by Anne Rice
The ship, the Sultan, the secret mastering of Lexius, all swept away most certainly.
“Two fine ponies,” cried the herald, “to be added at once to the village livery stables. Two fine steeds for hire at the regular rate to pull the finest coach or the heaviest farm wagon.”
The soldiers hoisted the poles high. We were swinging above a sea of faces, hands slapping at my cock, slipping between my legs to squeeze my buttocks. And the sun glared on the many windows that surrounded the square, on the weathervanes turning on the gabled roofs, on the hot dusty panorama of village life—into which we had passed again.
The herald’s voice went on recounting that for one year we would serve, that all should thank Her Gracious Majesty for the beautiful steeds maintained in the town and the reasonable prices asked for their service. And then the trumpet was sounded again, and off we were taken, the poles lowered, our bodies swinging close to the cobblestones again, the villagers turning back to their work, the houses of the quiet street suddenly rising on either side of us, as the soldiers carried us on towards the mystery of the new existence.
IT WAS a giant stable like many another, I think, except that real horses had never been in it. The mud floor was strewn with sawdust and hay merely to make it soft and keep the dust down. Its rafters were hung with harnesses of the light and delicate sort fit only for men. And the bits and reins streamed from hooks along the rough wooden walls, while in a large open area drenched with sun from the open doors to the street stood a circle of empty wooden pillories. They were high enough for a man on his knees, with holes for the neck and the hands. And I thought as I glanced at them that I would know what they were for, perhaps, sooner than I wanted to know.
LAURENT: FIRST DAY AMONG THE PONIES
What interested me more were the stalls to the far right. And the naked men inside them, two and three to a stall, their backsides well striped from the belt, their very sturdy legs firmly planted on the floor, their torsos bent over a thick wooden beam, their arms bound in the small of their backs as they merely stood there. With few exceptions, all wore leather boots to which horseshoes had been attached, and in two of the stalls grooms worked—true stable boys in leather and homespun—scrubbing down their charges or rubbing them with oil, their attitude one of casualness and busyness.
The sight took my breath away. It was strangely beautiful and absolutely devastating. It made me realize in a flash what was to befall us. Words alone had not been enough.
After the white marble and golden-threaded fabrics of the Sultan’s palace, the tinted flesh and perfumed hair, this was shockingly real, the world itself, to which I’d been returned at last to pick up the thread of an existence for which I’d been bound before the raiders ever came.
Tristan and I were set down on the floor. Our bonds were cut. And I saw a tall stable boy approaching, a strongly built blond-haired young man, no more than twenty, with light freckles on his sun-darkened face and bright, cheerful green eyes. He smiled as he walked around us, his hands on his hips. Tristan and I stretched out our limbs, but we didn’t dare move any more than that.
I heard one of the soldiers say:
“Two more, Gareth. And you’ll have them the full year. Scrub them, feed them, and harness them up right away. Captain’s orders.”
“Beauties, sir, beauties,” said the boy cheerfully. “All right, you two. Up on your feet. Ever been ponies before? I want a nod or a shake of the head, not a verbal answer.” He gave my bottom a slap as I rose. “Arms behind your back, folded, that’s it!” I saw his hand squeeze Tristan’s backside. Tristan was still badly shaken, and he bowed his head, looking oddly regal as well as defeated, a sight that was heartrending even to me.
“And what’s all this?” said the boy, taking out a clean linen handkerchief and wiping Tristan’s tears, and then mine. He had a stunning face, the boy, big handsome smile. “Tears from a pair of good ponies?” he said. “We can’t have that now, can we? Ponies are proud creatures. They cry when they’re punished. Otherwise they march with their heads high. That’s it.” He gave me a good slap under the chin, snapping my head up. Tristan had already lifted his head properly.
The boy went round us again in a circle. My cock was pumping more madly than ever. A new form of debasement was being visited upon us. No Court and villagers to watch now. We were in the charge of this rough-hewn young servant, and even glancing at his high brown boots and his powerful hands, still on his hips, excited me.
