growling and snarling deep in her throat. Honestly, that kind of scared me but it also excited me.

We coupled face to face first, with me on top, and her legs wrapped around me. Her knees were squeezing my waist and her heels dug into my ass. I made her carry my weight, pinning her to the mattress, and I wasn't moving, wasn't trying to finish. Rather, I was enjoying being joined to her, being surrounded by her warm wetness. I covered her face with kisses and filled her ear with, "I love you."

"Can't breathe," she sort of hissed as I relaxed completely.

I pulled free for just a second and moved around until our legs were scissored against each other, as I slipped back into her. In this position I made love to her calf and ankle and foot, kissing every square inch of her skin, sucking each toe, and kissing each toenail. Her hips could rock a little in this position and I moved my leg until the top of my thigh had her labia parted and I could feel the hard button of her clitoris against the soft skin at the top of my leg. Her love honey, that natural lubricant, was flowing freely. I could feel it, warm and slightly sticky.

But I wanted to be with the she-wolf so I pulled free and grasped her hips, rolling her onto her belly and then lifting her up onto all fours. She seemed to understand, on some instinctive level, what I wanted and growled, that sound coming from deep in her chest.

I moved up then, not entering her, but my erection pressed against her where she was hot and wet and slick. I had to bow my back sharply and I nipped at the skin of her shoulderblade and then her neck, something I had seen once on some outdoor TV documentary as I think it was a male lion mounting his female and holding her immobile.

When she turned her head, teeth clicking together as she snapped I bit down harder.

She yipped, a loud, high-pitched sound, and then, as I entered her, she howled. It was a true howl, her head thrown back, the sound haunting. I damn near came.

I reached around and grabbed her teats, squeezing, and she snarled.

When I moved and slipped deeper inside of her she arched her back, welcoming me. I kept at her teats, squeezing, mauling them if we're being honest, and she kept up that snarling, growling sound deep in her throat.

I began thrusting with little hard, fast movements, again thinking of that time I had come across two dogs mating.

I shifted my grip, grabbing the soft pads of flesh at her hips and squeezing hard enough to draw a yell that turned into another howl.

And she came. It was breathtaking. She clenched so tight I howled in response, and she soaked us both.

I held that grip on her hips, squeezing even harder, and she held me tight inside of her.

I had no particular urge to finish. Hell, I wanted to stay inside of her, knotted up, until we were both too exhausted to move anymore.

But biology won out. I had gone too far and even though I held still I came, my ejaculation powerful, taking me through that ecstasy to agony to ecstasy cycle only the best climax can offer.

Biology won the second round too, and I softened and slipped out. I was relaxed then and sort of slid off of her.

She flopped onto her back, her arm hitting me as she spread them wide.

"Oh shit," she sighed, "oh fucking SHIT!"

I laughed softly.

"Yeah," I said, "oh shit."

"Oh shit," she breathed again, "that was new."

I was still working to get my breathing under control when I said, "Really?"

Her recovery was faster than mine and she rolled up onto her side.

"Yes, baby," she leaned in and kissed me quickly and softly, "that was new."

I didn't know what to say to that so, amazingly, I said nothing.

We lay like that, relaxing, recovering, sharing kisses and the occasional, very soft, "Oh shit," making us giggle together.

Again her recovery was faster than mine and she rolled out of bed.

"Come on, sleepy butt," she said, giggling, "let's shower and then you can take me to breakfast and we're going to the races."

"Races?" I asked.

"Yes, the races. Sunday is Race Day at the Pink Pony," she said, an impish smile on her face, "and no, I won't be running. We'll just be fans."

I groaned as she pulled at my arm, relaxing, making her do the work and pull me to the edge of the mattress before I finally swung my legs over and stood.

She had little spot bruises on her breasts and her hips. When I touched one she said, "That's okay, sweetcheeks," and reached out cat quick and grabbed my nipple, twisting hard enough to make me yell, and added, "I'll return the favor."

She didn't release her grip. Instead, she twisted even harder and pushed down. I suppose I could have broken free, but I didn't. I let her force me to my knees and then I kissed her pussy, since it was right there, looking beautiful.

"Good boy," she said with a giggle, and released me.

