Author's Note: Before you read this story you should understand that it is a work of fiction and total fantasy. Its main themes are of non-consensuality and human degradation of an uncompromising sort. If this does not appeal then PLEASE DO NOT READ IT. I would also like to emphasise that the events described in the story would be completely abhorrent to me if carried out in reality. Nor is it my intention to offend any particular group, preference or orientation with what I have written. It is simply my first attempt at writing a BDSM story in which I have tried to give full rein to the darker corners of my own sexuality and I have to admit to a degree of shock and surprise at the result. I hope the result is erotic in its own grim way for others and would be very interested in any (constructive) thoughts or criticism. Thanks for reading. -Honorius

Update (2014/10/17): Welcome to the second part of "the Lifestyle Farmer" in which we follow the further adventures of Jake as he is introduced to more aspects of the world of slave-ownership. If you want to follow what is going on fully, you'd best read the first start of the story. As before I do not condone any of the acts described in this story which is a complete work of fantasy. It is intended to be an exploration of non-consensuality and human cruelty and degradation which would be utterly appalling in reality. However, as I said, it is fiction and hopefully some of you, like me will find it darkly erotic. Please only read it if you think that will be the case. -Honorius


Part 1

Remember that Blur song; "Country House" from sometime in the mid 90's? I always like to think they wrote it about me. There are differences between me and the song's subject, of course; there's nothing wrong with my health for instance and I don't read Balzac, but the overall situation is the same; I made a killing and retired to the country. My money wasn't made in the City either, another difference with the song, but in computers and the internet. I'd always been a computer nerd; I'd received a ZX81 for my 9th birthday, way back in the early 80's and I never looked back. The rest of my formative years were spent surfing the technological wave, writing code, exploring the capabilities of these fantastic machines and, of course hacking.

Of course, that had the usual implications for my social development. I'd always been pretty shy around others and computers were somehow comforting; they didn't ask questions, or talk back, they just did as you told them, as long as you told them the right things. As a result, I became a 'smelly bedroom hermit' through my teen years, staying in my room for days on end, emerging only to eat and grunt something at my poor, worried parents. I had few friends, mostly other lads like me, and had difficulty interacting with others, especially females. They fascinated me in the usual ways to be sure, but I found them alien and even a little threatening; talking to them, even if they noticed me, was almost impossible. However, apart from my developing hacking hobby, I was no rebel. I was clever enough to stay away from anything that would draw notice, eventually gaining a good degree, with a little post graduate research - in computer science of course!

Things really took off after graduation. I set up a small I.T. company in the 90's the name and precise business of which is unimportant. Suffice it to say that I was canny enough to see the whole dot com bubble forming and not get too greedy. I sold up a year or so before things went south and found myself with more money than I knew what to do with.

I suppose the sudden acquisition of that amount of wealth would have driven many off the rails, but not me. I enjoyed myself in a moderate way, travelling the world, visited obscure places, had new and unusual experiences and met new people. I suppose the money distorted my relationships with other people over time. I became pretty cynical, coming to realise that most seemed to be interested not in me, but my wealth and what it could get them. An unfair assessment really, it's not as though I was the most interesting or charismatic individual in the world. Women were the worst. I went from zero interest in me, to falling over themselves to be with me. Naturally, I obliged and there were a string of girlfriends, each more grasping and false than the last. That's not to say I didn't enjoy it. On the contrary I came to relish the game of exploiting them, holding out the bait of material things so they would do exactly what I wanted.

One of them introduced me in a small way to the world of BDSM; which meant sexy games involving furry handcuffs, roleplay and spanking her because she'd been a 'naughty girl'. Mild stuff, really, but I see it as a milestone in my journey into control that started with computers and ended with me where I am today. How much she really enjoyed it I don't know. I suspect it was mostly a ploy, something she thought exotic that would keep my interest, keep me on the hook as it were. Well, it didn't and in the end that relationship went the way of all the others, quite acrimoniously as it happens. But it had left me with a doorway into controlling others in new and previously unthought of ways that niggled away at the back of my mind like a worm. I'd found my taste of BDSM, however tame it had been, intriguing and exciting and I wanted more. Things went from there as I experimented more and more; visiting clubs, meeting people and playing kinky games. But it was never quite satisfying, something was missing. It slowly dawned on me, that I didn't want to play games. I didn't want to pick someone up and spend a night or a weekend whipping and tormenting them only to have them disappear off to their day job on Monday morning. It felt like the limits were too restrictive, that the sub was actually the one in charge and that, as with my girlfriends, I was the one being used for their benefit. In short, I wanted to be utterly selfish, to have absolute control, continuity and permanence, like some ancient Roman despot.

This was the stage I'd reached perhaps two years ago when things changed suddenly and unexpectedly. After I sold the company, I'd bought a failing hill farm in the Welsh mountains as a retreat. It consisted of hundreds of hectares of bleak moorland and some pasture. Several hundred thousand pounds later I'd transformed it from somewhere which still ran on pretty much Victorian technology to a state-of -the-art 'des res'; a place I could relax in and enjoy peace and tranquillity while I decided what to do with myself. Not that I didn't crave civilisation sometimes and I still travelled from time to time and made regular forays to the Metropolis. It was on one such that I ran into my neighbours, Malcolm and Chris in a BDSM club. To say I was shocked would be an understatement! They lived about two miles away, on the neighbouring farm and rented some ground from me for their sheep. That and a couple of brief hellos in the local pub was the extent of our relationship at the time, though I was well aware form the local gossip in the same establishment that they were a couple. Chris was younger, perhaps in his thirties, a buff, tanned, chiselled hunk with dark hair and eyes, obviously of farming stock. Malcolm was an older man, perhaps in his late forties, slim and tall, with greying hair twinkling blue eyes and a slightly camp manner. They were an odd couple at first glance, but they seemed very into each other. Malcolm was the money, a successful investor who had provided the finance for their operation, while Chris donated the farming know how. It seemed a successful combination. They wereas surprised as me as I was then but, after some initial reticence, we got on like a house on fire and quickly became firm friends. Over the next six months we saw more and more of each other, exchanging visits for dinner and drinks and meeting in London for nights out. In the course of it all I discovered they were much like me in their tastes and growing sense of disillusionment and dissatisfaction and we often sat about, sipping drinks and discussing what we'd like to do and why. In retrospect it's obvious they were both testing me, egging me to assess just how serious I was and what my tastes were.

Things came to a head one fine, late summer afternoon. I was at their place and we were swigging beers contentedly in the sunshine having just finished one of the best barbecues I'd ever eaten, courtesy of Malcolm's impressive culinary skills.

"Jake?" Malcolm said, looking at me seriously as he took my plate and handed me another beer. "We've known you for a while now and we're pretty sure that, despite obvious differences...", he glanced at Chris who flashed him a grin and winked, "... we're pretty much on the same wavelength. Would you agree?"

"Definitely," I replied, "I'm would never have believed there was anyone out there who felt like I do. You've proved me wrong."

Malcolm nodded and gave me an appraising look and I could feel Chris watching intently. I could sense he was about to say something significant and began to concentrate more, pushing aside the effects of the beers I'd drunk. "Bearing in mind all we've discussed, we have something we think you should see, if you're willing"

"What is it?" I asked, feeling intrigued and slightly apprehensive at his serious, secretive manner.

Malcolm removed the apron he'd been wearing to cook in. "Well, what would you say if I told you that Chris and I have gone further than simply talk about some of the things we've discussed?"

"What do you mean?" I asked, feeling that I wasn't quite grasping what was going on and consequently a little stupid and befuddled to boot.

"I think that's something best seen first hand" he turned to his partner, "Chris, have you prepared things?"

Chris grinned again and climbed to his feet, "yeah, they're both all dolled up, ready, but not especially willing."

They both looked at me expectantly. "Care to follow us?" said Malcolm.

"Sure thing," I said, shrugging and following, as they led the way from their garden and into a square concrete yard. This area was surrounded on all four sides by farm buildings and Chris crossed it purposefully, heading for a metal gate on its opposite side. We passed through this onto a track running through a lightly wooded area through which, about fifty metres away, could be seen a outline of a small stone barn.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"Wait and see" said Malcolm cryptically and obviously enjoying himself, "but I think you'll like it."

The barn was small and appeared a little dilapidated, with big, double wooden doors covered in peeling green paint and no windows. The doors were secured with a heavy chain and two padlocks which Chris unfastened before pushing one door open and disappearing inside. I heard the beeping of a keypad and realised he was disabling an alarm system, which intrigued me; why fit an alarm to an old barn like this? I followed Malcolm inside and was momentarily blind as my eyes adjusted after the bright sunlight, though my nostrils were assailed by the strong sweet smell of hay, mixed with something less wholesome, but involving stale sweat, urine and shit. The inside of the building was as a single long room, open to the roof rafters. To the right was a kind of workshop area, containing a host of equipment; workbenches, tools, lengths of rope and chain, a tiled area that appeared to be a shower and a charcoal brazier. At the other end of the space, to our left, was a ladder to a hayloft and, under it, four wooden stalls, looking for all the world like the sort of thing one might keep a horse in, though perhaps not as deep. We were stood in an open area immediately inside the doors, much of which was occupied by two strange wheeled carts. One was a light affair, little more than two wheels and two seats, but the other was more substantial with four wheels and a large flat wire frame at the back, presumably for storage. It looked like there was space for several beasts to pull it at once.

It took perhaps a couple of seconds, four at the most, for me to take that in, before it dawned on me what I was looking at and I noticed, the hanging bundles of leather tack and the racks of whips and floggers and other, less obvious, but ominous-looking implements and devices around the room.

"Pony play!" I exclaimed. I was of course familiar with the activity, but had always thought it a faintly ridiculous activity. I understood it's attraction, but for me, it was an area that fell far too short of its potential due to all the usual restrictions and to be especially interesting.

"Oh, this isn't play, Jake" said Malcolm, mildly, gesturing towards the back of the room.

That's when I became aware of the room's occupants. I'd missed them at first for they were stood in relative shadow opposite the doors and partially obscured by bundles of tack and harness. Standing there were two human ponies, a male and a female, both perhaps in their early forties, though it was hard to tell as their faces were largely obscured by the bridles they wore and their hair had been shaved into a sort of Mohican cut which was intended to simulate a horse's mane. The bodies of both appeared quite hairless and toned, though the breasts of the female, at least a C-cup in size with large pink aureoles covering their ends, were sagging significantly. Both ponies wore elaborate, tight, black leather harnesses with highly polished silver fittings. This was not the full extent of their restraints for they each wore two leather pony hobbles one at the ankles and another above the knee, secured with padlocks. Also, I noticed, their arms appeared secured behind them and they were held firmly against a sturdy vertical post in front of them by a link connected to their bridles that can't have been more than a few inches long. I wasn't exactly shocked as I'd seen human ponies before, but there was something about this scene, something harsher and unrelenting, that stopped me in my tracks and made my cock stir spontaneously.

Both figures were squinting and blinking in the sudden sunlight from the door but, after a moment, they seemed to become agitated, making incoherent squeals and moaning grunts from behind the bits in their mouths which obviously made understandable speech impossible for them. The male began trying to stamp in the hobbles and jerked his head at the post, trying to pull away from it, while the female was shaking her upper body, twisting and trying to free herself from the tight leather arm glove that I could now see was imprisoning her arms to the shoulder, and making her breasts swing about enticingly.

"Ah, they've spotted you, Jake, I think and they weren't expecting that," chuckled Chris. "It's the first time they've seen anyone but me or Malcolm since we acquired them and I suspect they're hoping you'll help them." He picked his way past the carts and picked a long riding crop down from a hook as he moved towards the two helpless ponies.

"What do you mean help them?" I asked, puzzled.

"Butterscotch, Trooper! Calm down now!" barked Chris as he strode towards them. But the two ponies continued to struggle, shying away from him, squealing, but being brought up short by their leashes, their eyes switching back and forth imploringly between Chris and me.

SWISH, CRACK!.....SWISH, CRACK! Chris swung the crop twice in quick succession against the rumps of each pony and followed up with two more. A piercing shriek of anguish came from the female's cruelly bitted mouth as the crop struck, accompanied by a howl, of pain and rage from the male, but the blows had the desired effect and both ponies' struggles subsided.

"Now, stop it both of you!" Chris spoke more calmly now "Jake is not going to be releasing you. No-one is, so get that through your thick pony skulls!" Tears were running down the female face now, while the male stood glaring at us, his body still tense and pulling tightly against his restraints.

I heard Malcolm laugh, "You're face is a picture, Jake." I'm sure he was right! The way Chris had wielded his crop on the two told me immediately that this was no game. He'd used skill and force to inflict real pain, not the moderate symbolic taps one saw in the pony games I'd witnessed before. The reactions of 'Butterscotch' and 'Trooper' seemed absolutely genuine. I couldn't believe that they wanted to be here, that they were enjoying their situation.

"What.....How.....Who...?" I didn't know where to start; my brain was racing, but my just couldn't keep pace though my cock was now rock hard and pressing at the front of my jeans. I had never witnessed anything even half as erotic.

Malcolm laughed again, "close your mouth, Jake and take a closer look." he gestured towards the ponies.

My legs felt as uncoordinated as my with the shock of what I'd just witnessed and it seemed as though they were made of jelly as I made my way to Chris's side. He grinned and stepped aside gesturing for me to examine the ponies more closely.

From this angle I could see the welts the crop had raised on Butterscotch's rump. A drop of blood from one was trickling down one buttock. As I looked I could see other, marks forming a lattice across her back, rear and legs and even one or two across her breasts; the signs of old beatings. Then I spotted a curious regular mark at the top of her right buttock; a crescent moon facing to the right. It was less than an inch across and a deep reddish brown in colour.

Malcolm had joined us and saw my glance. "That's our brand, we marked them pretty quickly using that." He indicated the charcoal brazier in the workshop which I could now see was accompanied by electric bellows and a rack holding what were probably the branding irons. "It's our registered mark and helps identify them and prevent theft"

A thousand questions were already swirling around my head and his remark just created more. What did he mean? Why would they need identifying, unless there were similar ponies elsewhere. Who on Earth registered brands used on human ponies? He was smiling again as I looked at him, his eyebrows raised expectantly as he watched my confusion.

I realised my mouth was hanging open again, closed it and asked the obvious question, unable to prevent an incredulous tone; "Where did you get them?"

"Serendipity really," he said. "They came were on a family holiday walking the hills and turned up at our door one day in fog and pouring rain one day last March, looking for directions as they'd got themselves lost. They were wet and cold and we invited them in and pretty much then and there decided that this was a heaven-sent opportunity. It's amazing the obedience one can encourage with a couple of shotguns, so pretty soon they were all stripped, hogtied and gagged in our living room. Simple as that! Please, carry on, there's nothing like the feel of helpless horseflesh." He nodded towards Butterscotch who was trying to stifle the occasional sob.

