A gay story: Pony Boy Ch. 08 Gosh, has it really been eight months since I last posted. Oops Sorry. I guess you’ll need a catch-up as much as I did. So here’s the story so far.
Ben, when desperate for a little extra cash, discovered that there was good money to be made running in races as a ‘ponyboy’. Despite being assured that the worst he would be subjected to would be a ‘certain amount of groping’ he has found that this led, inexorably, to a life as a prostitute. Moreover, Andy Mason, his pimp, along with Archie, Mr Mason’s enforcer, has made it quite clear that, as long as there is money to be made from renting him out, quitting is not an option.
Among the many indignities Ben has been forced into is performing in a sex show where, cross dressed as naughty schoolgirl “Belinda Bombshell”, he gets caned and sodomised for the entertainment of the punters. The show, and Belinda in particular, is such a hit that Mr Mason has seen yet another money making opportunity and he is keen that Ben should perform as Belinda as much as possible. But, more than just the stage show, he is now looking to make even more money by renting Ben out as a transvestite escort.
But, for all Ben is finding this demeaning and degrading, he is also discovering sides to his sexuality that had previously lain hidden. He may loathe Belinda and all she stands for but that doesn’t stop him getting a certain frisson of pleasure whenever he puts on her panties.
And, all the while, there’s the complicating factor of his growing relationship with taciturn and secretive Jed, at first his arch rival but, latterly, his lover.
At the end of the last chapter we heard Mr Mason tell Ben that he has a double date with Carl on Tuesday, a photo session as Belinda on Wednesday morning, a ponyboy session on Thursday evening and a Belinda stage show on Friday evening. Ben is going to be a busy boy.
Now read on…
*****
Carl was already in the car when it arrived to pick me up on Tuesday evening. We chatted together as it whisked us down into one of the better parts of Knightsbridge, finally coming to rest in some mews behind some very grand buildings. We were led through what was obviously the tradesmen’s entrance to a room where we found several people of around my age waiting. I say people because, unlike all the other places I had worked, here there were as many girls as boys. However, girl or boy, we all had that slightly haunted look that came with the job and it was clear we were all there for the same thing: to entertain the punters.
The second thing I noticed was the range of ethnicity. White, black, African, Asian or European, the punters then they were going to be able to take their pick from both genders and a pretty complete range of skin tones. A veritable smorgasbord of sexual entertainment.
I was still musing on this when, suddenly, I realised that I knew one of the girls. Standing not ten feet away was Jenny from my Social Studies course. It had taken a moment or two to place her; she was so out of context and her clothing was so different from the rather prim and proper outfits she wore to college. I was still staring at her when our eyes met and I saw a flicker of both fear and surprise cross her face. It was probably matched by similar emotions crossing mine. She gave a slight shake of her head and I understood completely. She did not want to be acknowledged and, to be fair, neither did I. I turned back and continued chatting to Carl.
A major-domo arrived, counted heads and ordered us to get changed into the uniforms they were about to provide. I should have guessed what was coming. For the girls this consisted of the pretty standard ‘kinky’ maid’s uniform where the skirt was short enough and flared enough to demonstrate that panties were not involved anywhere combined with a bustier that lifted and offered the breasts rather than covering them. For us boys it was the same sort of split side running shorts that were worn at the after race parties. This was turned into a waiter’s uniform by the simple addition of a cuffs and a collar complete with a fake bow tie, the sort of thing beloved of pub stripper-grams.
Once we were all changed the major-domo lined us up and checked us over, making sure that we met his exacting standards. Then we were trooped through to a kitchen area where there were trays of canapés and drinks waiting. Just as with the after race parties we were each given a tray and then taken through to the main body of the house where a dinner party was just getting under way.
At first there wasn’t much to do. The guests were few and far between and all we had to do was stand around looking decorative and offering drinks or canapés when appropriate. This gave me a chance to observe and try to work out who it was that was hosting the party. As far as I could make out we were at some quasi-official do sponsored by one of the central African states. To be sure the hosts were had the deep black skin tones I associate with central Africa and, while I couldn’t place the accent, it had a definite African lilt. The guests, on the other hand, were a mixture of all sorts and, while my judgement may have been biased by my role there, they all seemed to be just as shady and corrupt as the guests at the post race parties.