We showered then, washing and shampooing and rinsing each other. It wasn't exactly sex play but it was more than just cleaning.

"Come on," she said, "we need to get moving."

"What's the hurry?" I asked.

She giggled as she snapped up the cowgirl shirt she had on, the shirt complete with the little pearl snaps, pointed yokes, pointy flaps on breast pockets, and fringe down the sleeves, "Because they lock the gates at ten o'clock sharp."

"Oh," I said, pulling on jeans, white socks, white tennis shoes, and then one of the olive drab fatigue uniform shirts I had saved, complete with "U.S. Air Force" on a blue tape over my left breast pocket and "Morgan" over the right. It was the closest thing I had to cowboy gear.

She looked me up and down and giggled. "Okay," she said, "Monday, when you get home from school, we're going shopping."

I did a slow turn, modeling for her.

"Nope," she said, "that will NOT do."

She kissed me and said, "But it's all we got, I guess. Now take me somewhere and feed me before I die."

We stopped at a Denny's, and I watched, fascinated, as she went through three overloaded plates from the breakfast buffet.

"How in the fuck do you do it?" I asked.

"Do what?" she asked around a mouthful of biscuit and gravy.

"Eat enough for three hungry linemen and keep that figure?" I asked.

She giggled and said, "You burned up a LOT of calories with me last night and this morning. I don't usually eat like this."

We finished breakfast and made it to the Pink Pony barely in time. By the clock on my stereo, it was 9:50 a.m. But the gates opened when I showed the guard Aunt Ann's membership card, and we found a parking spot only about a hundred yards from the grandstand.

I was amazed. I was agog. I was aghast. I was flabbergasted.

Get the picture.

There had to be 400 cars, maybe more, in the parking lot, and that didn't include the lot on the other side of the track where I knew the trailers and trucks would be.

There was no ticket booth, I guess her membership card substituted for something so mundane.

The place looked like any other big sports venue. As you got close to the back of the grandstands there was a row of vendors peddling everything from funnel cakes to cold beer. It reminded me of a Triple-A level baseball stadium.

"Ooooooooh," she said, "nachos and beer, please, baby, please."

I laughed and got her a plate of nachos, the cheap kind where the chips are just covered in melted cheese that is pumped from a machine, and a beer served in a big plastic cup. For me, it was just a beer. I couldn't help wondering where she was going to put the nachos after that breakfast.

She guided me up a set of stairs that emerged onto a deck leading to the stairs of the seats of the grandstand. As we got to the top, the whole track and infield were spread out before us. I stopped and just took it in.

There were a dozen sulkies on the track, not racing but warming up and kind of parading. In the infield, paired teams of bigger, well, they were too big to be called Ponies, Horses I guess, were moving large wagons. In a smaller penned-off area, the Pony equivalent of a cutting horse was working, a long lead guiding her, to keep a lamb separated from the sheep on the other side of the pen.

Most surprising, though, was the team of eight stallions, all fully tacked up and all fully erect, that labored to move a large wagon loaded with barrels, an obvious homage to the Budweiser Clydesdales. They were too far away for me to see the face of the woman driving the team, but her great mass of blonde hair made me think of Dolly Parton, and the outsize breasts in what had to be a torpedo bra amplified the comparison. The pop of her whip and the jerk of one of her Horses, sometimes accompanied by a loud whinny, made the whole image real rather than surreal.

"Well," Aunt Ann asked, "what do you think?"

When I turned to face her she had both hands on my arm and her eyes were shiny.

"I'm overwhelmed," I said, being honest.

"But you're not running away?" she asked.

"Not a chance," I said and kissed her drawing whistles and applause from others around us. I laughed and bowed.

The grandstands weren't crowded although there were a lot of people. I estimated capacity at around 2,500 with maybe 750 people there. So it was easy, as we started down the long, shallow steps to find seats.

Seated, we started munching and drinking. She giggled when I stole a nacho.

As with any sporting event, you could feel the anticipation as the sulkies on the track started drifting off and into the stable area, the bigger wagons were pulled to park beside the infield fence.

I jerked a little as the Public Address started.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, please rise if you are able and remove your hats while The Pink Pony color guard presents the colors."