I cupped one her breasts in my hand, squeezing it and toying with the nipple, which hardened almost instantly between my fingers, eliciting a louder sob and prompting a flush of humiliation to creep up her neck and cheek. She jerked a little against her leash, trying to move away from my touch and turn her head to see me as the large blinkers she wore restricted her vision. I squeezed harder experimentally, my fingers digging into the soft flesh of her breast and used my grip to force her to remain still. She gasped but had little choice but to comply.

My head was reeling. There I had been, enjoying the late afternoon sunshine in Malcolm and Chris's garden when, barely a hundred yards away, was the proof that the answer to my years of dissatisfaction and searching existed. I felt like Alice going down the rabbit hole, like a blind man given sight for the first time. I felt almost reborn.

"You've had them here, all that time, what - four or five months?" I asked in wonder.

"That's right, getting equipment, sorting this place out, training them to be useful," said Chris. "Demonstrating their new status as chattel property."

Little whimpers were coming from Butterscotch now, as my hand continued its ministrations, her breathing becoming more rapid.

"She's pretty responsive, isn't she? Are you sure she doesn't like it?" I asked. Butterscotch trembled and squeaked in protest at the suggestion. Given the degree of her dehumanisation, it was easy to forget she could understand my words.

Malcolm chuckled and nodded downwards "we're no experts with females as you can imagine, but some things are obvious!"

I glanced down her body to as he'd indicated. The leather straps of the harness she wore was incredibly tight and it disappeared between the lips of her hairless pussy, which seemed hugely distended. I released her breast and felt for myself. Her thighs were slick with her juices and I could detect a hard presence beneath the soaking strap. "Ah, she's plugged," I said.

"That's right," said Chris, "but the plug's mostly just a reminder for her, I think it's the pressure of the strap, constantly rubbing away as she makes the slightest movement, that makes her most horny. It works for all of them eventually, it's just a matter of finding the right degree of pressure and lubrication for the individual pony. Given how tight it is, I suspect she was a bit frigid before, I even wonder if Trooper here ever made her come. Whatever, he won't be attempting to again. Malcolm and I aren't fussed about whether they're horny or not, the mares are here to work as far as we're concerned. But we do enjoy the aethetics of a tight strap biting deep, combined with the plug. It's not just any old plug you know." I could see that just from the way it was stretching her. "Malcolm owns a couple of stallions we keep at a stud farm which make a fair bit of money in fees for us. It's one of Malcolm's interests. The plug is made from a mould of of one of their cocks - it's over 3 inches in diameter and 10 inches long. Despite the discomfort, combine that with the tightness of the strap and five months of enforced abstinence and that's what you get" he said indicating her dripping pussy.

Butterscotch began sobbing again, this time with humiliation, unable to move or get away from our attentions. Trooper too, though unable to see us because of his blinkers and inability to move his head, was starting to kick up a fuss, fighting his hobble and leash.

SWISH....CRACK! the male pony bellowed as Chris used the crop again, but quietened down, though he continued growling in his throat, a low, sound of impotent anger.

"That's fiendishly clever!" I exclaimed.

"I know" said Chris smugly, "I'm full of good ideas!"

"Take a look at the back too," invited Malcolm. There I could see a realistic horse tail jutting out from Butterscotch's behind before falling vertically. "It's held in place with another plug, though not as large."

Then I moved around to the front and grabbed the pony's chin, forcing her head upwards tight against the short leash. I was looking in more detail at the bit which, I'd noticed, wasn't quite like anything I'd seen before. I used my fingers to stretch the filly's lips and force her mouth open and could see that the two silver rings at the edges of her mouth were linked via two curving metal pieces which disappeared inside, to a flat metal plate which held her tongue firmly down. The device stretched her mouth into a rictus and totally prevented anything resembling speech. It must have been very uncomfortable.

"Very perceptive, Jake," said Malcolm, "you won't see one of those being used in most human pony events. Trooper's is different again, though no less elaborate"

"This is amazing, you two, I am bowled over with amazement - and jealousy."

"We really hoped you would be, Jake." said Malcolm.

"How on earth have you kept it secret?" I asked as I moved over towards Trooper, "haven't the police been looking for them? Surely someone noticed they were missing"

"Of course," said Chris, "but it was a day or two before anyone noticed they were gone, and by that time, we'd whisked them well away from this area and kept them under lock and key. The police found their car about ten miles away and launched a search of the moors. They came here too. We just waited a few weeks until things had died down. Combine that with our connections and it's not too difficult to hide things, as long as you're careful."

"Christ! They came to my place too! I even helped out with the search! I exclaimed.

"Chris did too, didn't you, dear?" chuckled Malcolm.

"I did," smiled Chris, with a combination of embarrassment and amusement.

Shaking my head ruefully, I turned my attention to Trooper. He was equipped in much the same way as Butterscotch, branded and covered in welts from the whip.. I walked around him, running my hand over his flanks and down his rock hard thighs, noting his good muscle tone. "He's in great shape," I said.

"Yes, he's the power house of the team, and we make him work hard, but feed him well, don't we Trooper," said Chris, tilting the pony's chin with his hand and provoking snorts of suppressed rage from the helpless animal which was attempting to glance warily downwards, trying to track the crop Chris held.

"What's this?" I asked pointing to the pony's crotch where his penis was encased in a cruel-looking black plastic sheath. It was about 4 or 5 inches long and enclosed the shaft leaving the head free.

Chris, used the crop to lift the member to a horizontal position. "That keeps him out of trouble and reminds him he is property as well as providing a suitable site for chastisement." Quick as a flash, Chris moved the crop allowing the penis to drop and simultaneously flicked it, catching the head perfectly. I was beginning to see how skilled he was with it. Trooper howled in pain and tried to bend double but was brought up sharply by his leash. Then, with sudden fury he straightened and tried to lunge at Chris, who stepped smoothly backwards out of the way, laughing.

"Definite behavioural management issues this one!" said Chris, "I still say we need to reduce the testosterone supplements, Malcolm."

"I think we'd best follow the vet's advice and keep them as is," said Malcolm, "It'd be a real shame to waste all that muscle we've spent time building up. Besides which, you have him nicely controlled, I think!"

"Why are you giving him testosterone supplements?" I asked.

"Here, have look," said Chris, using one hand to push the pony firmly forward against the post. Trooper struggled, still raging, but could do little, unable to gain any leverage hobbled and bound as he was. I could see that the pony currently had no tail as Chris used the end of the crop to scoop up the pony's hairless scrotum, which lay slackly over the leather strap at its end. A healed, red scar was clearly visible running down its back.

"Shit!" I exclaimed, "you neutered him, no wonder he's pissed off!"

"Yep," laughed Chris, "we had the vet do it a few months ago now; quite a simple thing to do under a local anaesthetic. He was a bit of a trial to manage and it calmed him a little. But we thought he'd do well as a draft animal, so we needed him to build muscle. Plus, there was little prospect he was going to earn us anything in stud fees, or have any need to use them for himself! The supplements, combined with steroids give us the best of all worlds, although, they have their side effects as you can see. But we have several ways of dealing with recalcitrance, don't we?" Chris, leaning on Troopers back and pressing him tighter still against the post, suddenly grasped one of his buttocks and unceremoniously shoved a finger into his hole. Trooper gave a high pitched yelp which I saw from the corner of my eye made butterscotch start, and he positively writhed against the post trying to escape the intrusion.

"That's right," continued Chris,"I like to give him a damn good shafting every so often. It helps him remember his place! Of course, we could always stop the supplements and turn him into a draft mare, he'd be almost as useful and not half as much trouble!" This threat obviously had an impact for the fight visibly went out of Trooper and he sagged against the post, choking, whining sounds that may have been pleading coming from behind his bit.

Moving around to face him, I realised he had been a tall, well-built man, even before his enforced exercise and regime of drugs had started to build his muscle mass. I reached up and grabbed Trooper's bridle, pulling his face towards me and examining the bit which I had noticed, as Malcolm had said, was slightly differently shaped to the one Butterscotch wore.

"Hold him there for me would you, Jake?" asked Chris. I noticed he'd removed his finger from the pony's fundament and was busying himself with what was obviously Trooper's tail. "I need to fit this now, and in his current mood, he's likely to make a fuss." Grinning broadly, he held up the tail to show me the plug, to reveal it was coloured and shaped like a large human penis, complete with bulbous glans and veiny shaft. "Modelled on yours truly," he said with mock pride, "and feels much like the real thing - like velvet over steel." He winked at Malcolm lasciviously.

"Oh shut up and stop boasting, you oaf!" said Malcolm. "Jake doesn't want to stand here all day!"

"Yes, Massah!" replied Chris sarcastically, turning to retrieve a large glass jar full of a red jelly from a shelf and beginning to smear it liberally over the shaft.

Trooper was shifting nervously, his blue eyes glaring at me from between the straps of the bridle which criss-crossed his face. I tightened my grip, holding his head firmly in place as Chris bent behind him and began to work the tail into place. The pony struggled and grunted in protest and discomfort, but to no avail. The tail slid into place with an audible wet sound and Chris straightened, wiping his hands on a rag.

He looked at me, smiling and said; "any moment now."

Suddenly, Trooper began to make rapid, high pitched sounds in his throat, shifting his hobbled weight from one foot to another while swinging his rear back and forth as if trying to dislodge the tail which swung from side to side as he did so. I hear Malcolm laugh as I continued to hold the pony's head and looked at Chris quizzically.

"In light of Trooper's poor behaviour this afternoon, I used my 'special'lubricant. It's a mix of normal lubricant and hot chili paste. It should keep him pre-occupied for the rest of the afternoon.

I laughed for, true to his word, Trooper's pressure on the bridle had indeed slackened as he seemed to be focussed on what was going on inside his rectum.

"That's brilliant!" I said, "You are an thoroughly evil man, Chris."

"I do my best," he replied modestly, smiling.

Tears were now trickling from Troopers closed eyes and he was trying to toss his head from side to side. Holding him steady I returned my attention to his bit, using one hand to pull his mouth open and lips to one side.

"Careful, he's been known to bite," said Malcolm.

"Thanks, Malcolm," I replied, "I'm just trying to see how this bit works." As with the device Butterscotch wore, two curving pieces of metal disappeared into the pony's mouth, but they ran further back sitting inside his cheeks.

I stopped suddenly and peered more closely into the beast's mouth. When the metal pieces reached half way into his oral cavity, they were joined together by a flat bar running across his mouth. It was obvious that, in order to make it fit, several of his back teeth had been removed and I could see no sign of a tongue !

"I see you've noticed," said Chris. "In the early days, Trooper liked to swear, threaten or plead with us and attempt to communicate with the rest of the team whenever his gag came off even if only for a few seconds. Ponies don't talk obviously. He'd also try to bite when we were fitting his bit, or at any opportunity really. In the end it all became tiresome. Nothing seemed to dissuade him so I decided to get the vet to remove a few teeth so that I could fit this bit. It's more severe, less comfortable and give much better control, by exerting more pressure on the corners of the mouth because it's set deeper inside. I find a pony with front teeth at least more aesthetically pleasing, so to make a point I had the vet remove his tongue too. It's not like he has no need of it." Chris shook his head;"Trooper used to be very much an alpha male in his former life and it has taken a while for him to get the message that he's now just an animal, an 'it' really. He still has a way to go, but we'll get there in the end!"

I was in some awe, I was witnessing things this afternoon, that I didn't think possible, that I hadn't considered in my darkest dreams. Releasing Trooper's head, I stepped back and glanced at Malcolm who had been watching proceedings quietly.

"I don't know what to say, Malcolm," I said, "all this time since we met you've had these two here on your farm and you kept it absolutely quite!"

"I apologise for that, but it was necessary, we had to be sure of you first. I can see from your reaction that we shouldn't have worried," he nodded downwards, eyebrow raised and I felt myself blushing as I realised my erection must be clearly visible in my jeans. It felt like I could punch a hole in the barn door with it.

I resisted covering my crotch "Don't worry, I completely understand, I'm just grateful you let me in on it in the end. You may have changed my live. No exaggeration."

Malcolm grinned. "I'm glad and know exactly what you mean. We both felt the same way when we had our first encounter with this sort of thing." I wondered what he meant and where their first experience had been and was about to ask, but Malcolm pre-empted me "Anyway," he said, "what's all this about 'these two?', have a look over there at the rest of the team." It seemed the afternoon's surprises were not over yet.

Malcolm had gestured towards the stalls which were deep in shadow, so I moved in that direction, looking at him quizzically and grinning in anticipation. I wasn't disappointed for two of the stalls were occupied, by two more ponygirls. Both were young, perhaps in their late teens and, as I saw them a light bulb went off in my head. Malcolm had said that Trooper and Butterscotch had been on a family holiday when they'd taken them.

I turned to him, a look of disbelief on my face "These are the..."

"...daughters," he finished, grinning, "and not a bad pair of fillies either. That's Blossom" he said, indicating the closest stall, "and the other is Jezebel."

Blossom wore the same leather harness as her mother, tightly-cinched and cutting deeply between her pussy lips, although she did not appear to be accommodating an intruding plug there or, if she was, it wasn't on the same scale as the one on which Butterscotch was impaled. Overall, she was above average height for a female with a shapely yet toned body and small, pert breasts with prominent upturned pink nipples. She wore a padlocked leather hobble above her knees and, as with the other ponies, her arms were tightly secured behind her back in a leather glove, pulling her shoulders back and thrusting her chest out. A ring gag held her mouth wide, distorting what would otherwise have been a pretty, finely-boned face with the same large, brown eyes as her mother. The whole effect was again topped by a Mohican of honey-coloured hair which hung between her shoulders. Currently, she was standing in the stall as far back as the leash attached to a large silver ring hanging from her nose would allow, looking from me to Malcolm, eyes wide with apprehension.

Malcolm moved up beside me crooning gently; "it's OK, girl, nothing to worry about, just a visitor to see you." Then to me "she's more, shy and skittish than the others, but usually more tractable." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sugar lump, which he pressed into my hand. "Hold it out on your palm."

I put my hand out over the stall door and Malcolm continued; "come on, Blossom, I know you like sugar lumps, don't you? Show us how much you want it. Come on, girl, ask for it like a good pony."

The pony didn't respond, but continued to stand there, slightly crouched, her eyes flicking from my hand to our faces.

"Come now, girl," you know you want it, "and only good ponies get sugar lumps. You're a good pony aren't you? Now show me", said Malcolm, his last words acquiring a slight edge. That was seemingly enough for Blossom for she nodded her head up and down, and pawed the ground as much as the hobble allowed with her foot, then emitted a high pitched sound in her throat that was a good approximation of a whinny. I could see she bore the same brand as Trooper and Butterscotch and her flanks and rear were criss-crossed with the marks of crop and whip.

