New Pony

Today I am a pony girl, and will be ridden by Jenny.

I don't know Jenny that well and have only met her twice. She is my pal Liv's girlfriend. Liv and I used to work together, and have been friends ever since, even though Liv got sacked for saying a colleague looked like a paedophile, because he did. I was annoyed with her about that. It's not often one has genuine allies in the workplace and Liv was one of them.

She is about my height but much broader. If you had to label her, you'd call her a butch lesbian, but I don't think that does her justice. Sure, she's got the physique, the short hair and tattoos she does herself, but she also has a watchful, generous kind of beauty and cheekbones I could spend all day stroking. Nothing sexual has ever happened between us, although we flirt all the time the way friends do.

She has rescued me more than once, when I've been too off my face to get home. Once she drove and got me at 3am because someone had slipped me something and I thought I was on Mars. In fact it was only Streatham, which is arguably worse.

Liv has been with Jenny for six months, and is besotted. I can understand why. Jenny is a textbook lipstick lesbian. She's got ridiculous glossy brown hair and these bright blue eyes that are striking but rather cold. Liv indulges Jenny constantly, and today is a case in point.

Jenny wants a pony. Not just any girly pony, but a t-girl pony. I'm not sure why she has this specific requirement. I suspect it's to do with curiosity, with an undercurrent of politics. Since the personal is the political, I reckon it goes something like this: Jenny wants a sexual plaything who will not worry Liv because I haven't had gender change operations and neither do I want any. The broader political aim is probably to do with getting one over on the patriarchy, even though I am nothing to do with the patriarchy. Indeed, as a successful thirtysomething trans woman of independent means rather than a tragic victim, I am pretty much on the patriarchy hit list. Being pretty myself is sometimes an advantage or a defence, and other times not.

I drive over to their place, and don't bother hiding what I'm wearing, because it's spectacular. Black lace stockings and suspenders, although not too ornate; open back gaff panties with subtle padding to bulk my hips out; shiny black boots with long heels; black gym bra for added bounce as I'm ridden, with a black lace, long-sleeve, high collar top over it. My dark hair is long and shaggy, with my trademark fringe hanging just over my eyes. When I stand, a horsey tail fixed to a lace belt hangs over my arse. I'm sitting on it as a drive; it presses in slightly, but feels nice. I've also got a headband with horse ears, and my makeup is full-on slutty.

It's about 12.30am on a sunny Sunday in August. Since I was out every night last week, I did the unthinkable and had an early night on a Saturday. I went for a run through the forest first thing and now feel rested and calm, yet pumped.

I've had a hefty brunch so I don't bloat out but can keep going into the evening. One of the things people forget when getting involved in sex marathons is that they burn through a shitload of carbs and the last thing you want before climax is an energy dip.

The traffic through Kent is okay. A couple of women whistle from a camper van, but that's it. I'm disappointed. You'd think a transgender horsey babe in a red vintage Triumph would be more of an event, but we live in odd times so maybe I'm the norm now.

Liv has been on at Jenny to move in, so Jenny sort of has, while still keeping her own place. She says she's going to rent it out, but so far has not done so.

Liv's gran died and left her a decent wad, which Liv has wisely invested in a detached bungalow in Sevenoaks. She's done it up her way, which means it's 94% bookshelf (which is still not enough) and the remainder her own designs painted directly onto the walls. I like the abstract designs best; the Sapphic stuff feels a bit forced, as if Liv feels obliged to paint it.

I pull into the driveway and park. Getting out of the car as a horsey girl feels amazing, as if I'm transitioning from human to animal form. Instead of my usual handbag, I've got something that looks like it could be a saddle-bag, which I sling over my shoulder. I lock the car and think about how I'm going to move.

When you're a pony, you have to think like a pony and move like a pony. I find this animal play the easiest, because I've got long pony legs and a long pony nose. A lot of ponies have fringes, which I've got too. They are powerful creatures, but sensitive, and can either be almost supernaturally fast, or methodical beasts of burden. I possess all these energies, and find them easy to channel in my pony persona.

What I like most about ponies is that they are bred for the purpose of being ponies, as if human technology has enabled an identity that would not exist in quite the same way in nature (whatever that means). Again, that's me, and it's Liv as well, for we are both androgynous people who resist the tyranny of binary sexuality.