We all stood as the National Anthem started playing, a very martial version with plenty of brass and cymbals, and a sulky done in red, white, and blue came onto the track and paraded slowly, the Pony in bright red, white, and blue tack with one breast body-painted red, one blue, and her belly white. An oversized Stars and Stripes flew proudly as the Pony came up to speed, making a full pass right to left and then left to right as the Anthem played.

I laughed and said, "Okay, that was unexpected," as the voice on the PA said, "Okay now, let's get this party started."

The first motorized vehicle I had seen came onto the track, a big quad track off-road thing in John Deere green, pulled what looked like a bar with chain link fencing dragging. It made two circuits of the track, covering the full width of it in the process, and I could see that it smoothed the dirt track nicely. I learned, later, that this was called a track conditioner.

The place was silent except for the constant susurration of a crowd holding hundreds of conversations, as the track was prepared.

"The first heat of the Trotter Class is Lady, Scarlet, and Whisper," the PA announced and three sulkies came onto the track. These were not the practics sulkies like Dakota had worked in. These were polished and chromed and, I suspected, expensive but I remembered what I had been told and assumed they all weighed the same.

Lady was in white tack, offsetting her hair a flaming red no genes ever produced. Scarlet was not in scarlet, rather, she was in royal purple tack, the feather from her headpiece spreading like a peacock's tail. Whisper was in scarlet, the tack setting off her bright silver hair. All three drivers were men, dressed alike in black leather vests and chaps with their erections proudly displayed.

The race was interesting, side-by-side racing starting from a wire that dropped. As they entered the first turn, Scarlet slipped and fell. As the other two pulled away, her driver lashed her with the buggy whip.

"Damn," I said softly.

"Part of the game, David," she said and reached down and worked the boot-cut jeans she wore over her cowboy boots up, exposing her knee and, with it, the round scar I had assumed was a residual from a childhood accident.

"I see," I said, and I did.

As she worked the pant leg down and back over her boot I watched as Scarlet got back to her feet and took off, limping, but making good speed. Even from this distance, I could see the blood from her badly skinned knee. On one level I felt sorry for her but on another, I found it sexy and exciting.

"Heat One goes to Lady," the PA announced as the two sulkies crossed the finish line, Lady's flaming hair flying as she won her heat by a couple of lengths. Scarlet finished a poor third but she did finish, gamely limping across the finish line before slowing to a walk. Tears and dramatic mascara streaks joined the snot and drool of the Pony Milk on her face. Damn, she looked good.

Next up was the Pink Pony's version of a tractor pull. As we watched, the paired teams of big women would pull a sled that, in turn, pulled a wheeled cart with a conveyor belt attachment that steadily added to the load of sand on the sled, increasing the weight, until the team could pull it no further.

The first pair had matched oversized blondes, their moon faces enough alike that I assumed they were sisters. Both were very big without being what you would call "fat" with all of the softness and rolls that word implies. They were thick, with large hanging breasts. One had an amazing set of stretch marks across her belly, dark enough that I could see them from my relatively remote seat. Their harness was heavier, with a thick girdle providing attachment for the straps that pulled on the sled. The hooves were heavier too, lacing past the knees to offer greater leverage as they pulled harder and harder. Both had the characteristic snot and drool running down their fronts that I was learning to associate with Pony Milk. The team started pulling while the handler, I noticed it was Andi, sounded like something from an old western with her, "Pull girls, pull," and the short whip she wielded would crack and one or the other of them would flinch and whinny.

They were straining almost immediately and I was surprised that they could make any progress at all. The runners of the sled soon were digging into the soft dirt of the track. By the end they were almost horizontal, their hooves digging trenches into the track, but there was no further movement and Andi called out, "Stop girls, done."

A man, comically dressed in a classic umpire's uniform with a striped shirt, black pants and shoes, and an oversized whistle hanging on a lanyard around his neck came onto the track to judge. His assistant held the end of an oversized tape measure at the starting line and the umpire carefully, dramatically, almost theatrically paid out the tape until he got to the back edge of the sled's runner.