She shuffled forward, continuing to nod her head and whinny. "Good girl, good pony," soothed Malcolm. Blossom halted in front of me and bent her head towards my palm. Briefly her eyes, filled with tears of shame, met mine and then I felt her breath, hot against my palm, followed by her soft, wet, tongue which chased the sugar lump around my palm, before managing to scoop it inside the ring gag. I was amazed. Here was a pretty young woman, the type of girl who didn't used to give me a second glance in my youth and the type who had tried to manipulate me for my money in later years, utterly helpless and literally eating out of my hand like an animal while acting like a pony under the threat of the whip. My erection was approaching painful proportion.

"Good pony!" said Malcolm, ruffling Blossom's Mohican as we turned away to the Jezebel's stall.

This pony was perhaps a year or so older than her sister, shorter, but with a stockier build and darker hair, again in a Mohican cut. She was accoutred almost identically, but more heavily restrained. A light chain leash was padlocked to a ring in the hay-covered floor of the stall and was clipped to her nose ring, but was so short she was bent double. Instead of the hobbles the others wore, her ankles were joined by a spreader bar which held her legs apart. I could clearly see she had also been branded and was marked extensively by the whip and a string of drool was issuing through her ring gag and forming a puddle on the floor. She was making small whimpering noises in her throat and I could see why. The angle of her body meant her breasts, which were larger than her sister's, more in line with those of her mother, were hanging pendulously, stretched by the small metal weights attached to clamps on her nipples. I could just about see similar weights dangling between her legs.

"Jezebel, is much more spirited than her sister," said Malcolm. It seemed that the pony had not been aware of for, as he spoke and we leaned on the stall door, she raised her face and looked at Malcolm. Her eyes blazed with hate which gave way to pain as her movement made the weights swing and she slowly lowered her head and resumed her efforts to stay still. "Yes, I went for a spin on the sulky earlier and she was recalcitrant. I wasn't at all happy with her efforts so I decided that a few hours with the weights would help motivate her."

I continued to look at the suffering pony for a while, trying to order my thoughts and feelings. It was surreal, like stepping into a dream. These ponies had been a middle class family a few months before on holiday together. The parents, comfortable, healthy and past that mad striving for success that comes with youth, the daughters, young women, full of potential, about to embark on their lives. Then, some bad weather and just one unlucky decision led them to the doorstep of Malcolm and Chris and everything changed. Abruptly, all that potential was blown away and replaced with the prospect of a life as draft animals, held captive with no rights, literally no voice and subject totally to the whims of their owners, including physical pain and mutilation. I knew somewhere inside that as a good citizen I should be appalled by what I'd seen, that I should flee the scene and return with the police, but that isn't what I felt at all. Instead, I found the thought thrilled me to the core. It felt like I'd found something that had been missing from my life; that there was a hole in it the size and shape of which I had not been able to see clearly. But now I could. I could see exactly what I wanted and I knew I was in a good position to get it.

I stepped away from Jezebel's stall and cast my eye again over the barn's interior and the abject degradation of its unwilling occupants. I didn't want to leave, but there were things I need to do and think about. Questions that needed answering.

"Jake," I heard Malcolm say, "we were wondering if you would like to leave your car here tonight and we could harness up the ponies and take you back across the fields."

I laughed, looking across the barn at the pathetic figure of Butterscotch. I wondered what she had been called before, what she did for a living. Perhaps she was a housewife, spending her time at home, seeing friends and talking about shopping, celebrities and the foibles of each other's husbands and children. If only they could see her now, shaven and whipped, bridled like a horse, her cunt violated and distorted by a facsimile of some thoroughbred's massive cock, with her juices running down her thighs. I found I didn't really care; she was just an animal now, though the contrast between the two worlds was fundamentally exciting.

"That sounds fantastic," I replied.

"Well, why don't we go and have another beer and leave Chris to harness get the harnessing sorted out?

"Sounds good to me," I said and, with a last glance, turned to follow him out of the barn and back into the sunlight.

"How do you feel about what we've shown you, Jake?" asked Malcolm quietly, as we strolled back up the wooded track towards the farm.

"Incredulous and utterly excited, like a child in a sweetshop. The possibilities seem endless. I can't really put it into words," I ended lamely. "There are a few questions though."

"I'm glad you are so positive, Jake. Approaching you was a big worry, a gamble almost and could have been disastrous and unpleasant for all concerned. It's a massive weight off my mind."

I wondered what he meant by 'unpleasant', but decided not to ask as it seemed fairly obvious to me. Instead I asked; "but why tell me at all?"

Malcolm opened the gate into the farmyard. "You have to realise, Jake, that we are not alone. There are others with similar tastes out there."

I nodded; I'd already gathered as much from some of the things that had been said.

Malcolm continued, "There are quite a few of us. Wealthy people. Influential people who are able to pursue their interests and indulgences and get what they want, whatever it may be, by using that influence and their money. We are a diverse group and global in our distribution. We include, men and women, old school European nobility, Japanese corporate leaders, Swiss bankers, American TV preachers, military officers, politicians, rock and film stars, criminals and simple lottery winners. The range of 'tastes' and 'enthusiasms' is equally wide. There are Arab sheiks with harems straight out of the Arabian Knights, pony enthusiasts like us, slavers who acquire subjects to order, II myself have attended a ball at an French aristocrat's estate which he keeps as though it was a nineteenth century household, staffed with young men and boys in various stages of feminisation and dressed in period clothes. I've even heard tell of a South African rancher who keeps herds of black women on his ranch and organises hunts after releasing them. I wouldn't be at all surprised if it were true, among us pretty much anything goes as long as it doesn't endanger the group."

By now we were back in the garden and he was handing me a cold bottle of beer he had taken from the barbecue cool box. Part of me didn't believe what he was saying, but after the evidence I'd seen his afternoon I couldn't dismiss it.

He continued, "Jake we all have money in common, that is nothing special to us. But we also stay in touch and help each other out when needed. What that means is that skills are currency among us; providing them, doing favours is what grants status, gets one's name known and garners influence. In our case, I'm a financial type and am quite able to be ...'creative' on the behalf of others when required. Chris is a farmer. That might not sound like much, but he has a genius with livestock care and control which he has transferred successfully to the human kind as you've seen. his input and advice is in demand. You, Jake, are a computer boffin and bringing you into the fold will help us out and, from what I've learnt, enable you to fulfil some of your most lurid dreams and fantasies."

Again, the whole idea seemed too fantastic, but I kept coming back to Trooper, Butterscotch, Blossom and Jezebel, the four degraded ponies in the barn.

I looked at Malcolm and nodded slowly. "I could ask for time to think about this, to ponder, but I would be wasting everyone's time and causing annoyance to whoever it is you might have watching me to make sure I don't tell." Malcolm had the grace to look embarrassed and uncomfortable. I laughed. "Don't worry, I'm teasing. Plus, I knew almost as soon as I entered that barn that I'd say yes to anything you said, as long as it meant I could get something similar! I am sure I will be totally in your debt for ever anyway."

He smiled with relief, "I am so, glad, everyone will be so happy to hear you're onboard"

We then spent another twenty minutes chatting, generally as I tried to find answers to some of the questions and discover more about the ponies who, it turned out had been much as I had guessed. They had been the Parson family, relatively affluent and very middle class. Trooper, formerly Michael, had owned an accountancy firm, while Butterscotch, formerly Caroline, had spent her time in voluntary work and running a local Girl Guide Group. Their daughters, Imogen and Abigail, now Jezebel and Blossom respectively, had been at university, Jezebel approaching the end of her last year. The Easter holiday had been intended as a last blast before Jezebel's final exams and the hoped-for start of a career in law. But it was not to be and now they were someone else's property. I found I loved the thought of that.

We were still deep in discussion when I heard a couple of sharp cracks from the direction of the barn and then a series of shouts of "Yah!, Yah!" There was jingle of harness growing louder by the second and a metallic rattle and the four ponies appeared beyond the garden wall pulling the larger of the two carts I'd seen, with Chris standing on the frame, a long thin carriage whip in one hand and the reins in the other. "Woah!" called Chris, pulling back on the reins, distorting the ponies' faces even more as they fought to slow and stop and relieve the pressure on their tender mouth corners.

"Very dramatic, Chris," said Malcolm drolly.

Chris laughed, "just impressing our guest, babe."

Malcolm turned to me, "well, here's your ride, Jake. Thanks so much for coming over, I hope you've enjoyed yourself."

"You have no idea, Malcolm. Thanks you both. I have a lot to think about and plan for."

"Well, don't worry, well introduce you to a few people soon, so you can get to know more of us and what we do. I'm sure they'll be interested to meet you. See you very soon."

"You too," I replied, turning and walking towards the cart.

The ponies were hitched in pairs, one behind the other, Trooper and Butterscotch in front and Jezebel and Blossom behind. Chris, gestured to the closest seat and sat in the other. I lowered myself onto the seat and was rewarded with a nice view of Blossom's almost perfectly shaped, branded rump, the red and pink lines left by past encounters with the whip contrasting nicely with her otherwise pale flesh.

Chris flicked the whip, making contact with Trooper's rump making him yelp sharply. "Settle down there Trooper! Behave!"

"He's skittish and fidgety; still feeling the effects of his tail" Chris said. I could only imagine what Trooper must be feeling physically, his anus and rectum stretched by the dildo and burning fiercely from his master's fiery lubricant. His mental anguish didn't even bear thinking about. Here he was, a formerly successful man, harnessed and treated like a beast, castrated and regularly used anally, all of which was witnessed by his former wife and daughters. It was awful, yet fantastic thought!

"Walk on!" called Chris, snapping his whip with a sharp crack over the heads of the ponies. Evidently, none wanted it to come any closer to their flesh, for they leaned into the traces as one and the cart began to move, gradually picking up speed as they strained.

"I know they're not a well-matched team physically," said Chris, but training and practice has compensated for that and they pull quite well now, though I'm sure the matching pony purists wouldn't be impressed. It's good enough for farm work."

I nodded, watching the ponies as they gathered pace. Chris cracked the whip again as we crossed the field heading towards my land and the ponies renewed their efforts. I could hear their rasping breathe now and their formless grunts of effort. Their bestial status seemed very clear, almost natural, now. I was sure they wouldn't agree with that assessment, but it didn't look like they were likely to get a chance!

The whip cracked again and then, like lightening twice more, its tip licking Trooper's rump and that of Jezebel, leaving a livid red mark. Trooper's bellow was almost eloquent and seemed to convey both his anger and desperation, while his daughter threw her head back and emitted a high-pitched squeal.

The track curved around entering a patch of woodland, plunging us into green shade through which lances of sunlight projected and shadows flickered as we sped forward. It was utterly exhilarating and I could easily see the attraction of it to those practitioners I'd encountered before today, although how much better it was with real whip play and thoroughly reluctant ponies. They wouldn't be shedding their harness after this and climbing into cars to head home for a hot bath after a day of kinky play in the country. Instead, I imagined, they might have the worst of their harness removed for cleaning, but then the most they had to look forward to was a rough grooming and a hobble, gag and leash, before resting in the hay of their stall for the night. The thought was totally intoxicating!

As we emerged from the woods, Chris pulled on the reins slowing the team. Their tails were moving back and forth in unison and I watched the muscles in Blossom's legs and rump working below her skin. It was almost mesmeric. How did they run with the tail-dildos impaling them? I guessed they had little choice despite any discomfort. It was that or a whipping. That brought the enormous horse cock shaped intruder that had penetrating Buttercup to my mind. Was she still wearing that? He didn't think could be, but hadn't noticed when he'd climbed onto the trap. Even if she were, she was running as well as the others.

They were approaching the gate that led through the hedge onto my land now and Chris brought the ponies to a halt in front of it.

"I'll get it," I said and got off the tap. As I held it open I watched the team go past. None met my eyes. They were sweating profusely, panting heavily past their bits and mud was spattered up their legs from the puddles we'd gone through in the woods. My vantage point allowed me to see some of the changes in the ponies harness as they went by. Trooper's cock sheath had been pulled tightly back and clipped somehow between his legs, presumably to stop it flopping about as he ran. I caught a glimpse of the livid head of his member, as his tail swished to the side, pointing backwards below his buttocks as he passed, the slack folds of his scrotum draped over it pathetically. I saw that Buttercup no longer was indeed no longer plugged with the dildo, but noticed that Chris had bound the breasts of all three mares tightly, again presumably to stop excessive movement. All were cinched at their base with thin leather straps giving them the shape of bulbous mushrooms. They had turned a deep shade of purple an jiggled nicely with the mares' movements.

I climbed back aboard the trap and Chris moved it on again, slowly now on the final approach, my house visible a few hundred yards away.

"They're barefoot," I observed, "doesn't that injure them?"

Chris shrugged, "at first, it caused a few injuries, but we were careful to stay on grass initially, and take things slowly. The soles soon harden up with use and the application of a few things which helps kills of the skin and form calluses." I marvelled at my neighbours' thoroughness and ingenuity.

And then we were pulling up at the side of my house.

"Do you fancy a beer, Chris? I asked"

He considered momentarily and grinned; "I hoped you'd say that. But first let me deal with the ponies. I came prepared, wanna give me a hand?" He retrieved a sack from the rear storage area and proceeded to pull several smaller backs with a series of straps attached to them, followed by four water bottles.

"Here," he said and handed me the water bottle. "Just squeeze it all into their mouths. I'll follow with the nose bags."

I laughed, "nose bags? You really have thought of everything haven't you?"

Chris smiled, "maybe not, I keep coming up with more ideas."

I started with the closest pony which turned out to be Blossom. Her breath was rasping, her chest was heaving making the little purple knobs of her tied breasts topped by two jutting and thoroughly erect nipples, jiggle away. Short gasping whines were issuing from her throat behind the bit and I could see her hips shuddering involuntarily.

"Are you sure this one doesn't enjoy it, Chris?" I asked.

Chris looked up from where he was locking a hobble on Butterscotch's legs for a moment and then chuckled. "No, that'll be the effects of the strap. She's like this mare," he reached up and slapped Butterscotch's buttock, making her squeak and start, "a tight strap really gets her going." He paused and looked at me mischievously. "Watch this." Quickly he climbed back into the driving seat, picked up the whip and snapped it.

With an audible groan the ponies, including Blossom, heaved at the traces and Chris quickly whipped them up to full speed, steering them skillfully around the field and pulling them to a stop again in front of me. As he did so I could see Blossom had been pushed over the edge and was trying to bend forward in the traces, making a series of moaning yelps and twitching uncontrollably as a massive orgasm coursed through her body.

"That did the trick!" laughed Chris as he alighted again.

"It certainly did!" I chuckled. I caught her chin in my hand to steady her and shoved the bottle spout between her lips. Her eyes were shut and I could feel her trembling in the aftermath of the orgasm as a I squeezed the bottle. The bit meant she found it difficult to swallow, and water spilled from her mouth running down over her breasts. However, her throat also worked furiously sucking down the water so I was happy she was getting enough. Quickly, I watered the remaining ponies as Chris followed me, buckling the nose bags, which were less deep than those of biological horses, tightly to their faces. Immediately, they began shift their heads up and down and from side to side.