As more and more guests arrived the party became more and more animated. However, we waiters and waitresses were still mostly ignored and left alone. At this point the contents of the trays we were carrying were of more interest than we who carried the trays. That didn’t stop my backside from being groped from time to time.
After an hour or so the party goers were all called to the dinner table. It says much about the scale of the house that the dining room could seat them all. We boys were recruited as serving staff while the girls were assigned to pouring the various wines.
During the meal we waiting staff were mere functionaries and not worthy of notice. It didn’t seem to phase anyone that we were all but naked; they were merely interested in having their food and wine served efficiently. One of the girls was nudged by a clumsy guest which, in turn, made her spill the wine she was pouring but this just resulted in nothing more than a sharp rebuke.
The wine had been flowing freely and, after we had cleared away the desert course, the diners were relaxing over brandy and cigars. Many stayed at the table but double doors were opened onto a drawing room with groups of armchairs and about half the guests made their way through. Under orders from the major-domo we serving staff cleared away the rest of the table, taking away the used dishes and, inevitably, replacing them with discreet bowls of condoms. With no more food to be served or dishes to be cleared we were arranged around the edges of the two rooms, quietly waiting.
And we didn’t have long to wait. The principle host, who others had been addressing as ‘ambassador’, got up from the table, and, along with one of the guests, wandered about inspecting the serving staff. Between them they picked out three of the girls who they took back to the table and stripped of their bustiers. As far as I could tell there was some sort of discussion over breast sizes, about how African girls have fuller breasts than their Asian cousins and, after a certain amount of poking and groping, the winner, or should that be loser, was down on her knees, opening the fly of the guest and fishing out his prick. That didn’t mean that the other two were reprieved. One had to service the ambassador, the other the guest sitting on the ambassador’s other side.
And that opened the floodgates. It seemed that a post-dinner blow job was just the thing to go with the brandy and cigars. Admittedly, at first, it was only the girls but soon enough we boys were also called into action. I was brought over to one of the hosts who was busy chatting to a businessman who, by his accent, was American and, probably, Texan. The Texan already had a girl working away between his thighs but that didn’t stop him from talking.
“So, Darweshi, what’s with all these boys?” he asked as I approached. “Look at this one. Even his toenails are painted. What a faggot!”
I blushed. I had forgotten that my toenails were still varnished a bright scarlet.
“Oh, the boys can give just as much pleasure as the girls, sometimes more.” He tugged down my shorts and turned me around, bending me over the table. “Tell me you wouldn’t want to fuck a tight little arse like this one.” He gave my buttocks a hearty slap. “I know I will before the evening is out.”
“I didn’t know you were that sort of guy.”
“I’m not.” Darweshi laughed dismissively. “It’s just that sometimes I like plain cooking and, sometimes, I like things a bit spicier. But don’t take my word for it; push that little tart aside and let him take over. If you really don’t like it we can swap back again but I’m betting that you’ll find that bit of extra spice just the thing to make a change from the normal.”
“Really, He’s that good?”
“That different. Try it and see.”
“OK, just for you, Darweshi.” He pushed the girl between his thighs out of the way and, with my shorts still around my knees, I knelt down and took her place.
I knew what I had to do. It wasn’t just the blow job; that was a given. Darweshi had promised the Texan that I would be better than the girl and that was what I had to try and achieve. If I failed to live up to the mark, it was just the sort of thing that would get back to Mr Mason and the consequences of that didn’t bear thinking about. I set to with an enthusiasm that belied my actual feelings.
“God, look at the little faggot, he’s loving this, isn’t he?”
“Oh, yes. The boys and girls that the agency supplies are very willing. We wouldn’t have it any other way. If you have any… special interests then all you have to do is ask. They’re paid to be versatile and, after your generous offer this afternoon, the very least we can do is make sure you have the best of what’s available. We do, of course have private rooms if you would prefer a little privacy but, as you can see,” he waved his arm indicating the rest of the room, “there’s no need to be shy.”
I glanced sideways and, although my view was restricted, I could see that I was far from the only one of the waiting staff down on their knees. It wasn’t quite a full blown orgy but it was fast heading that way. Darweshi had unzipped his fly and the girl discarded by the Texan was busy fishing out his prick and slipping on a condom.
And all the while the two men chatted away as if this were perfectly normal.
