Recalcitrant Pony Boy

Title: Recalcitrant Pony Boy
Series: Recalcitrant Pony Boy #1

His masters say he’s untrainable, but Master Iain could never resist a challenge. When he takes his new pony in hand and by the bit, where he leads is somewhere neither of them expects. An erotic tale of a master and his pony, set in a fantasy world of toys, pony play, and a master/slave dynamic.


Also in this series: Recalcitrant Pony Boy 2: The Show, Recalcitrant Pony Boy 3: The Trainer, Recalcitrant Pony Boy 4: The Groom

I found him tethered a little away from the others, a sullen look in his eye, and I saw that his rope had been tied too short for him to seek the shade of a tent a few feet away. Deliberate, I thought, like his separation from the other ponies. It was hot even in the shade; sales were held in early summer and the final auction took place in the hottest part of the day. The ponies would have worked up a sweat by then, even the ones in the tents.

He was lovely, even with the sullen look: light brown hair with streaks of gold from the sun, like a flawed topaz, his skin nearly as brown. His cock was limp against his thigh, but I could imagine it jutting out proudly as a pony’s should. He would make a fine figure, along with all that defined musculature that marked him as a born pony.

“A fine pony,” I heard, a high thin voice next to me: the trader in charge of selling the stock for their owners. “A steal at ten silver.”

Ten silver was indeed a steal—it made me wonder why a boy like this would go so low. Most bidding for a pony his age would start at fifteen.

“What’s wrong with him?”

The man drew back as if I’d slapped him. “Wrong? Why nothing at all! He’s the picture of health—here, have a closer look.”

I planned to have a closer look, but now my curiosity was piqued. “Surely if he went to auction he’d fetch a much higher price.”

The trader’s face soured; his eyes when they scoured the boy were bitter. “He’s too well known in these parts to fetch any more.”

I was not a frequent patron of the sales myself, preferring to buy my ponies privately; it seemed I’d missed a slice of gossip. “What’s wrong with him then?” The boy was young, fit, and lovely to look at—clearly it was something I couldn’t see.

“He won’t be trained. I’ve had experts at him, and they all quit after a few days. The boy’s simple, too slow and stupid to learn how to behave. He’s headed for plough work, if they’ll take him.”

I didn’t think the gleam in the boy’s eyes as the trader spoke so blithely about him was a sign of stupidity. He seemed intelligent enough to me.

“Still, I think I’ll have that closer look.”

The trader shrugged, caught between his innate desire to sell and a clear frustration with the boy’s lack of marketability. As I approached, the pony followed me warily with his eyes; he even drew his head back when I rested my hand on his collar to check the fit. “Quiet now,” I said, as I would have to a horse. I stroked the curve of his shoulder, then gripped it tighter, feeling the muscle that spread across his back beautifully. But the real muscle was in his butt and legs from years of pulling a pony trap. He shivered when I gripped his butt cheek, digging my fingers in to see what he would do, but he stood still under my hand even when he winced in pain.

“Turn around,” I said, and he turned after a moment’s hesitation, long enough that if I’d had my crop with me I would have used it.

Lovely. His thighs and calves were magnificent. I trailed a finger down the curve of his back and he shivered again, this time in response to the pressure of my finger and perhaps a little of his body’s unwilling response to a master’s touch. I liked responsiveness in a boy, and didn’t care if it was willing.

This one would be wasted on a plough. I hadn’t come to the sales in search of a new pony; I had enough back on my estate. But something about the boy intrigued me—untrainable, the trader had said, but I’d never met a pony boy who couldn’t be trained if it was done in the right way, and by the right person.

“I’ll give you eight for him,” I said, my eyes not leaving the boy’s face.

I could hear the trader thinking furiously in his silence. He’d get less for him as a plough horse. But what I cared about was the boy’s reaction: he looked surprised, suspicious, not sure if he should be pleased at the pre-auction offer or offended by the low amount.

“Well…” the trader said.

“I’ll have to have my vet look at him first, of course,” I said, to forestall negotiation. “If you were so eager to sell him to the plough, perhaps there’s some deeper problem with him. A diseased or injured pony is no use to me.”

“He’s in excellent condition!” the trader protested.

It took a little more back and forth, but presently, I handed over four silver to hold him. The other four would be delivered once my vet, who was attending the sales for another of his clients, had had a chance to look him over.

I felt the boy’s eyes on me as we completed our transaction. With the authority of new ownership, I reached out to stroke his cock, hearing the boy’s gasp even as his cock began to fill. I stroked and rubbed my thumb over the head, watching the boy’s struggle to stay still as a good pony should, though perhaps it was more from shock than training, if the trader was to be believed.

I left him with a hard cock and a parting slap to his rump. He’d soon learn that my time and attention was a reward, and that rewards were earned. It was far too easy to spoil a boy these days.