Chris saw my puzzlement. "That's the only way they can get the food in through the bits; using their lips and movements of their head. It's semi-liquid mix of milk,raw vegetables; cabbage, carrots, spinach, turnips etc and soya protein all liquidised together. Not appetising, but it gives them what they need. I wondered when they'd last been fed, for all four ponies were working at the bags furiously.

Chris then busied himself fitting hoods that covered the ponies' eyes and the top parts of their heads. "These are like the hobbles; they are another measure to make them helpless. Plus they incorporate pretty good earplugs to restrict hearing." Jezebel, shied away, squealling from his efforts, her head tossing as Chris tried to fit the hood. He simply slapped her rump hard and caught hold of her bridle.

"Here could you hold her while I fit it?"

I complied and the hood went on.

"She really doesn't like it. It's a form of sensory deprivation. All they're aware of really is their bodies' their exhaustion, the aches and pains, the plugs and discomfort. No distractions. I've found it to be a useful disciplinary measure." He laughed, "sometimes they even fall asleep standing in the traces! Now how about that beer then?" asked Chris.

"Fair enough, let's go get it." tearing my eyes from the degraded pony flesh before me I turned and took Chris inside.

In the end we had two beers and an hour of enjoyable chat as I learned more about Chris's thoughts on the control and handling of human livestock. Though the window of the living room we could see the hooded ponies, standing there, their heads down and still, the nose bags, now empty, still attached. They looked a picture of dejection and debasement.

Chris glanced at his watch."Shit! I'd best be going, before I lose the light." I looked out again and sure enough the sun was setting and the light was dimming. "Thanks for the beer and see you soon, yeah?" said Chris as he rose.

"You can bet on it, Chris," I replied walking him to the door,"bye for now."

I watched him removing the team's hobbles and hoods and mounting up and waved as he cracked the whip and swung the carriage towards home, before closing the door and going upstairs to my study. I had much to think about and more to plan.


Part 2 (added: 2014/10/17)

The months following my afternoon with Malcolm and Chris and their unfortunate captives were busy ones. Maybe I'm an evil man, but my neighbours' revelations had left me with little sympathy for their victims and few moral qualms concerning their activities. Instead I found myself fired with an unholy enthusiasm to emulate, perhaps even surpass them. I had ample resources and, I felt, the necessary cunning and patience to acquire and train my own subjects. However, I wasn't going to rush into it; that was a certain road to disaster. Instead, I spent the ensuing months in research, planning, preparation and consultation; laying the foundations for my future as an owner of human chattels.

I spent a lot of time with Malcolm and Chris and the ponies, getting to know some of the practicalities of safe and responsible slave ownership. Although I didn't intend to keep ponies, it was obvious there were sufficient similarities with the livestock I did want to acquire to make it a useful exercise. Both Chris and Malcolm drummed the importance of security into me.

"Never forget," Chris had said seriously on my second visit, his hand holding Trooper's bridle, "these are intelligent animals. Never become complacent; always keep them hobbled and with arms secure at the very least, preferably with chains. Some of them will be bigger and more powerful than you, so always, always take care they can't kick, butt, trample or otherwise inflict harm, because if they can they often will. Besides, constant and severe restraint is a helpful reminder of their status. It's a great equalizer." Trooper was fidgeting, listening to us, his mouth cruelly stretched by his bit and Chris' pressure on the bridle, his eyes glaring sullenly. Chris, flicked the riding crop he held catching the end of Trooper's penis sharply, where it was exposed by the plastic restraint he always wore. The pony yelled with the pain and danced from foot to foot as far as his hobble permitted, while Chris laughed and held him in place. "See, Jake? Like this, I reckon a ten year old girl with a crop could keep Trooper here in line despite his bad temper!"

Other lessons focussed on the maintaining the health and condition of human livestock and covered, nutrition, accommodation, exercise, the effects of severe bondage and various drug regimes. Of course, I also I learned to handle the team. To help with this I volunteered to help Chris with the farm on the occasional day, gaining invaluable experience in harnessing and unharnessing the team and controlling them as we went about the daily chores.

I found that each pony had its own quirks, strengths and weaknesses. My favourite was probably Jezebel. I enjoyed the view for a start; she had a young, womanly figure, with smooth, pale skin and a deliciously soft, curving rump lacking any extra flesh due to her enforced regime of exercise. Her breasts were a joy to harness just more than a handful of milky white softness with small pink aureoles and nipples which were thrust forward nicely by her armbindings. Often, her attitude was defiant and sullen, her dark expressive eyes glowering from among the straps of her bridle. But I enjoyed that. I was gaining skill with the whip I liked to use; a long, single-tailed affair with a blade of broad, flat leather blade which could deliver stinging motivation or a resounding crack in the hands of someone who knew what they were doing. Gradually I became able to do either and slowly Jezebel, the former law student with the bright future in the legal system, learned a basic, animal respect for me. Driving her was entertaining too. It was as if she decided each time that she'd rebel so that when I shook the reins she barely moved. But one kiss of the whip on her rear and she leapt to her task with a will! She needed an occasional reminder, but her response to the whip was gratifying.

The ever-practical Chris was also a huge help with my preparations on my own property which were fairly extensive. I felt I needed to minimise the involvement of outsiders who might start asking too many questions about some of my new installations, so it was necessary that I do the work myself. Chris was in complete agreement and was happy to show me the way and, over the months I learned new construction skills involving pouring concrete, laying bricks, carpentry and electrical wiring. Together we took a ramshackle, semi-derelict, but sizeable stone outbuilding and transformed it. First we put a new roof on it and repaired its walls, replacing its doors, blocking several windows and lining it with termal insulation and sound proofing. Then we installed a wood chip burning boiler to provide heating for both the barn and my house before we started on the remainder of the interior. This we divided into two large spaces, one at either end which were destined to hold my livestock, with a central room converted and equipped as a workshop. One of the livestock areas was fairly simple, involving little more than the construction of a row of cages, each perhaps a metre high and wide and two metres deep and a tiled shower area. My plans necessitated more complex works at the other end of the building. A series of pens ran lengthways along the middle of the barn with a long metal food trough running parallel. Above each pen dangled the tentacles of a milking machine; a standard agricultural model, modified so that each ended in just two cups. I had no need of the standard four, as my intended livestock was human rather than bovine; something I was jokingly calling Bos sapiens in the best tradition of Linnaeus and something Chris found hilarious when I told him.

The barn was our main project, but there were many other small tasks around the place we undertook over the winter. One of the most interesting ones was generated by my desire to grow some of my own fodder. For this we decided to plough and plant one of the small paddocks behind my house. It was perfect for what I had in mind as the hedges were tall and protected view by a belt of trees originally planted to shelter the farm from the harsh winter winds blowing off the mountains. Of course, Chris and I, looking for a challenge and to incorporate a little entertainment into the task, decided we should try the ponies out as plough beasts. Accordingly, we constructed a light plough and designed a system of harnesses. Then, on a day of early spring sunshine, with primroses and daffodils lining the hedges and birds singing in the still-bare trees we hitched up the team and set them to work, one of us controlling the reins and the other leading Trooper, the powerhouse of the team, by his bridle. After a couple of hours we'd had some degree of success, though all the ponies were panting hard, their breath rasping through their bridled mouths. They were splattered in mud to their waists and their rumps and backs were marked by fresh welts from the whip.

"I'm not happy with Trooper's efforts," said Chris, when we were pausing for tea, "he's deliberately throwing the line of the furrow off and not trying hard enough in my view."

I glanced over to where the team stood some yards away, naked in the chilly air, their shoulders covered by rough canvas poncho-like sheets Chris used to keep them warm when they stopped.

"I had the same impression," I said. "I think this is a new low for him and he's rebelling in a quiet way. Trouble is I think the others are picking up on it and doing the same. They could be working better together."

"Well, I'm going to teach him a lesson and see if I can't get better co-operation out of him, if you know what I mean." I frowned, puzzled by his meaning until he winked at me lasciviously and then I laughed, catching his meaning.

"Knock yourself out!" I said, "I'll wait here."

"Why don't you do the same with the others, if you like. I think it would deliver a salutary lesson. Malcolm and I haven't wanted to deliver it, so it'd be great if you would."

I felt my cock grow and stiffen in response to his words until it was pressing almost painfully against the front of my jeans. It was strange; intensely erotic though I found the ponies and their predicament; I'd never seriously considered taking one sexually. Of course, I was accustomed to handling them and using their orifices to deliver reprimands and motivation in the form of various 'toys' and other implements, but I'd never thought much about burying myself in one of them. Perhaps I thought of them subconsciously as animals and thus outside the realm of my sexual interest, or maybe the fact they didn't belong to me was inhibiting. I wasn't sure, but as I looked at the restrained, degraded, yet luscious female flesh standing fidgeting in the traces of the plough oblivious to our discussion, I could see no reason not to take advantage and administer some discipline at the same time.

As I considered, Chris pulled a hood over Trooper's head, hooked a leash to his bridle, released him from the traces and began to pull him towards the gate into the farmyard. Trooper had little choice but to follow, the hobble forcing him to adopt a slow, shuffling gate.

Butterscotch, Jezebel and Blossom knew something was wrong, I could tell by their body language; the shifting of weight from foot to foot and the attempts to peer around, hindered by their blinkers. I moved over to them, my squelching footsteps causing them to instinctively try to move closer together as much as their harness would allow. Their blinkered heads followed me as I moved to stand in front of them. I could see Blossom attempting to shrink behind Butterscotch as if she could disappear from view. Only Jezebel met my gaze with with resentful eyes, but even they soon dropped to the floor. I studied them for a moment; three mud-spattered, nervous fillies with sleek, toned flanks, pussy lips forced apart by their harness straps and their tightly bound, purpled breasts contrasting strongly with their otherwise pale skin. I could feel my blood pounding at the sight. I felt so alive, so powerful! Then I noticed Butterscotch's dark eyes widen and realised she was looking at my crotch. I glanced down and chuckled to myself for my raging hard-on was completely visible, outlined by the fabric.

"Yes, you know what's coming now, don't you girl?" I said, looking into the pony's panicy eyes. I reasoned that, although their various orifices had been the receptacles for a variety of implements, some of outrageous dimensions, their owner's preferences meant none of them had yet been taken as ponies. I wondered briefly if that was perhaps a hidden source of dignity for them, a Rubicon that hadn't been crossed so far. Perhaps they had thought it never would be.

Butterscotch began shaking her head, her bridle jangling as she tried to back away, her eyes brimming with tears implored me to be merciful. By now Jezebel had picked up on her mother's unease and panic and I could see its significance dawning on her as eyes darted back and forth between us. Blossom was as yet oblivious, her vision blocked by Butterscotch.

I quickly stepped forward and reached for Butterscotch's bridle. She instinctively tried to pull away and I brought my crop down on her flank sharply. CRACK! She yelped in pain and shock, but that gave me the opportunity to grab the bridle and yank her head forward and down until she was bent almost double, her full, bound breasts dangling and dancing almost with a life of their own.

CRACK! CRACK, I slapped the crop twice more in quick succession onto her rump and abruptly the struggle went out of her to be replaced by choking sobs. Her forward movement had jerked at Blossom's traces and, due to the hobble, she was tottering a little. I steadied her and, still holding Butterscotch's bridle, quickly re-adjusted the straps of the harness to link her bridle to Blossom's nose-ring. That done I turned to Jezebel, released her and clipped her nose ring to Blossom's traces, creating a coffle of three ponies.

All three were whimpering and whining, fearing what was going to happen, as I led them, shuffling slowly through the mud to the fence which circled the field inside the hedge. From here I could hear an incoherent, strangled bellowing and grunting and realised that I could see into the farmyard where Chris was administering Trooper's punishment. The pony was bent over a carpenter's sawhorse which we had been using in our construction efforts, legs spread apart and secured. Chris stood behind him, crop in hand, his hips working furiously as he thrust in and out, with Trooper bawling in impotent rage and shame at his violation. I watched for a few moments as Trooper twisted on the sawhorse, like a landed fish, torso rearing and writhing as if trying to expel the intruder from his rear and then turned back to my own task.

Working quickly I bent Butterscotch forwards again, clipping her leash to her collar at one end and to the lowest strut of the fence at the other so that she was almost head down, before releasing Blossom and then Jezebel from the coffle and securing them in the same position. Finally, I removed their canvas capes, unclipped the harness strap from between their legs, flipped up their tails and stood back to examine my handiwork. I was presented with a line of helpless female rears, their smoothly shaven vulvas, fully exposed and their anuses stretched by the substantial tail plugs. Slowly, I moved down the line considering my choice, pausing to caress and squeeze pony flesh as I did so. All were trembling, hoping I wouldn't choose them, but possibly feeling guilty at wishing me on one of the others. I paused behind Butterscotch's rounded rump. Her pussy was swollen, the inner lips prominent, almost red in colour. Without warning I cupped her mound, a finger forcing it's way inside. As I'd expected with this mare, the friction of the harness strap had worked its usual magic and she was slick with a mixture of the lubricant that was applied before the harness was fitted each day and her own juices. She cried out through her bit; a mixture of surprise and reluctant arousal.

"Naughty pony, Butterscotch!" I chuckled, my finger moving down her sopping slit to her clitoris. As soon as I touched it she jerked against her reins emitting an involuntary moan, her entire rump twitching and writhing. It only took a few flicks of my finger before her orgasm pulsed through her. She threw her head back a strangled moan escaping her throat as she pulled against her tether trying to force her pussy back onto my hand.

She was still shuddering, as I turned to Blossom who was whining through her bit and trying to turn her head to see where I was past her blinkers. I grabbed her tail and pushed it sideways, making her grunt sharply and stop moving with the discomfort. Much like Butterscotch, her harness strap had kept her stimulated, trembling on the edge all morning and her thighs were wet with her juices. Her situation had dulled that somewhat, but I eased a finger between her lips, finding the hard, slick bud of her clit easily. My finger circled and flicked, her whining changed note, becoming rapid with a paniced edge to it as I felt her helpless pussy flooding with fresh, hot juices. And then her lithe body was bucking as she wailed and squeaked, coming hard. I held her in place by the tail so she didn't fall and when she'd finished, resumed my attentions for a few seconds until she was once more on the brink, before stepping back and moving on to Jezebel, provoking a small moan of frustration.

Jezebel's blinkers had prevented her seeing what had happened to the other two ponies, but she had been able to hear it and I could see her delicious, rounded rear trembling as I approached. She was shifting around a little, and making an low angry growling noise in her throat although, being tethered by her nose ring, moving much was painful. However, her struggles intensified somewhat as I crouched and undid her hobble, but I soon stopped that by grabbing her tail and kicking her legs as wide. She immediately attempted to close them which I had expected so I brought my crop up sharply catching her pussy with a low 'smack' She howled and sobbed in pain and returned her legs to the position I'd put them in.