“If you’ll excuse me a moment,” Darweshi said after a while, “I’ll just…”
He grabbed the hair of the girl between his thighs and used it to pull her to her feet. He spun her round and bent her over the table before coming up behind her and plunging into her arse. The Texan followed suit and, moments later, I was bent over next to the girl as the Texan plundered my backside.
My face was pressed to the table and, to prevent my nose from being crushed, I had turned my head sideways. That meant that I was looking straight at the girl and, as our respective clients pounded into us, we shared a smile of recognition. Not so long ago I would have wondered how a nice looking girl like her could have ended up in this position; now I knew. We were birds of a feather.
It didn’t take long before first the Texan and then Darweshi reached their climax and, after a couple of moments to get their breath back, they returned to their seats. The girl and I remained bent over the table until, rather impatiently, we were dismissed by Darweshi.
“Not so fast, fag boy, I haven’t finished with you,” the Texan called after me. “And lose the shorts.”
I turned back and he crooked his finger to indicate that I should stand next to him. I took off my shorts and went to stand beside him. He grabbed me by the shoulder and spun me around, looking at me closely.
“Well, I ain’t no faggot but I will admit this one has got the sweetest little ass. As you say, it’s… different.” He turned me back to face him. And look at his dinkie little wiener. I do believe he’s got a boner. I guess his sort really do liked being fucked up the ass.” He reached down and held my prick with the tips of his fingers. I did have a bit of an erection, anal sex does that to me, and now, with his fingers manipulating my prick, I was stiffening up nicely.
“Are you a betting man, Darweshi?”
“I like the occasional wager. Why, what do you suggest?”
“This little fag is about to pop his cork and I’ve got two thousand dollars which say he can shoot his load farther than any other fag you want to choose. Are we on?”
“Any I choose?”
“Any one at all.”
“That’s a brave bet. Let me go and see what’s available.”
Darweshi got up and wandered around the room looking at the other boys. He didn’t have much choice. Most were already taken. However as news of the contest caught on, others were keen to participate. It was therefore decided that each ‘owner’ would place a thousand dollars on the table and we would all compete at once with the winning owner taking all. And that’s where the Texan suggested another rule. Each owner would be responsible for doing whatever they felt appropriate to stimulate their particular boy. The competitors would have to stand with their hands clamped behind their necks.
Under the Texan’s direction they set out a row of chairs and on these our ‘owners’ sat with their knees apart while we competitors stood in front of them facing outwards. The ambassador was appointed judge and, on his orders, each owner reached around and started wanking his particular boy.
I don’t know whether the Texan was perceptive of just lucky but this appealed to the exhibitionist in me. Sure, none of the boys available were exactly shrinking violets but the same part of me that got off on being abused as Belinda Bombshell was getting off on this. What also helped was that, unseen by the others, the Texan had slipped a condom over his thumb and had shoved it up my backside. Meanwhile he was snarling obscenities about what perverted faggots all us English boys were and how pathetic we were when compared to real men like those from Texas and how, if he had me back home I’d be fucked until…
I couldn’t suppress a groan of pleasure as, deep, deep into my role as fag boy, my prick exploded with pleasure. The Texan gave a wild ‘yee-ha!’ as he pumped the spunk from me and, to his delight, it shot out arching maybe as much as four feet or so in front of me.
As I recovered my breath I looked around at the other ‘performers’. While they were all playing along at having the best time of all it was easy to see that, for some, their hearts weren’t in it.
Maybe I shouldn’t have been proud that I won. After all, being the most aroused by being abused in this way is hardly an achievement to boast about. However it delighted the Texan and, suddenly, I was his favourite little fag boy and the rest of the evening was spent knelt at his side as, slowly, the party drank itself into submission. That didn’t stop him loaning me out a couple of times, once for a blow job and once to a guest who tried to sodomise me but was too drunk to get it up. Moreover, when it was finally time for him to leave, after demanding one last blow job, he told me to ‘open wide’. When I did so he stuffed a wodge of notes in my mouth which, when I counted up later, came to a thousand dollars. Not a bad tip for a night’s work.
A pale dawn was rising by the time Carl and I were sharing a taxi back to East London. All I wanted was a shower and then bed but I had my gym session to go to followed by a photo shoot as Belinda.