Trotting in heels should not be as easy as I find it, but once I'm away from the car, my pony persona takes over quickly. My tail swishes and my hair lifts in a warm breeze. I feel elemental, and full of power. The fact that I will not only be welcomed in this identity but desired brings a rush of creative energy that feels like inspiration.

Something catches my eye in the bungalow next door. A twitch of curtain, or a shadowy movement? It's gone before I properly register it, but I am suddenly aware of being watched. I toss my shaggy mane, lift my chin and huff through my nose. Watch and enjoy, whoever you are.

The door opens to reveal Liv, who is in her early thirties.

"Hello pony," she says.

Her voice is quite high, but she works to make it lower, which I've always found adorable. She also assumes a practical, blokey persona, which endears her to everyone. At work, all the girls would flirt with her whether they were gay or not. She pretended to be put upon, while loving every second of it.

We have agreed that I will not speak, to enhance my pony quality. I find I don't need to say much usually anyway, because my face is very expressive and people generally know how I'm feeling. It's handy, unless I have to lie, which I am useless at.

Liv clicks her tongue, and I trot up to her. She strokes me, my hair first and then my flanks. Without the heels I'm small and slim, but I work out a lot and Liv spends longer than she needs to on my abdomen.

"What a pretty pony you are," she says.

She smiles, but her eyes look uncharacteristically sad. Putting a hand on my back she guides me in.

The two-bedroom bungalow has a small entrance hall and a decent-sized kitchen, but the key feature is the living room. It's huge, and Liv has divided it up cleverly so it doesn't look like a barn, while at the same time not losing any space. It's well-lit through a row of French doors into a pretty garden, and south facing so that the bright early afternoon sun streams in.

Liv takes my bag and pushes me gently into the living room, where Jenny is waiting. Jenny is younger than Liv; mid-twenties maybe. She is done up in full riding gear: breeches, boots, helmet, and hair in a net that hangs down to her slender neck.

She holds a whip.

For a moment, we stand there as Jenny takes me in, her cool eyes appraising. I like this very much. I am livestock, animal meat that exists for use by superior creatures. I can be ridden, raced, worked. I can by whipped, I can be broken. I can be eaten, my flesh disguised in tins for human consumption. I can be turned into glue.

"Well," Jenny says. "What have we got here?"

Jenny looks like she belongs in those period shows about dull goings on in country houses, and would exist upstairs with the nobility rather than downstairs with the servants. However, she also has a broad Lancaster accent that doesn't make her any less posh, but does puncture the Downton Abbey feel somewhat.

I regard her with my large brown pony eyes: watchful and suspicious. Will this new owner be kind, or brutal? Fair and firm, or just firm?

"Come to me, pony."

I hesitate. She taps her open palm with the whip. I trot over and stop beside her. Close up, I can tell from her deep breathing that she is turned on, as much by her own outfit as by my presence.

She makes a big deal of inspecting me, first visually. She walks slowly around me and examines me from every angle, including from below on one knee. Even down there, she exudes high status, and I submit to it completely and instinctively.

It isn't so much a physical change as a psychological one: a changing of mental gears. Gone is the confidence that allowed me to travel here like this, and to have agreed to come at all. Instead, I am a vessel, subservient to the will of another. Recognising that reality alters something in me, even though I do not move. It is as though my aura changes, and Jenny picks up on it at once.

"Yes," she whispers. "Very good."

Liv has approached, but does not come too close. She wants to watch, but not get involved. Slowly, she settles into an armchair in front of a shelf of books. Many are about nature. Some are romances.

Jenny leans in and smells me. I am very clean, my hair washed this morning so it will swing with optimal suppleness. I have not put on any perfume, and only neutral anti-perspirant. It's August and this outfit will get hot, despite the wide mesh of the tights and top.

Jenny strokes my hair, touches my ears. Her breathing deepens further when she touches the ears. I feel they are a part of me, as if they contain nerves. The tickly press against my hair feels relaxing and seductive. I let my body undulate in response, letting it do what it wants. I push my breasts out, and Jenny touches them, lightly at first and then more aggressively. She runs her hands down my body and my hair as if brushing me, and then she grips the tail.

The tail feels lovely. It is my favourite part of the whole outfit. A long, lush length of hair that tickles me through the open back of my panties and through the mesh of my tights. Both outrageous yet also seemingly natural, it hangs from my coccyx like a reminder of some distant animal past. It both covers and reveals, and I wriggle my hips to make it move.

Jenny touches me between the legs, and I gasp.