He pulled a microphone from his pocket and over the PA announced, "Forty-Six Feet, Seven and Three-Quarters Inches."

A voice from the crowd called, "Good job Mom. Good job sis," and that drew applause from the crowd.

I looked at Aunt Ann, the question on my face.

"Yes, David," she said, "the Pony Life is often across generations. That's a mother-daughter team."

"And that voice from the crowd?" I asked.

She grinned and asked, "What do you think?"

"The son and brother?" I asked.

She patted me on the head with a giggle. "You're a perceptive boy," she said, "and someday, he'll be their handler."

I said no more, just let that tone sink in.

As if the image of this as a sporting event wasn't already burned into my mind, a vendor calling out "COLD BEER" was working her way down the steps. I looked away from the track as the machine with its trailer of a track conditioner started working where the sled had dug furrows, and called for two with the universal gesture, two fingers held up. I started a twenty-dollar bill on its hand-to-hand journey and waited as the beer made its way back. When the vendor, a young woman dressed only in her carrier, a strap over her neck and the tray only about a third full of aluminum beer bottles, held up what looked to be four one-dollar bills I shook my head and she smiled her thanks for the tip.

"In the infield," the voice over the PA boomed, "we have a special treat. Dancer, the national Grand Champion cutting Pony, and her Handler Johnny will demonstrate today."

She was a vision in pink, pink tack and a tall pink feather, the pink hooves hooves ran almost to her crotch, and even the hair on her head and the delta low on her belly were a matching bright pink. Her handler wore a form-fitting pair of black pants, I thought of a ballet dancer's tights they were so tight, tucked into the tops of tight-fitting cowboy boots, and a pink pirate's shirt with flowing sleeves. He held long double lead that trailed back from her pink headgear in his left hand and a buggy whip with a long thong, the part between the handle and the fringed end that's called a "cracker" as I would later learn, in his right.

She crossed the track to the infield with her back straight, head high, and with each step an individual movement as her knee came up to ninety degrees with her body, she would hold that for a short count, and then her hoof would come down sharply. She was clearly on parade. The handler cracked the whip, the report almost as loud as a gunshot, but didn't touch her with it.

Once they got to the infield we watched as a ranch hand, this one a woman with enormous breasts on display with the vest she wore, and a matching big ass, on display because she wore chaps in place of pants, opened the gate on a small pen and shooed a dozen sheep out into the more open area.

For the next fifteen minutes, Dancer would cut on a single sheep, move it around the enclosure, and then into the pen. Johnny handled her with light flicks of his wrist on the reins, short whistles in little bursts of one, two, or three notes, and the occasional called-out syllable that sounded like, "op" or "so" or "rob" from our place in the grandstands. He would crack the whip from time to time but it didn't look like it ever touched her.

When the last sheep was back in the pen, Dancer was obviously tired but still prancing proudly as she was led across the track and back to the stable area.

The only black Pony, unimaginatively named Midnight, I had seen so far won the second heat of the sulkies. I wasn't surprised. She was tall and lean, the small-breasted, long-legged body you associate with distance runners, and she won her heat going away.

I had been interested to watch as three sandbags were added to a little rack on the back of the sulky.

"What's that?" I asked.

"The handicap," Aunt Ann said, "Midnight is the reigning champion so she carries an extra 30 pounds."

The second tractor pull had a less interesting pair in harness. Both were big in that sturdy way that made the word "peasant" come to mind rather than the more flattering "BBW." They were just, well, "thick." They didn't really resemble each other, but they were of such a type that you couldn't help but think of small villages in some eastern European country where there was a limited gene pool. One had mousy brown hair, the other darker hair streaked with grey. Both had plain faces, heavy breasts with oversized nipples, no waist, and thick thighs. These were not women you would look at twice, even as it got close to closing time at the local pub.

But they could sure pull. Their Handler, a woman I hadn't seen before but who resembled Andi in type with the vest and jeans, laid the whip on as soon as the umpire signaled "go." They flinched, whinnied, and started pulling, grunting with each step, but obviously surpassing the first pair's performance. "Fifty-two feet, nine and one-half inches," the umpire announced, drawing only a polite round of applause. The earlier blondes had obviously been the crowd favorite.