The gym session was pretty low key. However, I was working away on the treadmill when Mr Mason arrived and, in preparation for the photo shoot, checked that I had shaved all over. He reminded me that I was due at the studio for nine o’clock and that I should bring along all my Belinda outfits. I promised to do just that grateful that he didn’t know about the dress Jed had bought for me. At least there was one outfit left unsullied.
The photographer was no more an early-bird than I am and we were both a bit slow off the mark. However, he put on some dance music and had me dance along to it and, after a while, we were doing fine. We started with the ‘Belinda as sex kitten’ shots and then moved on to the ‘Belinda as high class escort’. The photographer even gave me plenty of hints about how to appear alluring; how to flaunt the feminine whiles I did have and, more importantly, appear to flaunt those I didn’t.
We were still working away when Mr Mason arrived. He looked through the shots taken so far and, grudgingly admitted to being satisfied. However, we hadn’t done any with me wearing the baby doll so we got on with those with Mr Mason overseeing.
And then, as I was washing off the make up and changing back from Belinda to Ben I overheard Mr Mason and the photographer chatting through the thin partition wall.
“So, you can have all this on line by this afternoon?”
“No problem. He’s pretty much a natural so they won’t need much photoshopping. I should be finished by three or four in the afternoon. I’ll give you a call if you like.”
“Thanks. Usual rates.”
“Usual rates but you’ll make that back in no time with this one.”
I finished getting changed and carefully packed away my clothes.
That afternoon I should have been at lectures but, quite frankly, they had gone by the wayside. I was far too busy working for Mr Mason to attend to my degree. Anyway, I hadn’t slept in over thirty six hours so I just collapsed on my bed and, within moments, I was asleep.
I woke around five feeling like shit. I made myself a cup of coffee and powered up my laptop. In my naivety I hadn’t even realised that Mr Mason would have a web site but, as he photographer had said that the Belinda photos would be on-line by four, I wanted to check how they came out. I fired up my web browser and googled Belinda Bombshell.
It didn’t take long to track down the web site and, when I opened it up, I was in for a few surprises. Firstly I was on there as College Boy with a number of photos from the race meetings. I should have expected that and I also should have expected the pricing. I was down as ‘out call only’ with prices at one fifty an hour and seven fifty for overnight visits. I knew Mr Mason would be taking his cut. Now I could appreciate just how much of a cut it was.
And, on another part of the web site, there was Belinda. She was down as a pre-op transvestite. I suppose that was accurate enough although pre-op was pushing it as, if I had anything to do with it, there was never going to be an op. However, within the confines of on-line escort ads I suppose it was as accurate as they come. The pricing was pretty much the same as College Boy but, again, I could be sure that Mr Mason would take his generous cut.
Out of idle curiosity I searched through the site until I came across Jenny, or Rosalind to use her professional name. I wondered if she, too, had been tempted by ‘easy’ money and was now locked in, forced to work for Mr Mason or suffer dire consequences.
Still, as Jed had made quite clear, there was no room for self pity. We had all made poor choices and now had to make the best of a bad job.
I needed a meal although, heaven knows whether it would count as breakfast, lunch or dinner. To this end I went out to the local kebab house and bought myself a donner and I was still eating it on the way back to my flat when my mobile went. With a sinking feeling I fished it out of my pocket and answered it.
“Hello?”
“Belinda’s got a date. You’re to wear the black dress. Pick up is at eight o’clock. Understood.”
“But… but I’m not ready to go out as Belinda.”
“That’s not what Mr Mason says. Eight o’clock and no fuck ups.”
And with that the phone went dead.
I rushed home and, with the kebab now lying heavy on my stomach, started getting ready as Belinda. A quick shower and shave made a start and then I put on a pair of black lacy panties to get me in the mood.
As for the make up, it wasn’t exactly second nature but I was getting more adept and it didn’t take too long before I was slipping on the wig and staring Belinda in the face. She would do, she would have to do. Then it was time for the clothes I started with stockings and a suspender belt to hold them up before wriggling into the LBD. I then stepped into my open toed sandals with the four inch heel and looked at myself in the mirror.
Would I pass muster? All I could see were the glaring imperfections. However good the make-up there was no getting away from the fact that I was, so obviously, a boy in a dress. Going out with Tracy to the pub across the road was one thing. I had no idea where this assignation would take me. I walked back and forth. I was getting used to heels and could walk quite smoothly in them. If only I had tits. Still, it was too late now to do anything about it. I would have to do the best with what I had.
