If anyone enjoyed the sight of our hard cocks, our tortured ni**les, this wasn't revealed to us. The driver of the cart, pacing up and down, whacked us with his doubled strap more out of boredom than inclination.

And when two of the other ponies rubbed against each other, the driver punished them with hard and cold annoyance.

"No touching there," he declared. And the scullery maid slowly roused herself to fetch a wooden paddle for him. Stepping in front of us, he found plenty of room to punish the offenders, switching back and forth between the two rumps, jerking up the phallus by its hook with his left hand as he soundly whacked at the bottom and thighs with the paddle.

Tristan and I watched, petrified, the ponies groaning under the hard smacks, the muscles of their reddened bu**ocks contracting and releasing helplessly. I knew I must never make this mistake of rubbing against another harnessed body. Yet I felt certain that someday I would make it.

Finally, we were again driven out. We trotted fast, muscles tingling, backsides smarting under the strap, the bits pulled harshly back, the pace just a little too quick for us so that it soon had us crying.

Driven into the marketplace, we were again allowed to rest, the noonday crowd taking only a little more notice of us than the farm servants had, someone stopping to pat a rump here or slap a c**k there, the ponies who were touched tossing their heads and stamping their feet as if they liked it! I knew when some passerby finally touched me I would do the same. And then suddenly I was doing it, tossing my hair and chewing hard on the bit, as a young boy with a sack slung over his shoulder stopped to call us fine steeds and play with the weights that hung from my ni**les.

"It will take us over," I thought. "It will become second nature."

And as the afternoon passed in a succession of such trips, I grew not accustomed to it so much as profoundly resigned to it. Yet I knew that true understanding, true appreciation of the pony life, would only come with the passing of days and then weeks. I could not conceive of my frame of mind six months along. It would be an interesting revelation to me.

At nightfall, we made our last trip, no longer tethered to the Mayor's cart but to the refuse wagon that traveled about the deserted market to receive the sweepings. Sluggishly we moved, as the cart was filled, naked slaves driven to the work by their crude and impatient overseers.

The villagers, dressed for the evening now, moved past the deserted shops and stands towards the nearby Place of Public Punishment. And we could hear the paddles and straps at work there, the cheers and screams of the crowd, the general noise of festivity. From that too we were, for better or worse, excluded.

It was the stable world for us, the hearty young grooms unharnessing us with simple words:

"Easy now," and "Steady," and "Head up, that's a good boy," as they whipped us to our stalls, and over the beams for feeding and watering.

It was a good feeling to have the boots slide off, to feel the balls of my feet on the soft, slightly moist floor, to feel the scrub brush sudsing me thoroughly. My arms were unbound and I was allowed to stretch them for a moment before folding them on my back again.

No one had to tell us to eat or drink with enthusiasm this time: We were hungry! But we were also tortured with desire.

And, as I lay over the beams, the stable boy lifting my head to clean my face and my teeth, I felt my c**k a jutting shaft of pure hunger. It was nowhere near the rough wood that supported me. They were much too clever for that. And I knew what happened to those of us who tried to touch others.

I hoped against hope for some relief. Surely we were given relief But, when the water and food dishes were cleared away, a large down pillow was laid in the trough and my head was pushed into it for resting. This had a remarkable effect on me.

We would sleep in this fashion, I realized, our weight on the beams, head on the pillow. We could stretch our legs if we wished, or just let our feet rest on the earth. It was a good and completely debasing position. I turned my head towards Tristan. He was looking at me. Who would see if I reached out and touched his cock? I could do it. His eyes were two glittering orbs in the shadows.

In the meantime ponies were marched in and out. I could hear the sounds of the harnessing and unharnessing, the voices of villagers in the yard asking for this or that steed. The stable was darker but no quieter than it had been at morning. The stable boys whistled as they went about their tasks. Now and then they teased a pony with loud affectionate voices. I continued to gaze at Tristan, unable on account of the crossbeams to see his cock. Bad enough to see his handsome face against the pillow. How soon would they catch me if I mounted him, dug my c**k in deep and.... But they might have ways to punish us of which I hadn't thought....

Suddenly Gareth appeared. I heard his voice at the same moment that I felt his hand stroking my sore backside.

"Well, the drivers did their work on you two," he said. "And by all reports you're fine ponies. I'm proud of you." The flush of pleasure I felt was just another extraordinary humiliation.

"Now, up, both of you, arms folded firmly on your backs and heads high, as if you wore the bit. Out there now, move quickly."

He marched us past the doors to the wagon yard, and I saw another pair of open doors in the side of the stable. A beam like a bolt lay across the span of the opening at midpoint. A man would have to duck under it or climb over it to get through, the former being much easier.

"That's the recreation yard, and you'll be there for an hour," Gareth said. "Now, down on your hands and knees, and see you stay down in the yard. No pony walks upright save to march to his Master's commands or to trot in harness. Disobey and I'll chain your elbows to your knees so that you can't stand up. Don't make me do it."

We went down on all fours, and he swatted our rumps with his open hands to drive us through the doorway.

Immediately, we entered a clean-swept dirt yard lighted by torches and lanterns, with several large old trees against the far wall and naked ponies sitting or. prowling about on all fours everywhere. There was a peaceful atmosphere until we were seen, and at once the other steeds moved towards us.

I understood what would take place. And I didn't try to fight or run. Everywhere I looked, I saw naked flanks, long unruly locks, smiling faces. Directly in front of me a beautiful young pony, blond-haired and gray-eyed, smiled as he reached up and stroked my face and opened my mouth with his thumb.

I waited, unsure as to how far I would let this go, when I felt another behind me, the c**k already pushing into my anus, and yet another had thrown his arm over my shoulder and was pulling at my ni**les roughly. I backed up, bucked, only driving the c**k in deeper, and I was caught in front by the beautiful one, who laughed as he sat back on his heels and pushed my head down towards his c**k forcefully. My arms were pulled out from under me by another pony, and I opened my mouth on the c**k even though I wasn't sure I wanted to. I was groaning from the hard grinding I was getting in back. And I was also boiling over with excitement. I liked these steeds if only....