Eight
All I see at first is a blur of dust being kicked up in the arena, and the vague colors of the people in the stands. My focus is too much turned inward, every one of my senses on high alert, dulling my mind, making sensation blend and muddle together. I swear I can smell the dirt beneath my feet and my own sweat. Even the excitement of the crowd has its own scent—like leather and perfume, fine whiskey and sex.
Then Victor moves in close and I smell his skin, too—he always smells like coffee and sandalwood—and he whispers to me as he reaches between the straps on my head to give my cheek a cruel pinch, “This is it, my bad and beautiful steed. Do your best. Do me proud. You know you want to. You know you have to.”
Ah, he always knows how to get inside my head. But I need it, need him to center me. He hustles me along, moving me in such a precise manner that I know instantly he is harnessing me to a cart of some sort. As soon as he backs me into place I recognize the light weight of a racing buggy. I like to race. I like to win, and I know I can. Performance is, after all, my thing . Nothing feeds my ego like winning in front of a crowd. I stand even straighter. I would fucking preen, if I were able to move enough. But I can prance a bit in place, and I do, my tail waving in the breeze behind me, and it feels like I’m being fucked the tiniest bit by the plug, pleasure a shiver up my spine. Oh, yeah. I do it again, stomping my hooves on the hard ground, sending shockwaves rippling through my body.
When the crowd cheers once more, I know it’s not because of my shenanigans. I hear another pony and buggy lining up beside me. I inhale. Male . And I recognize him, although I can’t turn my head to see him because of the posture collar and the blinders. But I know it’s the gorgeous, hulking ginger from the arena. I would think of it as a sort of divine punishment, except I know there’s nothing “divine” about it. This has to be Master Damon’s idea. His punishment. Bastard. Except when I beat this big slave Boy, I’ll love the Master even more.
I wait to see if I can sense who the other competitors are, but a minute goes by, then another, and it’s still just the two of us, until I hear the light footsteps as two female drivers arrive. Another round of applause, then I hear Dahlia, the evil little handler who announced the Primal Takedowns.
“Sirs and Madams, Masters and Mistresses, we have a special treat for you all today—a race with some of our strongest, most spectacular ponies! Take a look at the muscles on these two, the broad chests, the girth of their biceps and thighs. I can promise you the girth of their fine cocks matches every flexing muscle. A more promising pair you won’t see at any facility on the planet. Today we pit them against each other in a three lap race, and the winner takes the other. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this particular pony race will end up in a takedown for your viewing pleasure.”
What the fuck is this? I don’t know if I’m pissed or excited. Both, probably, since that’s my usual response to almost everything. I paw the ground with my hooved feet, the pony surging through me. The goddamn stallion.
But Dahlia goes on. “Handlers, please prepare our steeds while the drivers mount the buggies.”
Victor is in front of me, and he casts a grin at me before he begins to strike my crotch with his whip. My dick rises, pressing against the latex, nearly screaming to get out, to feel his whip on the swollen, aching head. I would go down on my knees for it about now, if I thought it would actually do any good. But I remind myself that I can have the redhead’s ass if I can hold my shit together.
Victor stops the whipping and reaches down, undoing a zipper and pulling my engorged cock free. A groan escapes from behind my mouth plug as he gives it a hard squeeze.
Fuck.
I am going to die. I am going to come. Then he pinches hard at the underside of the head,
All I see at first is a blur of dust being kicked up in the arena, and the vague colors of the people in the stands. My focus is too much turned inward, every one of my senses on high alert, dulling my mind, making sensation blend and muddle together. I swear I can smell the dirt beneath my feet and my own sweat. Even the excitement of the crowd has its own scent—like leather and perfume, fine whiskey and sex.
Then Victor moves in close and I smell his skin, too—he always smells like coffee and sandalwood—and he whispers to me as he reaches between the straps on my head to give my cheek a cruel pinch, “This is it, my bad and beautiful steed. Do your best. Do me proud. You know you want to. You know you have to.”
Ah, he always knows how to get inside my head. But I need it, need him to center me. He hustles me along, moving me in such a precise manner that I know instantly he is harnessing me to a cart of some sort. As soon as he backs me into place I recognize the light weight of a racing buggy. I like to race. I like to win, and I know I can. Performance is, after all, my thing . Nothing feeds my ego like winning in front of a crowd. I stand even straighter. I would fucking preen, if I were able to move enough. But I can prance a bit in place, and I do, my tail waving in the breeze behind me, and it feels like I’m being fucked the tiniest bit by the plug, pleasure a shiver up my spine. Oh, yeah. I do it again, stomping my hooves on the hard ground, sending shockwaves rippling through my body.
When the crowd cheers once more, I know it’s not because of my shenanigans. I hear another pony and buggy lining up beside me. I inhale. Male . And I recognize him, although I can’t turn my head to see him because of the posture collar and the blinders. But I know it’s the gorgeous, hulking ginger from the arena. I would think of it as a sort of divine punishment, except I know there’s nothing “divine” about it. This has to be Master Damon’s idea. His punishment. Bastard. Except when I beat this big slave Boy, I’ll love the Master even more.
I wait to see if I can sense who the other competitors are, but a minute goes by, then another, and it’s still just the two of us, until I hear the light footsteps as two female drivers arrive. Another round of applause, then I hear Dahlia, the evil little handler who announced the Primal Takedowns.
“Sirs and Madams, Masters and Mistresses, we have a special treat for you all today—a race with some of our strongest, most spectacular ponies! Take a look at the muscles on these two, the broad chests, the girth of their biceps and thighs. I can promise you the girth of their fine cocks matches every flexing muscle. A more promising pair you won’t see at any facility on the planet. Today we pit them against each other in a three lap race, and the winner takes the other. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this particular pony race will end up in a takedown for your viewing pleasure.”
What the fuck is this? I don’t know if I’m pissed or excited. Both, probably, since that’s my usual response to almost everything. I paw the ground with my hooved feet, the pony surging through me. The goddamn stallion.
But Dahlia goes on. “Handlers, please prepare our steeds while the drivers mount the buggies.”
Victor is in front of me, and he casts a grin at me before he begins to strike my crotch with his whip. My dick rises, pressing against the latex, nearly screaming to get out, to feel his whip on the swollen, aching head. I would go down on my knees for it about now, if I thought it would actually do any good. But I remind myself that I can have the redhead’s ass if I can hold my shit together.
Victor stops the whipping and reaches down, undoing a zipper and pulling my engorged cock free. A groan escapes from behind my mouth plug as he gives it a hard squeeze.
Fuck.
I am going to die. I am going to come. Then he pinches hard at the underside of the head,
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