I didn’t have a jacket so I didn’t have any useful pockets but, for the first time in my life, I had a handbag. It wasn’t particularly big but condoms, lube, my makeup repair kit and a bit of spare change for the taxi home all fitted in just fine. Then I remembered what Tracy had said about the baby doll. I fetched it out along with the shoulder bag I had bought to keep it in. It looked a bit awkward but no more than the rest of the imperfections and I could live with it. I glanced at the clock. The car would be here in any minute but I was ready to go.
The driver took me into the West End and dropped me outside a rather posh hotel.
“You’re to meet in the bar. Punter’s name is Simmons.”
“But…”
“Don’t ask me, sunshine. I’m just the driver. You now know as much as I do. Go on, hop it. I’ve got other jobs waiting.”
OK, this was the real test. Could I pass myself off as Belinda? One thing was for certain; I didn’t have many other options and certainly none that let me avoid Archie’s wrath. Trying my best to remain gracious I got out of the car and, feeling that the whole world was looking straight at me, made my way to the front door of the hotel. The doorman gave me a long cool look and I wasn’t sure I could make it past him so, rather that try for discretion, I went for the up-front approach.
“Excuse me,” I said, making my voice as feminine as possible. “I’m supposed to meet one of the guests here, a Mr Simmons, in the bar. Could you possibly point me in the right direction.”
There was a pause while he decided whether to let me in or throw me out. I think the fact that I had given a name for the person I was meeting was the decider because he nodded his head and replied, “certainly, miss. Through the lobby and that door on the left.”
Feeling as if his, and the receptionist’s, eyes were following me every tottering step of the way I headed towards the bar. There I found the usual bored barman polishing glasses and keeping half an eye on the match on the telly. I looked around. The room was otherwise empty. I went up to the bar, dumped my shoulder bag on the floor and perched on a bar stool.
“Can I help you, miss?”
“A white wine and soda, if you’d be so kind.”
“Are you a resident here.”
“No, I’m meeting a friend.”
“In which case…”
“Ah, Belinda! I’ve just received your text saying you’d arrived. I do hope you haven’t been waiting long.”
I looked to my side to see what had to be Mr Simmons bustling in. He guessed him to be around fifty, running to fat and more than a trifle bald and very much the business man. I hadn’t sent any texts so my guess was that the driver texted him as soon as I had been dropped off and he must have come down immediately. Whichever, I was glad to be rescued from the suspicious mind of the barman whom, I’m sure, had sussed me for exactly what I was – in every sense of the word. He came up and we kissed cheeks.
“Good evening, sir. I was just getting this young lady a white wine and soda. What can I get for you?”
“Oh, a whiskey please. Is that Glenmorangie I see behind the bar.”
“It is indeed.”
While the barman poured our drinks Mr Simmons stood beside me and then, having put the drinks on his room tab, he suggested we find a quiet corner. He found a secluded alcove where he sat at one end of a sofa and I sat at the other. I tried to look demure and fluttered my eyelashes at him.
“So, Belinda, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“The pleasure’s all mine, Mr Simmons.”
“Please, you don’t have to be so formal. You must call me Ray.”
“Of course, Ray. Now tell me a bit about yourself. Are you a visitor here in London?”
It turned out that Ray was the manager of a carpeting firm from Bradford. I hung onto his every word and learnt far more than I needed to about the world of carpeting in Bradford and his favourite hobby, bowls.
Somewhere along the line we finished our drinks and he asked the barman to order him a taxi. And then we stood up and, with his arm around my waist, he led me out into the street.
This was far from the first time I had stepped out as a woman but, on each previous occasion, it had been as ‘naughty schoolgirl’ Belinda. This incarnation was something far grander and, as such, I was being treated with far more respect. This was Ray and Belinda, dressed to the nines, heading out for a night on the town. This actually helped reinforce the illusion and, as he opened the taxi door for me and helped me in, I felt one hundred percent a woman.
The restaurant was posh and discreet and all the tables were in quiet alcoves. I have no idea whether the Maitre d’ sussed me or not but if he did he didn’t show it and I was already beyond caring.