"She likes that," Liv says.

Jenny does not acknowledge that Liv has spoken. Instead, she holds the whip to my face.

"Smell the whip," Jenny says.

I toss my head to thwart her; I don't know why. She seizes my hair and holds the whip under my nose.

"Smell the whip, pony."

I inhale the smell of leather and pussy, and wonder who the latter belongs to.

"You like that, don't you?"

Jenny is stroking me again, her hand flat on the back of my head, her fingers lingering on my ears.

"Trot for me, pony."

I obey, and trot up and down the long living room. Parts of it are carpeted, parts wood. When I trot on the wood, my heels click loudly. On carpet, I make a soft thumping sound.

For a while, Jenny just watches me, and then she starts to flick me with the whip. The whip is a soft leather cat o'nine tails that is more for ritual than pain, but Jenny is very good with it. I wonder who she practices on. I don't think it's Liv.

Jenny whips my thighs, my breasts, my arse. She whips my arms, my neck, and she whips me between the legs. She has a special fondness for whipping me there, and I have a special fondness for taking it. I twitch and snuffle and toss my head, and she whips me some more.

Soon I am hot and tingling, and the whipping is getting harder. It's a good thing I'm fit, because trotting in heels is hard work. Jenny is flushed -- you'd think she was the one working, not me. My breath deepens pleasantly. I could go on like this for hours.

Jenny clicks her fingers, and I trot over to her. She picks up a collar with a leash, puts the leash around my neck, and leads me over to Liv. Jenny pushes me down onto my hands and knees, then sits on my back.

"Hmm," she says, wriggling, "hmmm..."

She rides me like that for a bit on the carpet so my knees don't get too battered, although Jenny is a solid girl and soon I start to wonder if it's okay to stop. Instead, she stands astride me, rolls me onto my back and starts grinding herself against me. Her expression is nonchalant, as if she is doing this out of curiosity rather than desire. I glance at Liv, whose expression is the same odd neutral one she's had for some time.

Jenny jumps up and pulls my lead. I begin to get up, but she pushes me onto my hands and knees, then leads me over to a large, wall-mounted mirror. She is more excited now, short of breath and licking her lips. She plays with my tail for a while, then opens a drawer and takes out a double-headed strap on. She unzips her breeches and, after some adjustment, gets one end inside her. She straps it around her thighs so it's secure, then turns to me.

"Lube," Liv says.

"What?"

"Lube. You'll hurt her else."

I get the sudden feeling that Jenny doesn't care if she hurts me or not; that, indeed, hurting me is her intention. For the first time, I feel afraid of Jenny. Liv comes over, grabs a pink tube of Play from the drawer and pumps a load of clear gel over Jenny's silicone dick.

Jenny's finely-made nostrils flare. She is angry at being told what to do, and I sense that only impatient desire prevents a verbal disagreement, or worse. Liv must sense it too, because she steps back.

I can see Jenny beside me. I can also see our reflections in that mirror on the wall, which is so big that the lower edge is centimetres from the floor. Liv is further back, her expression anxious now.

"I'm going to ride you properly now, pony," Jenny whispers.

She seems uncertain, however, and I realise she probably hasn't done anything like this before. My pussy is going to feel very different to Liv's, for one thing. Jenny isn't one to hang around, though, and she shuffles forward on her knees and flicks my tail out of the way. It flops back again. Jenny huffs, then she lifts the tail so it lies along my back with the bottom pointing at my head. She presses the wet tip of her phallus against my opening and thrusts.

She misses, and it slips. I am unsure whether to help -- do ponies usually acquiesce in their own penetration? I decide that this one does, and before Jenny can rip into me properly, take the slippery length, press it against myself and push back.

It slips in fast and I gasp. I prefer to lube myself and use relaxants, usually poppers, because however much I want it -- and I always want it -- there is always some tension that can get in the way. The strange dynamic between Liv and Jenny isn't helping, and for the first time I feel self-conscious.

Jenny is on her own trip, however, and immediately thrusts in as hard as she can. I gasp and can't help crying out. It hurts, and I tense around her, so that when she shoves again it hurts more. I gulp and gasp, trying to achieve an angle that will enable a more successful penetration. Jenny's lips are drawn back. She looks feral, more like a fox than a hunter. She moves the dildo with her hand, again this wrenches me inside and I force myself to relax.