I stood back, undoing my jeans and enjoying the view. Jezebel had a rather neat pussy with prominent outer lips enclosing and concealing the treasures within. With her legs apart, those lips, one with a reddening line where the crop had struck, gaped slight revealing the pink, glistening 'V' of her clitoral hood. My cock, hard enough already, throbbed with even greater intensity, seeming almost to spring out of my underwear of its own volition as I brought it out. I could see her sex was wet and, holding her steady by the tail with one hand, I slid a finger slowly along her slit before parting her lips and pushing inside, finding the interior hot and nicely slippery. It seemed a morning of work with a tight leather strap between her legs, had even had its effect on the fiery Jezebel. She twitched and squeaked in protest, the noise rising in volume as she felt the head of my penis, rest against her nether lips and then part and stretch them slightly as it began to make its entrance. I think she was trying to shout imprecations, possibly even threats from the tone, but the bit holding her tongue down made her unintelligible. I could wait no more and thrust forward in a fast, smooth motion, pushing myself hard against her rear. She bucked as much as she was able given her restraint, but my hips were pistoning steadily as my arms held her tightly against me, one hand holding and squeezing a bound, onion-shaped breast, tweeking the hard nub of her nipple, while the other moved lower, a finger and thumb parting the top of her slit to squeeze her clit repeatedly.

She was twisting and writhing, as I pounded into her, driving not only my cock, but her tail plug deeply inside her with my impacts against her rear. My hands continued their work too as I held her tightly against me and relished the feel of her movements. Her gurgling, protesting shrieks had were slowly transforming into despairing moans, and I felt her tiring, weakening and then the first spasms as her cunt pulsed around my cock. And then she went over the edge, screaming into her bit, thrashing up and down as she came. Somewhere, I rose to meet, her, breaking the screams into grunts as I redoubled the power of my thrusts as I felt my juices spurt deep inside her.

There were lights dancing in front of my eyes and I felt jelly-legged as I withdraw my softening penis. I couldn't believe the power of the orgasm I'd just experienced. It was everything I'd hoped for and more from fucking a helpless, owned slave!

I held Jezebel's harness at the back as she seemed about to fall and bent forward to release her leash before bringing her to an upright position. She staggered slightly, head down, as I pulled her by the bridle to Blossom's side and proceeded to re-assemble the previous coffle. Neither her sister or mother tried to look at her, both keeping their eyes fixed firmly on the floor. Trooper's bellowing had stopped now; I assumed Chris must have finished administering his 'lesson' so I slowly led the three hobbled, whimpering and tearful ponies across the field and re-harnessed them to the plough.

Minutes passed and Chris and Trooper had still not returned so I fished an apple from my lunch bag and began to carve slices from it with my pocket knife, popping each in turn into my mouth and chewing contentedly, enjoying the spring sunshine, the warm air and the pleasant ache in my crotch from my earlier exertions. Perhaps it was the sudden quietness of the ponies, but some sixth sense made me turn to find all three mesmerised by what I was doing. Aside from tear-stained cheeks and the occasional sniffle, their recent debasement seemed forgotten as three pairs of eyes followed each slice from the apple to my mouth. I could almost hear them drooling.

It was so comical I laughed as I walked over to Jezebel who suddenly realised what she'd been doing and flinched as I came close, her eyes moving to the floor. Wordlessly, I carved another slice and held it in front of her on the flat of my palm, just below easy reach. I could see the tattered remnants of her pride warring inside her. Here was the man who had, minutes before taken her pussy ruthlessly, whose juices, mingling with her own, were still drying on her thighs and he was offering her a simple slice of apple, expecting her to feed from his hand like an animal! Yet, she'd been a captive pony for a year now and in that time, almost all she'd consumed had been the tasteless, mashed up mess of vegetables, milk and other things Malcolm and Chris fed her. The apple slice was unbelievably enticing, a treat almost beyond imagining. Her hesitation lasted only second, before her head bent forward and she managed to scoop the fruit into her mouth with her lips. Of course, she was unable to chew it due to the restriction of the bit, but I could see she was sucking it as best she could, her eyes closed in near ecstasy as it slowly dissolved. Leaving Jezebel to her treat I moved on to the other two mares, offering each a slice of apple. Neither of them hesitated much, but snaffled the apple as quickly as they could.

By this time Chris was leading Trooper through the gate and across the field and shortly we had the ponies back in harness and pulling away. After their lessons, they were quiet, heads hanging, but as long as they behaved and did as the occasional flick of the whip instructed, then Chris and I were satisfied. By mid-afternoon, we had managed to plough a little more than half the field, but the ponies were finished. They were caked in mud, their manes bedraggled and soaked in sweat and the fillies were staggering with fatigue. Even Trooper's shoulders were sagging. We called a halt at that point, hobbled the beasts and released them from the harness before leading them, un-protesting, back into the farmyard where we watered and fed them, hosed them down and secured them in the horsebox Chris had driven them over in. Over the next week or two we completed ploughing the area. I was pleased with the results of our experiment, but I still had plenty to do and moved on to other aspects of my preparations and research.



Malcolm and Chris continued to be an immense help to me. Malcolm in particular seemed to have a huge range of contacts within the Group as they called it. He had advertised my induction into its membership widely and quite a few wished to make use of my skills. Over the months I undertook various forms of work from developing security software to acquiring hacked information and in return saved up future favours. It constituted an initial stake in their dark and secretive society. Some of these people I met face to face, but others were more secretive and communicated only by encrypted email.

One of the most useful proved to be Ken, who I met only a few months after that fateful afternoon at Malcolm and Chris' farm. He had specifically asked to meet me and Malcolm had invited him to stay for the weekend for that purpose, much to the annoyance of Chris who made a range of faces and complaints about "the dullest yet most annoying man on the planet" as he called him.

Malcolm, Chris and I were sitting in their lounge one sunny autumn evening, sipping wine and looking out over the darkening landscape when the buzzer of the intercom rang; Ken had just arrived at their gate a mile or so down the lane. A few minutes later, we were standing in the yard when a large people-carrier drew up, the door opened and Ken got out and stretched his arms extravagantly.

He wasn't a large man; a good few inches shorter than me and skinny to boot with a thin neck and hollow chest. 'Scrawny' was the first word which sprang into my head when he stepped out of his car. He wore tan chinos and a short sleeved white shirt seemed which to hang from his frame. His hair was receding, thin and greasy and his skin was sallow and unhealthy looking as if he'd just been released from a long stint in prison. He was probably about the same age as me, but could have been anything up to twenty years older. All in all he was not an impressive physical specimen.

"Hello again, Malcolm, Chris," he said in a nasal voice as he crossed the yard, his hand outstretched to shake their hands. "Long time, no see."

He turned to me and grinned, his teeth crooked and stained. "And you must be Jake; the new recruit."

"That's me," I smiled back shaking his hand. Almost predictably, his grip was limp and clammy.

"Welcome to our merry band!" he said, "I'm sure I can help you out a lot, getting you on your feet in this business and so forth. I expect you've got a few useful skills yourself, I might be able to use."

Over Ken's shoulder Chris was grimacing and rolling his eyes. I could see what he meant; there was a false bonhommie and more than a dash of ego about the man. But I put on my best smile, shook his hand warmly and told him I thought he was probably right.

"Shall we go inside?" asked Malcolm,"dinner's on the stove."

"Great!" said Ken, rubbing his hands together enthusiastically in a way that almost seemed sarcastic, "I'm starving, but first I've brought a couple of home comforts with me for my visit to the sticks. I hope you don't mind."

"Not a problem," do you need a hand?" asked Malcolm.

"I'll help," I volunteered. Why not I thought? It seemed best to get off to a good start with the man. Irritating he might be, but from what I'd learned and seen of the Group so far, it was best to have as many people who owed you favours, no matter how small, as possible.

Ken led the way to the back of the car and opened the door to reveal what appeared from its shape to be a large box covered in a tarpaulin. This he flicked up with a flourish to reveal two large wire mesh cages, each containing the form of a tightly bound woman. I couldn't see much in the yellow interior light of the car, but both were lying on their fronts, their nylon-clad legs raised and secured to their wrists which were held tightly behind their backs by steel cuffs linked with chains.

"My latest acquisitions!" said Ken, "still learning how I like things, but they'll do."

He bent down and flicked the catch on the first cage. "No need for a padlock; I don't think they're going anywhere", he chuckled, indicating the tightly trussed form inside. He was right, of course; the woman was locked in steel cuffs and, I could now see, hooded; a tight leather hood attached to a collar which hugged her neck. However, I would still have used a padlock I thought. Never assume with security; they were Malcolm's words and they echoed around my head now. Ken's comment suggested a potentially dangerous arrogance and underestimation of his stock.

But at the moment they were well controlled. Ken, had undone the first woman's cuffs and attached a leash to the collar and was pulling her from the cage. She faltered slightly clambering between the rear of the car and the ground; a combination probably of stiff limbs after long restraint and her lack of vision and Ken, jerked the leash hard in response, holding her head up at an awkward angle. I could see now that she was dressed only in lingerie: a lacey mix of white panties, bra and and suspender belt holding matching stockings, while she balanced on a pair of strappy sandals with heels that must have been 4 inches high. Ken grabbed a handful of one ample breast and using it, and the leash pulled her roughly from the car, eliciting a muffled squeal from behind the swinging, scrotum-shaped end of what was presumably a large penis gag protruding from the hood.

"Here, have a look at her, if you like," said Ken, handing me the leash, "take of her hood. It just unclips from the collar and lifts past the gag."

"Thanks very much," I said. The woman was obviously nervous, her head turning from side to side trying to use her hearing to gather what information she could about her surroundings. I put a stop to that when I took the leash, holding it firmly close to her collar, preventing the movement and leaving her in no doubt that she was fully controlled. She was a little shorter than me with her heels on, but still quite tall for a woman with full, doughy breasts overflowing the tight lace cups of her bra and wide curving hips. Taking my time, I ran my hand down her flank, and over her buttocks, enjoying her softness and the contrast with the rougher lace of her panties and suspender belt. Although her firm-yet-soft muscle tone suggested a good diet and strict exercise regime, there was a slight coarseness and sag to her skin and a fullness to her hips that suggested maturity. I suspected this one was older than she appeared with the hood on. I felt her shudder and shift slightly, obviously not enjoying my attentions.

I glanced at Ken. He had his back to me and was busy pulling his other slave from the cage in the back of his car. I hesitated slightly. I didn't know the etiquette in these situations. In the end I decided I found Ken's over-familiar, slightly superior manner annoying and I wanted to send him a message. Call it male bravado, but there was no way I was letting this pencil neck was treat me like some ignorant newbie. I wanted to be seen more as an equal in this particular pecking order. Accordingly, I tightened my grip on the fidgeting slave's collar and yanked downwards, pulling her head down until it was just below the level of my waist. She squawked in alarm behind her gag and teetered on her heels, caught off-balance. I grabbed a handful of her fleshy buttock to steady her and then brought my hand back and down with some force.

SLAP!

SLAP!

"Stand still, right now, slave!" I barked. "If I'm feeling your assets, you....Do....Not....Move" I continued, punctuating each word with another sting slap to her rear. "Now, let's get this off and have a look at you." I began unclipping the bottom of the leather hood from her collar until it was free and I could lift it off. I pulled her upright pulling the leash upward until she was standing on tiptoe and I was looking into her eyes. She had a rounded, homely face which, even in the low light put her somewhere in her mid forties. It was the sort of face one might see hundreds of on any high street in the country, the sort that, with a little makeup, might even be attractive. Right now it was gasping with the shock of my treatment, strands of blonde hair plastered with the sweat of the hood across its cheeks and forehead with terrified eyes meeting mine.

"Now", I said, holding her gaze, "where was I before I was so rudely interrupted?"

Dropping the leash, I put both arms around her, seized handfuls of her soft buttocks and pulled her tightly against me, holding her widened eyes with my own. My hands, kneaded away, separating her cheeks, my fingers probing her ring through the lace of her panties, making her squeak in protest and attempt to push away, but managing only to press her fleshy mound against my growing erection. I continued for a few seconds, one hand moving to cup and rub her sex while a finger of the other pushed insistently just inside her rosebud turning her squeaks to a continuous protesting whine. Her eyes were now screwed shut and tears of humiliation were squeezing between them and trickling own her cheek.

"That's better," I chuckled, releasing my grip and taking hold of her leash again, " now stand still and quiet while we wait for your master." She stumbled slightly as I let her go, but recovered her balance despite the heels and her cuffed hands and stood, head down looking at the ground, still save for her trembling.

Satisfied, I turned and met Ken's gaze. As I'd hoped, he didn't look quite so confident now, his eyes showing uncertainty at my brazen handling of his property.

"This one needs to learn a few lessons; is she new?", I asked.

"Uh...yes. Yes she is," Ken replied. "I bought the bitch a month or so ago from her former husband, who wanted a younger model." Ken laughed,"he's a retired policeman of all things and just got bored after twenty years of marriage. In all that time, so he said, she never gave him a blow job, never let him do it in anything but the missionary position!" He gave a nasal snort that passed for a chuckle. "She never bargained on his contacts with the Group though. She's actually dead, officially, you know. She disappeared on holiday in Thailand and he had her delivered to his place in the country where he kept her nicely caged and put her through her paces properly." he smirked,"I don't think there were many hours in that time when one or more holes weren't filled with something. Then I came along, put him touch with someone who had much younger meat for sale and took the bitch off his hands, pretty much on a whim."

"Why'd you do that?" I asked. "She's got a few miles on the clock hasn't she?"

Ken snorted again and looked a little embarrassed. "I know, but I liked the idea of owning a senior policeman's wife, you know? Plus she was cheap too and useful for testing things I come up with on"

It was my turn to laugh. "I know exactly what you mean, mate! Have you seen Malcolm and Chris's pony, Butterscotch?"

"Absolutely! She's not a bad filly either. Wasted on Malcolm and Chris though!"

I chuckled, "indeed she is!"

By now, Ken had the other woman out of the car and was unbuckling her hood. She was obviously younger than the slave I held, with a petite, slim body, a narrow waist and smaller, perky breasts. The details were obscured slightly as she was wearing a fetching pink babydoll in a gauzy, semi-sheer fabric with matching lacey panties, and hold-up stockings, again on heels similar to those worn by my slave. As the hood came off, it revealed a fragile-looking, delicate face dominated by large dark eyes and a mass of curly dark hair. Her mouth was also stretched widely around a large penis gag, the faux testicles of which, swung against and hid her chin. She was no older than 18 or 19 was blinking and looking around wildly, trying to assess her situation.

"Very nice," I said appreciatively, nodding towards her. "She looks like fresh meat, not someone's old worn out cast off!"