But a shadow suddenly fell over the stable, and I realized that my old friend, the Captain of the Guard, had come in.
“Good afternoon, Captain,” said the boy. “Congratulations on the mission. The whole village is afire with the gossip.”
“Gareth, I’m glad you’re here,” said the Captain. “I want these two to be your special charge. You’re the best groom in the village.”
“You flatter me, Captain.” The boy laughed. “But I don’t think you’ll find anyone here who loves his work more than I do. And these two, gorgeous steeds! Look at the way they stand. They have pony blood. I can see it already.”
“Harness them together whenever it’s possible,” said the Captain. I saw his hand go up to stroke Tristan’s head. He took the white handkerchief from the boy and wiped Tristan’s face again.
“You know, this is the best punishment you could have drawn, Tristan,” the Captain said under his breath. “You know you need it.”
“Yes, Captain,” Tristan whispered. “But I’m frightened.”
“Don’t be. You and Laurent will be the pride of the stables in no time. There’ll be a list on the door out there of the villagers who want to hire you.”
Tristan shuddered. “I need courage, Captain,” he said.
“No, Tristan,” he said seriously, “you need the harness and the bit and stern discipline, as you needed it before. You must understand something about being a pony. It is not merely another part of your slavery. It is a way of life unto itself.”
A way of life unto itself.
He stepped over to me, and I felt my cock stiffen as if it were possible for it to get any stiffer. The stable boy stood back with his arms folded, watching all this, his yellow hair falling down on his forehead a little, freckles very pretty in the sunshine. Such nice white teeth.
“And you, Laurent? Tears from you?” the Captain said soothingly to me. He wiped my face again. “Don’t tell me you’re frightened?”
“I don’t know, Captain,” I said. I wanted to say that I wouldn’t know until the bit and harness and the phallus were in place. But that would have been asking for it. I didn’t have the courage to ask for it. It would come soon enough.
“Chances are,” he said, “that this is where you would have been placed if the Sultan’s soldiers hadn’t raided the village.” He put his arm around my shoulder, and it seemed suddenly real, the time we had spent at sea, when we had both whipped and played with Lexius and Tristan. “It’s the perfect thing for you,” he assured me. “You have more will and strength pumping in your veins than most slaves. That is what Gareth calls pony blood. And the pony life will simplify everything for you; it will quite literally and symbolically harness your strength.”
“Yes, Captain,” I said. I stared in a daze at the long row of stalls, the backsides of the pony slaves, their horseshoed boots on the hay-strewn earth. “But will you ... will you ... ?”
“Yes, Laurent?”
“Will you let me know now and then how it goes with Lexius?” My dear and elegant Lexius, who would soon enough be gathered into the Queen’s arms. “And Princess Beauty ... if you hear any word.”
“We don’t speak of those who leave the Kingdom,” he said. “But I’ll let you know if there is any gossip.” I could see the sadness, the longing for Beauty, in his face. “As for Lexius, I’ll tell you how he fares. And you can be sure, both of you, that I’ll see you often. If I don’t see you trotting every day in the streets, I’ll come looking for you.”
He turned m
y face towards him and kissed me, rather hard, on the mouth. Then he kissed Tristan in the same fashion, and I studied the two rough-shaven faces together, the mingling of the blond hair, the half-lidded eyes. Men kissing. Such a lovely sight. “Be strict with them, Gareth,” he said as he let go of Tristan. “Train them well. When in doubt, whip.”
And then he was gone. And we were alone with this robust young stable-boy Master who was already making my heart trip.
“All right, my young steeds,” he said in the same cheerful voice as before. “Keep your chins high and move down the row to the last stall. And do it as ponies always do, at a brisk march, arms tightly folded against your backs, knees high. I don’t want to have to remind you of this ever again. You march with spirit at all times, whether shoed or not, whether in the streets or in the stables, with pride in the strength of your bodies.”