Liv comes to my rescue. She's in a pale green summer suit held up by a bow behind her neck. She unties this with a single movement, the garment falls down and I see in the mirror that she is naked underneath.

I have never seen her naked before. Her full body is a delight, its curves soft yet strong, the tattoos on it a perfect complement. She steps out of the summer suit, and crosses to where her girlfriend is mounting me.

She takes Jenny's helmet off, and strokes her hair through the net. Jenny looks sulky, but pleased at the attention. Liv then straddles me with her back to the mirror and, still with her hand on Jenny's hair, pushes her head down. Jenny stops thrusting as she is fed pussy, and her aggressive energy dissipates.

Liv nudges me with her knee and opens her left hand to reveal a bottle of Jungle Juice. Sweet! I take the poppers, open them and inhale. At once, I find the dildo in me easier to accommodate, and I get the feeling of openness and anticipation that tells me things will get better. We stay like that in the warm afternoon as birdsong and distant traffic echo in through the open windows, and Liv begins to sigh with pleasure as Jenny tucks in.

Being gently force-fed her girlfriend's sex seems to inspire Jenny. She begins to move her hips again, pushing the dildo into me more gently, as if she has moved past her aggression to reveal a deeper understanding of what she needs to do. I sigh at the feel of it, and the thought of Liv's hand on Jenny's shiny hair, and Jenny's open mouth. I push back onto Jenny. It must press the dildo where she likes it because the sounds of her eating pause and she gasps.

The doorbell goes.

"Leave it," Liv pants.

"No," Jenny mumbles, her mouth full. "It's the stable boy."

Stable boy?

"Who?" Liv says.

Jenny giggles.

"He's early," she says. "He'll wait."

She starts thrusting harder again, but this time I am ready for her. She goes in deep -- I can feel her in my guts, a strange, gratifying ache. When she pulls out, she comes almost all the way, so I get the full length of what she's giving me with every thrust -- from the deep tickle at my opening to the entire punishing shaft. Another few hits of Jungle Juice have me panting and moaning along with her.

Liv begins to tremble. Her full, pale body flushes pink then red, and her breath speeds up. Her muscles tense, and I can tell she is gripping Jenny hard and making her work. From the way the dildo shudders inside me, I can tell Jenny likes it; that the treatment she gave me is the kind she wants for herself. Liv goes quiet, bends forward, freezes and then shakes. She tries to bring her legs together, but my torso is in the way and I get a sudden sense of her terrific strength as I'm gripped so tight I can't breathe. Jenny speeds up again. I'm wet and ready now, so she can pound me as hard as she likes.

"Gotta... lie on her!" Jenny half shouts/half gasps.

Liv moves out of the way, and then Jenny falls on top of me. I manage to stop her crushing me to the floor, but she jolts into me even deeper than before and I scream. She likes that and wraps her arms around me as I lower us to the floor, where she goes berserk in a frenzy of thrusting that leaves me bewildered. I'd managed to get the cap on the poppers, but the bottle slips from my hand and rolls out of reach. I lie there and take the rough treatment, then realise that Jenny is thrusting me against the carpet, and that now it feels nice --

She spasms, chokes, half cries out and then comes. I catch the scent of Liv on her mouth, and realise that it must have been Jenny I could smell on the whip. She pulls out suddenly, and I lie on the floor, shaking.

I don't know how I feel. I think I liked it, but it was as much torture as sex. I like to be used, but was that too much? I enjoy the confusion of it, the delirious victimhood, lying hot and fucked on the floor of someone else's house. Jenny leaves me without a word and goes to answer the door. There's a rustle of soft cloth, and then Liv kneels beside me in her green summer suit.

"You okay lovely?"

I nod; ponies can do that, can't they? Liv strokes my hair and my face, and I very much like the feel of that -- to have been abused and then comforted. My underneath feels tender, but in a nice way now, as though it has been thoroughly exercised. My skin tingles from the whip.

Liv gets up and goes into the kitchen as I hear voices -- Jenny's and a man's -- from the hallway. Liv comes back in with an icy can of lager. She cracks it open with a brief, foamy fizz and lifts my head so she can pour it down my throat. I didn't realise how thirsty I was. Soon the can is gone, and I'm feeling light-headed and weirdly gratified. I roll onto my front, slip the poppers between my breasts, and get up. My tail tickles down over my penetrated pussy, and my hair swings across my back. I can feel my fringe stick to my forehead in the sweaty summer heat.