Ken grinned lasciviously, managing to look alarmingly like a caricature of some dirty old man. "That's exactly what she was!" he said. "I got her cheap off someone I know. He's a clever bloke really. Modified his lorry to make it into a massive trap. He leaves it unsecured in likely places in France; illegal immigrants sneak in thinking they're pretty clever and really lucky. Before they know it he's locked the doors and flooded the back with anaesthetic gas." Ken laughed, "He has contacts with the customs people he keeps very well paid to look the other way and nets tens of new slaves at a time sometimes. They come in all shapes, sizes and colours but nearly all of them are young and its not hard to find a buyer for almost all his stock for some use or another. Best of all, no one looks very hard for them when they disappear and no-one would really know where to start looking if they wanted to. I just got lucky with this bitch," he gestured at the dark-haired girl, "She was trying to get here from the Ukraine or somewhere with her boyfriend. I'd made a few specialist devices for my friend and he gave her to me as a partial settlement of the debt."

Ken was sounding pretty self-satisfied, but what he'd said was fascinating. I had no idea that slavery went on on that sort of scale and with that much sophistication. The coming months would reveal even more to me.

"What happened to the boyfriend? I asked?"

Ken chuckled "Poor bastard was sold at the auction where I met my friend to pick his girlfriend up. Some clients of mine bought him. Two old sisters who were into age regression. Said they needed a cute little baby boy and he was just the ticket. I was at their place a couple of weeks ago making a delivery. It's just them in a big old house with about ten slaves all regressed to toddlers or babies. They've got a freakish nursery in the roof of the house with rows of cots, each one containing a slave chained up and babified." Ken shuddered; "freaky really, but it takes all sorts. Shall we go in?" he asked, picking a hold-all up from the boot of the car.

"Why not?", I replied, stepping aside for him to pass. I gave the leash I held a tug and walked after him, my slave following, tits swaying and barely restrained by their lacey prison. Ken's slave walked behind him at the end of her leash giving me a great view of her peach-like rear which was nicely on show below the hem of her babydoll, her buttocks deliciously emphasised by the back of her thong disappearing between them at the top.

"What kept you two?" asked Chris loudly handing us each a beer as we entered the living room.

"Just having a chat," I smiled.

"Fair enough. Malcolm's in the kitchen as usual, cooking up a storm, I've got the beers in; is there anything else you need" he asked looking at Ken. "How about for these two?" he gestured at the two gagged and cuffed women.

"A bowl of water and have you got any leftovers or scraps they could have?"

Chris considered. "How about some pony food?"

"Perfect," said Ken.

"Kneel, cunts," said Ken casually, apparently to no-one in particular, but both women immediately struggled down onto their stockinged knees, keeping their eyes fixed on the floor and their knees spread wide to expose the pleasing site of their lace-covered mounds. I found Ken's verbally abusive style with his two slaves to be yet another of his many annoying traits. Not because I felt they deserved respect; they were mere property and that would be ridiculous. It was more because I felt it unnecessary and excessive given their degraded circumstances. Here, was a formerly well-off wife of a respected pillar of the community and a girl, who had been heading for Britain to find a new life, who found themselves suddenly reduced to the status of livestock, being helplessly bought, sold and abused by their new owners. Simple name-calling seemed crass, and lacking in a certain style and panache to me in the circumstances. Ken's use of it suggested he needed to keep reassuring himself of his own superiority or that he lacked imagination. Perhaps both.

At the point Chris reappeared carrying two bowls, one of water and the other a brownish mush containing fragments and streaks of green and orange which were presumably vegetables and other ingredients that had survived the blender.

"Thanks, Chris," said Ken and took the bowls, setting them down in front of the young, dark haired girl.

"Now lets keep these two occupied. We have a fair bit to chat about. Could you take her gag out for me?" he said gesturing to the older woman.

"Sure," I said and walked behind the kneeling slave to unbuckle it straps. The penis gag was quite an impressive length for an oral device and must have been sitting in the woman's throat suggesting well-trained reflexes. I suspected she'd had a lot of practice recently. I like the realism of the mock scrotum which seemed to made of very thin flexible leather, or perhaps fabric of some kind and contained two heavy rounded weights, simulating two balls nicely. It was even hairy, as if the indignity of having the penis shoved down the wearer's throat was not enough, she also had two mock testicles knocking against her chin. Obviously it was uncomfortable to wear as the slave was working her jaw probably relieving hours worth of aching muscles.

By now Ken had forced the dark-haired girl's head down into the bowls giving me a nice view of the oval purse between her spread legs, not quite covered by the thin strip of her pink thong.

"Slut!" Ken barked, looking at the slave at my feet,"before your main course, you're going to have a pussy starter. Get, down there and get your tongue in her holes. If she doesn't come before that food is finished, you'll get nothing. Understand?"

Whether this was some new degradation her master was heaping on her, or whether it was because she was being ordered to do it in front of me I didn't know, but the blonde-hared slave hesitated and I heard a stifled sob as her head shook slightly her eyes pleading. Ken reached into his pocket and brought something out which, when she saw it, made her widen her eyes and start moving to carry out his command as soon as she saw, but it was too late. He held some sort of device in his hand and pushed a button which draw a short scream from the slave who fell onto her side and twisted her body in apparent agony as she gasped for breathe. It lasted no more than a couple of seconds before Ken relented, leaving the slave lying on her side, her chest heaving, one breast having slipped from her bra cup in her struggles.

"Now do, it, cunt!" Ken ordered. Desperately, the slave struggled to her knees and pulled herself over to the rear of her fellow chattel, who seemed to be lapping up the pony food with gusto. I assumed Ken kept them hungry. Her head jerked up slightly and she squeaked as the older woman pressed her face between her legs from behind, using her nose to hook the thong out of the way. I watched with interest, my cock stiffening as the desperate woman's pink tongue pushed between the lips of the kneeling girl and began to work, eliciting a low moan and and shudder.

"Impressive," I said and I was lying. "How did you do that?"

Ken looked smug. "Simple really. A device of my own invention. It's just a remote control, linked a shocking device built into their collars." He held out a small, black plastic box, looking for all the world like a miniature TV remote, which had a series of buttons on its front. "I can vary the intensity of the shock. The one I gave her was a moderate one, but it worked well enough."

"Damn right", I exclaimed, "it certainly changed her mind about refusing." I glanced over to the two slaves. The older woman, was pursuing her task with gusto, driven by fear of the shocker in her collar, her face buried between the younger girl's legs while her one free breast dangled, swung and jiggled in time with her exertions. The recipient of her attentions was having trouble focussing on eating; her body shuddering, or her back arching involuntarily with the sensations she had no choice but to endure. She was moaning and squeaking almost continuously now building towards her unwanted climax.

The collar didn't look like much. Just a plastic and leather ring secured snugly around the slaves' throats, presumable with metal contacts against their skin. Personally, I preferred administering discipline directly; I liked the personal touch. Using a device like the collar was simply conditioning a response, nowhere near as enjoyable. Unless of course one enjoyed the simply infliction of pain with minimum effort. Yet, I could see possibilities for the device, a place for it, or something like it in my plans.

Ken was still talking about his invention. "It's been very popular you know; the best thing of it's kind I'm told. I've made all sorts of variants for people, dildos, butt plugs, cock rings, all sorts. It gets me all sorts of favours. That's how I got that one cheap." He nodded towards the dark haired girl who was now bucking and writhing on her knees, her remaining food forgotten in the the throes of orgasm.

"One sec," said Ken, " and moved over to the two women.

"Stop, slut" he commanded the older woman, who ceased her ministrations and struggled upright, her eyes fixed to the floor and her face glistening with the other girl's juices. Ken seized a handful of the other's dark, curly hair and pulled her upright even as she shuddered through the subsiding spasms of her orgasm. She looked a state, her eyes wide with a combination of waning lust and apprehension and her lower face was streaked in the mush she had been eating. Keeping a firm grip, Ken manoeuvred the girl around to face the other as she shuffled to keep up on her stockinged knees.

"Now lick her face clean, slut," he ordered. Without hesitation the blond woman, bent forward and began to lick the others cheek. I sipped my beer as Ken watched her progress. There was something intensely erotic in watching the pink tongue lick it's way around the dark-haired girl's mouth, cleaning as it went and I could feel my erection pushing hard against my jeans. When she had almost finished, Ken grabbed a handful of of blonde hair, provoking a yelp of pain and pushed the faces together.

"Now get your tongue in her mouth," he snarled. She complied immediately, pressing her mouth against the lips of the other girl, her tongue momentarily visible as it plunged between them. I guessed this was something she was more familiar with and surmised that it was perhaps one of Ken's favourites. After a while Ken evidently was satisfied as, releasing the dark haired girl he pushed the blonde's head down into the bowl and she began to eat ravenously, wolfing down the mush despite its appearance. I wondered when Ken had last fed them. Before long she too was twitching and squeaking as Ken pushed the delicate features of her companion into her exposed pussy. He then bent and released the woman's other breast from the lacey white bra, allowing it to swing pendulously beneath her, the large brown nipples almost brushing the floor. Ken returned to the armchair he had occupied and took a long pull from his beer.

"You and I have some things to talk about, I think, Ken," I said. "I can see some real applications for your collars, or something like them, in what I'm planning. I don't know if what I want is even possible, but you seem to be the man I need to talk to. Malcolm and Chris were right and I need to know if there's anything I can do for you in return."

Ken looked at me. I could see he was pleased, his ego boosted by my remarks. "I'm sure I can figure something out; these things are never too difficult if you put your mind to it. What is it you need exactly?"

I spent a few minutes describing my requirements and what I was trying to achieve to Ken and we began to talk around the possibilities. Annoying though he was, I had to say that Ken knew his stuff and was passionate about it. He came alive as we discussed microphones, sound frequencies, timers, sensors, electrodes, controls, batteries and software and, by the time Malcolm and Chris announced that dinner was ready, Ken was enthused at the new project I'd handed him.

Ken, secured the slaves before we left the room. We'd been talking for a good twenty minutes, mostly oblivious to them, although Ken had re-inserted the blonde woman's gags when her involuntary orgasmic cries had disturbed us too much. She had long finished the pony food in the bowl but, as she had not been told to move and the dark-haired girl had not been told to stop her attentions, they had stayed in position, the older woman coming over and over again. She was in quite a state when Ken returned to them, but he ignored it, re-gagged the younger girl and reached into is bag for two dildos which must have been 10 inches long at least and were studded and ribbed like medieval war maces. Ken attached them to the floor by means of suckers on their bases and then snapped his fingers and pointed, looking at the two girls expectantly. Both shuffled on heir knees towards the two monstrous protrusions and raised themselves up on their knees. Ken squatted by the dark-haired girl and pulled her thong to one side, positioning the head of dildo at the entrance to her shaved pussy.

"Down!" he commanded and, with a sob she began to lower herself. It was obviously a struggle to accommodate the monster but gradually she did so, her pussy lips stretching as each knob and rib disappeared inside her as she gasped and grunted, encouraged by the occasional slap on her rump from Ken. Finally, most of the dildo had disappeared and Ken was satisfied as she knelt, her legs now splayed widely impaled on it, her face screwed up with discomfort and her breath panting.

"Good girl," he said, "now stay there." and cuffed her ankles to each other and to her collar. Then he turned to the blonde woman her face and breasts now streaked with pony food.

"This shouldn't be too hard for this one; her husband stretched her nicely." She coloured at his words, obviously still capable of embarrassment despite her degradation. True to Ken's words, she had much less trouble with her intruder, though it was obviously far from comfortable.

As a final touch, Ken bent and touched something at the base of both devices and a low mechanical hum became audible. Both slaves stiffened, their eyes widening and squeaks and squeals issuing from behind their gags as the dildos came to life inside them.

"That should juice them up nicely for me for later!" said Ken. "Shall we go eat."

"Definitely," I said, "I'm starving," and we left the room, a final glance showing the blonde slave already bent over, convulsed in an orgasm, her haunches working involuntarily, sliding up and down the shaft of the dildo.


Part 3 (added: 2015/12/19)

Ken had not been the first member of the Group I had met, nor was he the last, although he may have been the most annoying and the most dull. He was, however, a clever man, and that made him useful and worth cultivating. I met a number of others too, all with their own skill sets and still others who simply wanted to pay me to undertake some task for them. One of the first was Malcolm and Chris' 'vet', a stocky man in his thirties called Ed. He had buck teeth and permanent stubble and seemed to be peripatetic, owning no slaves himself, but travelling around visiting and caring for human livestock belonging to the Group all over the country and on the Continent. He told me it was pretty lucrative and that he earned good money as a courier carrying items for members which couldn't be trusted to the post.

Another was Nigel, a well-spoken, but bland and instantly forgettable man around sixty who was a senior judge no less. I was quietly shocked at how thoroughly the establishment was infiltrated by the Group. As a result, it seemed it could get away with pretty much anything, up to and including murder, as long as it was careful. Nigel was part of that, influencing decisions in the Group's favour in return for membership and all its perks. In his case that was three teenaged boys he kept caged, encased in rubber and thoroughly plugged in his cellar 'playroom.'

I also met Felix the slaver, a man who, with a small group of associates, made a lucrative and, according to him, very enjoyable, living from kidnap, enslavement and generally supplying Group members with what they wanted. I went to see him with Malcolm as he was interested in employing my skills to acquire personal details of potential targets to make surveillance and snatching easier. We were taken blindfolded to his facility somewhere in the English countryside, though where I couldn't possibly have said as we didn't see the outside of the building and all we could see through the windows were trees. Once we arrived however, we found him to be taciturn, hospitable and accommodating and Malcolm and I spent a pleasant few days there as I undertook my work for him.

It was while we at Felix's facility that I met Elise; probably my favourite of all the Group members Malcolm introduced me to. She was a forty-something lawyer; tall, elegant and blonde, all sharp suits and nyloned legs, the very image of the dominatrix about town. But beyond her icy stare was an irreverent sense of humour and a gregarious manner, at least with her equals. To her slaves she was a terror. She was visiting Felix to pick up a new slave, a young man in his twenties she had taken a fancy to. She had contacted Felix and he'd undertaken the necessary research and snatch and contacted her as soon as it was done. I first met her when Malcolm had taken me to the guest suite she was staying in to introduce me. We'd knocked, entered at her call to find her seated with her new acquisition naked at her feet.

"Hi boys," she'd said breezily, as if she'd known me for years, "come in and sit down. Help yourself to a drink," she'd gestured to a side table. Then, quite deliberately, she ran her eyes up and down me and lasciviously licked her lips and winked.

"Well, well, quite a catch aren't you?" she said. "I bet you'd look good in naked and caged!" Her blue eyes sparkled with laughter as she said it, removing any hint of a threat.

"Oh stop it, Elise!" chuckled Malcolm, "Jake's far too useful to let you get your clutches on him."

Elise, sniffed and turned her nose up, her well-manicured hand moving to push an imaginary stray lock of her perfectly coifed hair behind an ear.

"Can't blame a girl for trying," she said. "It's just nice to see someone in this group that isn't a dirty old man or a lezzer. At least I'm not a perv, like most of you lot."