We obeyed, moving down the long line of stalls, and came to the last one, which was empty. I saw the feeding trough beneath the window, with its bowls of clean water and of meal, and the two broad, flat beams crossing the stall, over which we had to bend at the waist, one beam to suport our chests, the other our bellies. Gareth pushed us to the far sides of the stall so that he could stand between us, and he ordered us to bend over and we obeyed, resting our torsos on the beams, our heads right above the feeding bowls.
“Now lap that water, and do it with enthusiasm,” he said. “I won’t have any vanity here, any holding back. You’re ponies now.”
No soft, silken fingers here; no perfumed ointments; no tender voices talking in that impenetrable Arabic tongue that seemed so suited to sensuality.
The wet scrub brush hit my backside and started its vigorous work immediately, the water trickling down my naked legs. I felt a rush of shame as I lapped the water, hating the wetness against my face, but I was thirsty and I did as he said, amazingly eager to please him, liking the smell of his rawhide jerkin, his suntanned skin.
He scrubbed me well, ducking under the beams and coming up between them or in front of them when he had to, his movements firm and brusque, as he did his chores, his voice reassuring. And then he turned to Tristan, just as our food was brought to us, a good serving of thick meat soup, which he told us to finish off completely.
But I had taken only a few morsels when he stopped me.
“No. I can see we need some training immediately. I told you to eat it, and I mean for you to devour it and fast. I’ll have none of those dainty manners here. Now let me see you go at it.”
Again, I was blushing with shame to have to pick up the meat and vegetables with my tongue, to have the stew on my face, but I didn’t dare disobey him. I felt an extraordinary affection for him.
“Now, that’s better,” he said. I saw him patting Tristan’s shoulder. “I’ll tell you right now what it means to be a pony. It means pride in what you are, and a loss of all false pride in what you are no longer. You march briskly, you keep your heads high, your cocks hard, and you show your gratitude for the slightest kindness. You obey all commands, even the simplest, with enthusiasm.”
We had finished our food, and we remained bent over the bar as our boots were put on, the laces pulled tight over my calves, the heavy horseshoes weighing my feet, so that the tears came to my eyes again. I had known these horseshoe boots on the Bridle Path at the castle, when Lady Elvera had whipped me alongside her horse. But that was nothing to this. This was a world of austere punishments, and, overwhelmed with confusion, I began to weep, making no effort to stop it. I knew what was coming.
As I remained in place, the phallus was pushed inside me, and I felt the soft brush of the horse’s tail, and I swallowed, wishing I was bitted already so that my crying would be less noticeable and might not make Gareth angry.
Tristan too was having a difficult time, and that further confused me. When I turned my head and glanced back to see the bushy horsetail in him, the sight of it enthralled me.
Meantime, the harnesses were being buckled on, fine straps that ran down over our shoulders, under our legs, through a circular hook on the back of the phallus and up to a strap around our waists, where they were buckled securely. It was a good and thorough job, though I didn’t feel the true panic, the true defenselessness, until my folded arms were strapped tight and connected to the rest of the harness.
With relief, I knew that my will wasn’t so important now. And a sob did break from me when the stiff rolled-leather bit was forced back between my teeth and I felt the reins against the sides of my face.
“Up, Laurent,” Gareth said, with a firm tug of the reins. And, as I stood up straight and moved backwards in the heavy horseshoed boots, I felt him attaching weighted clamps to my nipples, the weights brushing the skin of my chest as they pulled down on the nipples. The tears were a flood coming down my face. And we were not even out of the stables.
Tristan moaned as he received the same treatment, and I felt that doubling confusion again when I turned to glance at him. But this time, Gareth pulled hard on my reins and told me to look ahead if I didn’t want a nice collar to keep my head straight.
“Ponies don’t look around like that, my boy!” he said and swatted me hard with his open hand, jolting the phallus inside me. “If they do, they’re soundly whipped and fitted with blinders.”
When his fingers touched my cock, binding my balls against it with a tight cock ring, I could hardly stand the gentleness of the touch, the heat of the sensation.
“Now, that’s nice,” he said, walking back and forth in front of us. His white sleeves were rolled up to show the gold fleece on his sun-bronzed arms, and his hips moved enticingly under the leather tunic to suggest a comfortable swagger.