Malcolm merely, raised his eyebrows and looked pointedly at the slave on the floor. He was lying on his side his forearms tightly cuffed to his ankles bending his body backwards like a bow about to release an arrow. This had the effect of thrusting his groin forwards, emphasising a substantial erection the base of which was encircled by a metallic cock ring which emitted a faint buzzing noise. His neck was encircled by a wide leather collar which effectively immobilised his head, while a blindfold removed his sight. He was making grunting noises, perhaps partially due to the action of the cock ring, but largely because Elise had her nyloned foot thrust into is mouth stretching the lower part of his face grotesquely.

"Oh, I might not be a lezzer," I grinned," but I think my credentials as a perv are pretty secure."

Elise threw back her head and laughed; an earthy cackle completely at odds with her appearance of elegant poise.

"I'm glad to here it! You'd be a bit out of place otherwise. Come in, pour me a drink while you're up and sit down and tell me about you" she replied.

My recollections of the rest of the evening are a little hazy as I woke the following morning with one of the worst hangovers it has ever been my misfortune to suffer. Elise was friendly, hospitable and we had got along like a house on fire. The evening had had a slightly surreal element to it as Elise had continued to toy with her new slave throughout the course of the evening as we'd drunk, exchanged stories and generally got to know each other as he lay bound and naked on the floor between us. Elise had explained that his ears were thoroughly plugged and, although he may have been aware that there were other people in the room, he probably had no idea how many and certainly not what was being said. He was an object and treated as such. Apparently, everything he had consumed since his capture had been laced, at his new mistress' request, with viagra so the vibrations of the cock ring had a rapid effect. However, every time Elise judged he was getting too close to the edge, her crop would descend sharply onto his appendage and he would groan and thrash in his bonds with the pain of it, his erection disappearing only to rise again, starting the cycle anew. Until barely 24 hours previously the slave had, Elise told us, been a young lawyer. She had encountered him some months previously when she had lost a case to a team of which he had been part. He had made the mistake of gloating over it to Elise and sealed his fate. Revenge, as she had told us, is a dish most definitely best served cold.

Elise and I had a great deal in common in our attitudes to the world and, in another life we may even have become romantically involved, but I think we both knew instinctively that each liked their own way too much for that to work in this one. Consequently we have become great friends, with a deep mutual respect and exchanging visits and communicating regularly.

Not all my meetings with Group members were so positive or warm. Perhaps the most chilling came shortly after Chris and I had attempted our ploughing experiment and began when Malcolm turned up at my door one evening wearing a worried frown.

"Anything wrong, Malcolm?" I asked him as I poured him a glass of wine.

"Oh nothing too major," he said, "just something I need to ask you about."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Another Group member wants to meet you." said Malcolm. "She wants you to do some IT work for her. Security she said, but I don't know what exactly."

"What's wrong with that? I've helped several others out so far with that sort of thing," I said.

Malcolm nodded, "I know, but this is a bit different and more complicated. Her name is Margaret Fanshawe. She's a wealthy businesswoman. Owns a shipping company she took over when her husband died. She's a Group member, but also part of something called the Blake Sorority. Ever heard of it?"

I shook my head. I had no idea what he was talking about.

"Well, I've introduced you to quite a few members of the Group so far and we're a pretty disparate, individualistic bunch wouldn't you agree? I mean, you'd be hard-put to describe us an 'organisation' because we don't really have one. We just get things done in small groups based on individual initiative, co-operation and a few ground rules, but despite that we have a worldwide distribution. We're successful"

"Definitely," I nodded, sipping my wine and lowering myself into an armchair.

Malcolm continued; "but within our umbrella, there are specific sub-groups who are more or less coherent and linked to the overall 'Group' to various degrees. The Blake Sorority is different, it is a very separate entity, separate even from wider society to a degree; it even has its own schools where it educates and trains the daughters of its members for roles within its organisation for example. It's like a different country, but operating within and parallel to the rest of society, insinuating its members into positions of power and influencing others one way or another. It is probably smaller in terms of the numbers of its members, but not by much. It is successful, but unlike us is hierarchical, quite well organised and highly ideological. As the name suggests its members are all female and they believe to varying degrees in female supremacy over the male of the species."

"Wow!" I said. I wasn't quite sure I believed him, but given what I'd witnessed in the past year, I was prepared to listen. "How long have they been around?"

"About 250 years as far as we know; longer than we have by at least a century. As far as we outsiders know, they originated as a small group of the wives of influential or wealthy men who managed to manipulate their spouses and those around them and grow more and more powerful as the decades passed, evolving their ideology as they did so. Today they are, like, us worldwide in their scope and able to influence governments, corporation and individuals, using blackmail, bribery and threats which they are more than willing to carry out."

"Are they dangerous?" I asked.

"If you cross them, yes," said Malcolm. "We exist in a sort of Mexican stand-off. Both the Sorority and our Group fear exposure more than anything. An outright war between us would be too uncontrollable and probably result in mutual destruction and both sides know it. They can't do anything to take us out because we're too numerous and no-one's in overall charge and we can't remove them as we're not organised enough. That's not to say of course that individuals don't disappear on both sides - it's a bit of a cold war really."

"So why is this Margaret woman contacting you then?" I wondered.

Malcolm looked thoughtful and grimaced, "I'm not really sure and that bothers me, though I have a theory."

"Which is?" I asked.

"The Sorority is like any other hierarchy; many of those in it want to be at the top, there are different opinions and so factions develop and politics becomes fierce. Some of their members are zealots and extremists and have nothing to do with males, except as slaves and preach for more aggressive policies of domination and expansion, others are more moderate, wanting to maintain the status quo and maintain a dialogue, growing steadily in the shadows. Margaret is one of the latter. She talks to us and keeps communications open; I've visited her several times as we have mutual interests. I suspect being gay helps with that. Now, they have their own IT specialists so I think she may want to talk to you because she wants something done and doesn't trust anyone who's part of the Sorority. I think she sees you as a necessary, but hopefully neutral evil."

"Having said that, do not think she's one of us, or not a wholehearted believer in the Sorority's ideology. She appeared quite suddenly about four years ago, after being introduced by another woman who appears to be an ally of hers. It's a fairly open secret that she killed her husband in order to inherit his company, but no-one can prove it."

"Wow, quite a piece of work then! How do you know?" I asked.

"We don't," said Malcolm. "All we do know is that she married nine years ago, then five years after his yacht sank off the coast of Scotland. Neither his body, or that of his two teenaged sons, her stepsons, were ever recovered. His sons stood to inherit on his death. Convenient don't you think? Then she inherits the company and is revealed, to the Group at least, as one of Blake Sorority. It's all pretty suspicious, but we can't prove anything, though we've looked into it."

I had to say, my curiosity was piqued. An organisation of dominatrices sounded like a fetishist's wet dream, although I suspected that the reality was rather harsher and less pleasant than most such dreams. Part of me wanted to take up the challenge, simply to see what the Sorority, or at least one of its members, might be about. Another part believed in the adage 'know your enemy' and wanted to take the work to acquire some knowledge of a potential threat. But yet another section of my mind could sense Malcolm's seriousness and was screaming caution.

Malcolm, obviously read the conflicting thoughts and said; "I would be coming with you if that's at all reassuring as, whatever else she may be, Margaret is an excellent pony trainer and runs and extensive operation. I want to look to see if she has anything worth buying. Besides that, more than one other member of the Group would know where we are. If we don't keep calling in then word flashes around and people arrive at Margaret's place demanding to know where we are. She knows that. Also, bear in mind, most Group members give the Sorority as wide a berth as possible, but some of us think we need to keep tabs on and contact with them. Your reputation, which isn't bad as it is at the moment, will be boosted quite a bit by doing this, once word gets around."

That made me feel a whole lot better, but paradoxically, also increased my tension as it demonstrated Malcolm was not joking. I considered briefly, staring at my wine and swirling it in the glass. In the end, it didn't take too long to make my decision.

"Okay," I said slowly, "I'll do it," I said.

And so it was that I found myself driving with Malcolm into the heart of the Lake District on an unseasonably grey and drizzly May afternoon. The weather did nothing for my tense and apprehensive mood and I began to wonder why I'd agreed to the meeting. It wasn't as though I needed the money and I cursed my curiosity as we turned onto a road that was little more than a potholed track with grass growing in a strip down its centre.

"Where on Earth does this woman live, Malcolm? We're in the middle of nowhere," I grumbled.

"She likes her privacy, just like you and I, Jake. It's inconvenient, but a sensible precaution."

I knew he was right. Many of the Group's members lived in remote, difficult to reach places. We had the power to divert a certain level of attention, but it still paid to keep a low a profile as possible.

Several more minutes passed as both Malcolm and I peered through the rain-lashed gloom as we bumped slowly along the so-called road and into some trees.

"There it is!" Malcolm exclaimed as we rounded and corner. I followed his pointing finger and there indeed was a wrought iron gateway flanked by two moss-covered stone pillars, each topped with a Greek urn.

Malcolm turned to me as I stopped the car in front of the gates. "Now remember what I've said, tread lightly in here. Consider every action and don't rise to any provocation."

I nodded my acquiescence and he opened his door and stepped out into the rain and pressed the button on an intercom attached to one of the gateposts, leaning close to hear any answer. Fat drops of water smacked onto the windscreen from the wind-tossed trees overhead as the intercom crackled into life. I couldn't quite catch what was said, but the voice was female and the tone cold and clipped.

Malcolm swung himself back into the car as the iron gates started to swing open smoothly, belying their dilapidated appearance.

"She said drive up the track until we reach the parking area, then get out of the car and wait" he said.

We drove on, down a track that felt better maintained than the road we'd just left, through a landscape of open woods that gradually levelled out as we descended the hillside and revealed glimpses of the surrounding Lakeland scenery. After a mile or so the track widened into what was obviously the parking area, so I pulled over to its edge and stopped.

"Margaret herself is coming to collect us," said Malcolm as he opened the car door and climbed out

"Fair enough," I replied following him and shrugging into my waterproof jacket.

It seemed Margaret had no intention of making us wait in the rain for long for, within five minutes we began to hear her approach; a rapid, rhythmic crunching sound as though several people were running in step along the gravelled track. This was underlain by a background rattle and squeak and, intermittently, by a sharper crack accompanied by a high pitched, feminine shout of the sort used to encourage horses.

Since my introduction to the Group, I had seen many impressive, interesting, erotic and thoroughly bizarre sights, but as our hostess appeared on the track as it emerged from the trees my jaw literally dropped in astonishment. From fifty metres or so away Margaret was a diminutive figure dressed in riding boots, jodhpurs and a green waxed jacket with a brightly-coloured head scarf tied tightly around her head. She was wielding a long, single-tailed carriage whip and sitting high in the driving seat of a small, four-wheeled trap drawn by a team of six male, human ponies, harnessed in three pairs, one in front of another. They made an impressive and somewhat alien sight, even after my experience with Malcolm and Chris' ponies. They had the slightly strange, bottom-heavy appearance that I had come to associate with human ponies, especially males, which came from long-term lack of use of their arms. Their chests, though wide due to the prolonged and frequent physical exertion they endured, had the musculature of a 10 year old, while their legs were toned with muscles flexing and bunching like steel cables as they moved at a jogging trot towards me. Then there was their height which, as they came closer became more and more apparent. I put this down to the strange boots they were wearing which were laced half way up their calves and encased their feet in a bulbous, flat-bottomed facsimile of a horse's hoof. I'd heard about such footwear, but never seen it as Malcolm and Chris's ponies always went barefoot. The height of the ponies suggested the boots had built-up soles, but their shape must also have forced their wearers' feet into a near-vertical position, forcing them to run on tip-toe. I could only imagine how uncomfortable they must have been and how much practice was required to enable them just to stand, let alone move at the pace they used now. The overall effect, as no doubt was intended, was to give the ponies an appearance that was no longer human. This was magnified by their colour. All of them were completely naked, apart from their harness and accoutrements, but the colour of their skin was not that of any human I had ever seen. Instead, they were the colour of horses; the leading pair were a black and a light bay, the pair behind were a lighter dun and chestnut, while at the rear were a grey and another chestnut. As they approached I could see that the colour was not totally even, but faded and patchy in places, and was perhaps the result of some form of skin dye. Each pony even had individual markings, with combinations of white blazes on their faces, dappling and white socks below their knees on one or both legs. Whatever these men had been in their previous lives, however they had ended up here, it was difficult to see them as human, as anything other than beasts whose proper place was in harness pulling the trap our host rode in. I doubted that was how they saw themselves though.

Margaret slowed the trap, pulling back on the reins she held, which in turn stretched the corners of the ponies' mouths, causing them to lean back, digging their feet into the gravel, trying to slow and relieve the painful pressure on their mouths.

Up close, they had an imposing physical presence, their height enhanced still further by their hair which was shaved into a mane-like mohican and decorated in a variety of styles with complicated plaits interwoven with ribbons which hung limply, dripping in the rain. Now they stood at a rest, breathing deeply, their mouths open against their bits, maximising the amount of air they drew in. Their, dyed skins glistened wetly.

For all their apparent power all six were tightly controlled and restrained, helpless to do anything but what their driver wished. Their arms of all were pulled firmly behind their backs encased in a tight leather glove that reached their shoulders and was secured across their chests with buckled leather straps. The reins which Margaret held were attached to large silver rings at each end of the ponies' bits, while a subsidiary rein led to the back of a tall leather collar which held their heads up and appeared to minimise side-to-side movement. Large blinkers attached to a web of straps across the upper part of the head further limited the animals' field of view to straight ahead, while a thick brass ring hung from the nose of each onto their upper lips.

I could see several of the ponies trying to twist their upper bodies to see us. As my gaze moved lower I could see that each ponies' penis was also heavily restrained, fitted inside what seemed to be a hard plastic sheath of the same colour as its skin, which forced the organ back between its legs. Inevitably, a tail also jutted from the rear of each beast although, unlike Malcolm and Chris's ponies, the tails seemed to sit somewhat above the anus, roughly level with the tailbone, while the orifice itself was stretched around some contraption that appeared more complex than a simple plug.

My inspection was interrupted by Margaret who, dropping her whip, handle first, into a holder on the side of the trap, and picking up a shorter leather crop, stepped down and approached a gloved hand extended and smile fixed on her face that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Hello again, Malcolm," she said in a friendly enough tone, "it's good to see you again." Then, turning to me; "and you must be Jake. Your reputation precedes you."

"Thank you, I'm glad to hear it," I replied dry-mouthed and with more confidence than I felt. I was unaccountably nervous; I had immediately sensed something about this woman that was unsettling although I couldn't figure out what. It wasn't as if she looked like an axe murderer, or even the slave-owner that she was. In fact she looked quite scruffy; the waxed coat was discoloured, her head scarf frayed and I could see bits of straw stuck to her sleeve. But what I noticed first was her sheer confidence. There was none of the slight diffidence one often encountered when meeting women for the first time. Instead her manner was distant and more than a little haughty as though she was looking down from a great height on insects that were below her notice and would disgust her if she deigned to pay them any notice. It wasn't an obvious thing, just a sense that I got from the way she held herself and spoke. Otherwise, she appeared as what she was; a short, somewhat dumpy woman of about fifty, with a finely lined face over good bone structure which combined with her almond-shaped coal-black eyes had probably once made her something of a looker.

"I do hope it's deserved," she said matter-of-factly, "I could really make use of talents like yours.

"Magnificent, aren't they?" she said, with a sudden change of tack, nodding towards the team.

"Absolutely," I replied truthfully. I myself had no direct erotic interest in ponyboys, but their situation, the way they had been reduced to the status of livestock and were utterly controlled by this woman held an intense erotic fascination, in the same way as Malcolm and Chris' ponies. Malcolm was probably different; I knew Trooper serviced both him and Chris at home so, while I simply enjoyed the strict, degrading helplessness of the six harnessed ponies and was glad of the length of my waterproof coat concealing the twitch I felt in my groin, I imagined Malcolm was taking in their fine physical form and wondering at the possibilities. I wondered briefly what it was that Margaret enjoyed about her livestock. Possibly, she was strangely similar to myself, enjoying her power and control, but with an added ideologically derived enhancement of proving her own superiority over the male of the species.

"Yes, I must apologise about their disparate appearance," she continued, "these are some of my show ponies and my new grooms have been practicing their mane work this morning."

"I think they look very imposing, I've never seen ponies like them before."

Malcolm made similar noises, but Margaret wasn't listening, for she had turned to look at the pony behind her; the middle chestnut with a white blaze running up the centre of its face and a white sock peeking above its left hoof-boot.

"Oh for heaven's sake, Primrose, stop fidgeting!" she barked. Primrose had been shifting its feet, moving the gravel with a slight crunching sound and whining audibly in his throat forming background of our brief conversation. It had impinged on my subconscious while we'd been talking, but with the noise of the wind in the trees and the creak of leather and sound of breathing from the other ponies, it had not been distracting. Margaret was not so forgiving and she reached up and grabbed the pony's bridle, lashing the crop down onto his thigh as she did so. Primrose, gave a high-pitched yelp from behind his bit and tried to dance sideways, away from the threatening crop, but his mistress held him firm.

"She's so jumpy and ill-disciplined these days. It's becoming an issue I'll have to deal with."

She must have seen my puzzled expression at the use of the feminine pronoun, which changed to astonishment as I began to look at Primrose more closely. Previously the pony had been mostly hidden behind the front pair, but now I could see that, although he was of a similar height to the others, his profile was more rounded his leg muscles less defined, especially his rear, while his chest sported two small breasts with large pink nipples that were tightly bound into fleshy knobs that jiggled as he shifted.

"Primrose is one of my mares," she said by way of explanation her hand pulling down on the pony's bridle making her stoop forwards. "When I first acquired her, she was an almost unmanageable stallion. I think before she had been some sort of corporate executive. We're very familiar with the type here; ruthlessly ambitious, overbearing, manipulative and aggressive," a note of contempt had crept into her voice, "and, in Primrose's case, imbued with a belief that she was in invincible and immune to retribution for her actions. All that made her unmanageable by our normal methods when she arrived here, she tended to kick, butt and bite, or try to. That all changed after I had her gelded and put on some hormone treatment, didn't it Primrose?" She shook the pony's bridle as she said it, but all the hapless beast could do was continue to stare down at the ground, her head almost immobilised by her harness and restraints. Margaret released the bridle and turned back to us.

I wondered what story lay behind Primrose's acquisition and enslavement. Had the young executive fallen foul to a female rival, one of Margaret's fellow Blake Sorority members who had marked him for abduction? I doubted I would ever know.

"She's much more biddable now," Margaret continued, "but very skittish too. So much so that it overcomes her training sometimes. I have her covered regularly by one of the stallions, either two- or four-legged to counter it. Most of the mares need it now and again. It keeps them in line and offers an incentive for the other ponies"

Margaret was looking at us and especially me as she spoke, her eyes appraising, gauging reactions. I realised there were layers of meaning in her words. On the surface she was explaining the poor behaviour of her livestock, covering feigned embarrassment. At another level she was reminding Primrose of her place, debasing her still further, especially in front of two other males. But there was a deeper level to it, a statement and a threat that said; as Primrose is now, so do I want you to be, especially if you cross me.

As she finished speaking, Margaret suddenly made a face; "oh! silly me!" she exclaimed and laughed, a light tinkling sound that seemed incongruous given the implacable discipline and degradation to which she evidently subjected her human ponies.

"I forgot completely! No wonder Primrose was fidgeting!"

She rummaged in her coat pocket and brought out what appeared to be a small, silver remote control. Glancing at it she pressed a button and I heard a series of faint metallic clicks from the direction of the ponies. Almost immediately liquid began splashing and steaming onto the track as Primrose and most of her team mates let lose streams of urine which jetted backwards between their legs and under their tails, directed by the sheaths they wore.

"It's a useful device ones of our techy types cooked up," Margaret said by way of explanation, returning the little control to her pocket. "I don't really want ponies letting lose whenever and wherever they like, the same goes for other waste which is controlled by the gate they all have inserted in their rump."

I was appalled and impressed in equal measure at the level of control this woman exerted over her ponies. There was almost nothing they could do without her tacit permission. Blinking and breathing seemed to be about it. If what Malcolm had said was correct, she was a moderate within the Blake Society. I dreaded to think what its more extreme members were capable of. Despite the chill I felt at that thought, I couldn't deny a certain admiration for my hostess. I found what she had shown me to date intriguing and impressive and decided she could teach me much that would be useful in the future.

"That's really impressive," I enthused, not about to get on her bad side.

She looked at me quickly, seeming to check my sincerity, but seemed satisfied and turned to Malcolm. "I understand you're in the market for some ponies, Malcolm?"

"That's right, Margaret, I'm still interested, if you have any you think are likely prospects."

"Oh yes, I had a few fresh acquisitions in the last week or so. They're all in the paddock at the moment, along with some I've had a little longer. Care to take a look on the way to the house? You don't mind do you Jake."

The last sounded more like a statement or an order than a question, but I smiled and nodded my acquiescence.

Margaret climbed back onto the trap and took up her riding whip in readiness, while Malcolm and I retrieved our things from the car and took up the seats on either side of her.

"Yah!," Margaret barked and cracked the whip above the ponies' heads. Obediently, they leant into the traces; what else could they realistically do, totally restrained and controlled as they were? Our hostess swung the trap in wide circle and quickly the team found it's rhythm, the trap creaking slightly as it assumed a steady swaying motion. We were seated rather higher than on the smaller vehicle Malcolm and Chris used on their farm, which made me feel vulnerable, yet somehow more exhilarated, as the ponies began pounding along the straight track through the trees, urged on by their mistress's whip. From my vantage I had a good view of the team working, their tails swinging from side to side giving glimpses of the metal and plastic contraption which stretched and plugged their anuses as their hooves pounding into the gravel in unison.

The track ran along the edge of a lightly wooded area which gave some shelter from the drizzle, though there were regular large, wet splats of water dripping from the overhanging leaves. To the left was an open parkland with a sparser scatter of trees, while on the right the woods rose onto the lower slopes of one of the high Lakeland fells. As the track rounded a long, shallow bend a large house came into view, all Victorian gothic front in grey stone that made it look like it was hewn living from the forbidding landscape in which it was set. The track we were on eventually swept to the left to end in front of the house in a wide circle with a colourful flowerbed in its centre. But we turned off the main route and went to the right, down a shallow slope and into some denser trees which, after a few moments, opened out to reveal a group of buildings. Those nearest us were, I assumed, the house's original stables. They were built of the same stone and in the same gothic style as the house we'd passed, even down to the gargoyle rainspout at the corners of their eaves. They were arranged around the three sides of a quadrangle, the fourth side of which, I could glimpse over the roofs, opened onto a wide, grassy field dotted with a few trees. Beyond the quadrangle was a cluster of more modern agricultural buildings, their grey, sheet metal roofs shining in the rain.

Margaret, guided the trap expertly through an open gate and into the quadrangle, slowing the team a she did so. The surface changed from gravel to concrete and so did the sound of the ponies' hooves which now rang out with a harsh, clatter which echoed slightly from the surrounding stone walls. I looked closely and the flash of silver on the soles of their boots revealed what the sound suggested; that they were all shod in horseshoes. For a moment, I wondered why on earth Margaret would go to that much trouble, but then it hit me; the sound was every bit a part of their subjugation as the harness, the gags and the absolute control she exerted over every other aspect of their existence. The sound their feet made on the concrete was exactly the same as that which biological horses made; it was psychological reinforcement of their status as animals. I was impressed anew at the attention to detail Margaret showed in her slave-keeping.

As the trap drew to halt in the centre of the concrete quadrangle I could see it was a positive hive of activity after the rainy desertion of the surrounding countryside and the drive from the gate. Off to one side was a young black girl, no more than 17 or 18, very smartly turned out in jodhpurs, with calf-length riding boots, a tweed jacket and a blouse with a high, white stock; the very image of an upper class English horsewoman. The outfit did not particularly flatter her figure which was fairly full, with wide hips and a buxom chest straining against the buttons of her jacket. Her face was round and flat with dark, deeply-set eyes, while her tightly-curled hair was gathered at the back of her head in a net. She wore brown leather riding gloves, gripping a crop in one hand and a taut leash in the other which was connected to the nose ring of a tall male pony. This one looked to be in his late twenties and rather less experienced than those in the team pulling our carriage. For a start his hide hadn't been stained and the mohican haircut looked very new, the short strip of hair flanked by the bright white of the shaved sides. As with the others, his arms were secured behind him in a tight leather glove, a tail protruded from his rear and his genitals were firmly secured pointing backwards between his legs. The girl had evidently been correcting him as his rump and the backs of his thighs were extensively marked with fresh red weals left by crop or whip. He tried to turn his head to look at us as we came to a halt, but was prevented from doing so by a sharp jerk on the taut leash which forced him to bend forwards.

Ignoring Malcolm and myself, she raised her hand to Margaret and greeted her; "hello, Ma'am."

"Hello, Anita," replied Margaret as we alighted from the trap. "How is your project going?" she asked, nodding to the pony.

"Quite well, Ma'am, but slowly. I've just been in the ring training him on the leading rein, but he's a slow learner. He's either stupid or disobedient."

Margaret laughed, "he's clever enough, Anita," he said as she picked up her crop again and beckoned another girl who had just emerged from one of the buildings,"he's just a typical male; lazy and defiant. Remember your lessons from school, these are basic male psychological traits and need to be broken if they manifest."

Anita was nodding and looking chagrined. "Of course!" she exclaimed. "I should know that, I did those courses when I was thirteen!" She sounded embarrassed and apologetic.

"Don't worry," said Margaret, "you'll get the hang of it. Theory and a few classroom demonstrations are all very well, but they're no substitute for real experience and that's why you're here with me. Now, water him and settle him in his stall, but don't feed him. See if that helps his attitude tomorrow morning. If not, then we'll go over some other options."

"Thank you, Ma'am," said Anita before turning and pulling the pony with her by his nose.

By this time Malcolm and I had climbed down from the trap and the girl our hostess had beckoned was standing waiting patiently. She was dressed identically to Anita; I could only assume the girls were the grooms Margaret had referred to and that this was their uniform. It suited this girl more than it had Anita; she was much more slightly built, petite and blonde with a narrow, delicate face, big blue eyes and a blonde braid that was coiled in a net at the nape of her neck. Her eyes flicked across us, registering some degree of curiosity, but also a coldness that was almost glacial. It was evident she considered us beneath her concern.

"Ah, Phillipa," said Margaret, "I need you to do a couple of things for me."

The girl's eyes lingered coldly on us, a slight sneer playing about her lips."

"Phillipa!" Margaret said sharply, "please be more polite; these are my guests. Your full attention, please!"

Phillipa jumped slightly, her eyes snapping to Margaret's face, Malcolm and I momentarily forgetten.

"Now, please unharness the ponies and make sure my guests' things are taken to their rooms."

"Yes, Ma'am,"

"And Phillipa," Margaret continued as the girl turned to leave.

"Yes, Ma'am?"

"I think Primrose needs to be covered again. She has been quite skittish."

"Which stallion shall I use, Ma'am?" asked the girl.

"Well, which one do you think, Phillipa?"

Phillipa, thought for a moment; "I might say Bandit, Ma'am, as he hasn't had any release for over 4 months now. But his attitude to the saddle still leaves a lot to be desired and I don't want to reward that. Instead, I'd like to try Mustard. It will be his first time and he hasn't had relief since he was captured 3 months ago. He's not the obvious choice, but I think he's become quite docile. So much so that I think he might have the makings of a girl's pony."

"Excellent, Phillipa, I like your thinking. You have the makings of a good pony trainer," said Margaret. I could see Phillipa was pleased with the praise. "Now, get it organised, I'll check with you later how it went."

"Very well, Ma'am," nodded Phillipa. She turned on her heel grabbed the reins of the lead pair of the trap team and, snapping her crop against the animal's buttock, she lead them towards the stable on the other side of the yard.

"These girls are my grooms," she said apropos of nothing, watching as Phillipa unhooked Primrose from the traces and led him into the stable. "They are the daughters of fellow Sorority members and as such are born, raised and educated to dominance and control."

"They certainly seem to know what they are doing," I replied, unwilling to allow myself to feel uneasy at her words. More than on any other occasion since my induction into this new world of slaves and their owners, I felt as though I was 'though the looking glass'; in uncharted and threatening territory.

Margaret looked at me;"oh they do," she said. "All are graduates of the Sorority's schools which teach subjects and skills very much absent from most conventional curriculums, but equip them to further our organisation's aims. I simply provide girls with an interest in controlling males in this way," she gestured to the stables around us, "with practical experience."

"Like Anita's project?" asked Malcolm.

"Exactly," Margaret replied, " she has been involved in his control from the very beginning. She identified him from a pool of possible candidates, last year; I think he was a teacher of some kind. Then she planned and took part in his capture before he was brought here for training as she'd chosen."

"What will happen when she's finished?" I enquired

"He's her pony to do with as she will. She'll pay me to keep him here or take him away and house him somewhere else. She might even sell him, it's entirely up to her."

Despite my resolution, I could feel a chill at the base of my spine. In the Group we kept and disposed of slaves in much the same way, but most of us still saw them as people; that was one of the reasons we enjoyed it; power over our fellow human beings. This was different. There was something in these women that suggested the hapless males in their care were nothing more than animals to them. It felt like a paradigm shift and a highly erotic yet dangerous one at that!

"Shall we go down to the paddock?" said Margaret, "there a good selection of stock for you to look at there, Malcolm."

He nodded his acquiescence and turned heading off by Helen's side along a poured concrete path that lead between two of the stable blocks and out of the courtyard. Not without a little trepidation, I followed them.