“And if I have to put up with those tears,” he said, “I want your faces held high for the world to see them. If you must cry, then your Masters and Mistresses should enjoy the sight of it. But you don’t fool me, either of you. You’re perfect ponies. And your tears will only make me whip both of you harder. Now march to the front of the stables!”
We both obeyed. I felt him gather the reins behind me, the phallus like a club forced into my anus, hard and unyielding as the bronze phallus had been, thick, and firmly held there by the harness. The weights pulled at my nipples. In fact, there seemed no part of my body that was left in peace, the cock ring tightening on my cock, the glove-soft fit of the boots rendering the rest of me shamefully naked. The harness seemed to govern me, contain me, to unify a thousand sensations and torments.
And as I felt myself dissolving in these sensations, there came the loud crashing smack of Gareth’s strap on my backside. Another blow rang out, and I heard Tristan wince behind his bit. We were marched past the pillories and through another pair of doors into a big stable yard where carts and carriages stood in their stalls, and a gate stood open to the east road of the village.
I felt panic again, panic that we were to be driven out there, panic that we were to be seen in this new livery of shame, and the more I shook with sobs and anxious breaths the more the harness constricted me and the weights danced as they hung from my nipples.
Gareth came up beside me and ran a quick comb through my hair.
“Now, Laurent,” he said, scoldingly. “What is there to be afraid of?” He patted my bottom where he had whipped it only moments ago. “No, I’m not tormenting you,” he said. “I’m quite serious. Let me tell you something about fear: Fear is only good when you have a choice in things.”
He jerked the phallus to make sure it was in well. It seemed to grind me harder, more deeply, my anus itching and throbbing around it. I couldn’t stop crying.
“But do you have a choice in things?” he asked honestly. “Think on it. Do you?”
I shook my head to admit that I didn’t.
“No, that isn’t how a pony answers,” he said gently. “I want a good shake of the head. That’s it. Again. That’s it.”
I obeyed, and each toss of my head tightened the harnessing, moved the weights, jarred the phallus. He touched
my neck with maddening gentleness. I wanted to turn to him, weep against his shoulder.
“Now, as I was saying,” he said. “And you listen to this, too, Tristan. Fear is only important when you have a choice. Or some control. You have none. In a few moments, the Lord Mayor will be here with his farm cart. He’ll be returning the old team, and you’ll be part of the new team to take the cart back out to the manor house for the afternoon load, and you’ve no choice in this whatsoever. You’re going to be marched out there and tethered to the cart, and you’ll pull it all afternoon and be whipped soundly as you do it. And there is absolutely nothing you can do to prevent it. So when you think about it, what is there to be afraid of? For a year you will do this, and nothing can change it. You understand me, you know you do. I want a nod now.”
Tristan and I both nodded. And to my surprise, I was a little calmer, the fear seeming to darken, become something else, something nameless. Hard to explain it—per—haps impossible—the feel of this new life beginning, just beginning.... All the roads I had followed had led me to this place, this gate, this beginning.
Gareth took a little oil in his hands from a nearby jug, and he rubbed it onto my balls, murmuring that it would make them “glisten,” and then he gave the tip of my cock the same polishing. I could hardly endure the stimulation, the chills crawling over my skin, and I shied away from his hand as he laughed and pinched my rump.
“When are those tears going to stop?” he said as he kissed my ear. “Chew hard on the bit when you cry. Chew hard. Doesn’t that feel good, the soft leather in your teeth? Ponies like it.”
It did feel good. He was right. It helped to chew on it, to work it between my jaws, the stiff roll of leather tasting good and feeling strong enough to take the clamping down, the chewing.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him polishing Tristan, thinking, “Any moment we will be out on the road; we will be marching and hundreds will see us—if they bother to look up, bother to take notice.”
Gareth turned to me again. A small loop of black leather was fixed just under the tip of my cock and this was adorned with a small bell that gave a low, brassy jangling noise with every movement. Unendurably degrading. Such a little thing.