We sat side by side at the table and Ray had hardly ordered the celebratory bottle of champagne before I felt his hand on my knee. He even kept it there when the waiter came to take our orders. I had already eaten so I wasn’t hungry but it fitted my feminine image to settle for a light salad while he went for the rump steak.
“Do you know, I’ve got a daughter just like you,” he said as we came to the coffee and brandies. His hand returned to my knee and started to wander north.
“Really?” I smiled inside at the depth of his fantasy.
“Pretty little thing but can be quite a handful sometimes. Gets into all sorts of scrapes. When she’s been naughty I have to be quite firm with her. I’m an old fashioned man and I believe in old fashioned remedies. She thinks she’s all grown up but when she’s been naughty there’s nothing like an old fashioned over the knee spanking to put her back on the straight and narrow. What about you? Have you been a naughty girl?”
OK, so now we knew where the evening was heading. I had no idea whether this daughter of his was real or just another part of the fantasy but, right there, right then, my job was to take her place. I quickly made up some nonsense about a boyfriend who I had flirted with and who I had led on. All the while he demanded details and, all the while, his hand probed farther and farther up my thigh. I could sense his pleasure when he got to the top of my stocking and found my suspenders. I lowered my eyes and tried to look alluring.
“You have been a naughty girl, haven’t you?”
“I’m sorry, daddy.”
“Sorry is not good enough this time, is it?”
“Please, daddy, please punish me and make it better.”
“Waiter, cheque please.”
With almost indecent haste we were back at his hotel and going straight up to his room.
“Excuse me a moment. I’ll just…” I inclined my head towards the en-suite.
“Don’t be long.”
I wasn’t. It didn’t take more than a moment to slip out of my clothes and hang them on the back of the door. Then I fetched out the baby-doll and put it on. I quickly checked my make-up in the mirror and, with everything looking fine, I took a condom from my bag and, discreetly palming it, returned to his suite.
Tracy had been spot about the baby-doll. Ray nearly came on the spot.
“Please, daddy, I’ve been a naughty girl. I need to be punished to make me behave better.”
That, for him, was just the icing on the cake. He stood up and, grabbing me by the ear dragged me over to the bed. In moments I was across his knee, the back of my baby-doll was around my shoulders and my panties were around my knees.
He laid into me with some force. Oh, sure, it wasn’t as painful as the caning I got from Jed but it wasn’t love taps either. I squealed and squirmed, partially because that was what he wanted but partially because it did bloody well hurt. However, he gripped my wrist with his free hand and held it in the small of my back and, squirm as much as I wanted, I wasn’t going anywhere.
And all the while I was pleading, begging, ‘daddy’ to punish me for being a naughty girl and to make me better.
When, finally, he had had enough he let go of my wrist and I slumped to the floor to kneel beside him.
“Are you better now? Will you behave in future?”
“Yes, daddy, I’ll be a good little girl, honest I will.”
“And are you grateful to daddy for making you better.”
“Yes, daddy, thank you daddy.”
“Then say thank you properly.”
I didn’t need to be told what came next. I reached for his fly, pulled down the zip and hauled out his prick. With the ease that comes from much practice I put the condom on and took him into my mouth.
And that was all he needed. I had hardly started when he gave an enormous groan and filled the condom. He grabbed my hair, or rather my wig, and pulled me down onto him so hard I was worried my wig would come off and then, after half a dozen thrusts, he collapsed back, exhausted and replete.
“That was… that was… that was fantastic,” he panted.
“Thank you, daddy.”
“No, thank you, Belinda.”
There was a bit of an awkward silence. I wasn’t sure what he wanted. I just remained knelt at the side of the bed waiting.
“You’re a lovely girl, Belinda, but I think it’s time you went,” he said finally.
“I’ll just…”
“Of course.”
I got up off the floor and made my way to the en-suite. My mascara was a total disaster but, thanks to the bits and pieces in my bag, I was able to patch it all up and look presentable. Even so it must have been a good fifteen minutes before I re-emerged all dressed up and presentable.
“Thank you, daddy. I’ve had a super time,” I went up and kissed him on the lips.
“I’ll, err, call you a taxi. If you go and wait in the lobby it shouldn’t be more than a minute or so.”
“Thank you. I’ll be off then.”
“And this is for you.”
He handed me a sealed envelope which I dropped in my shoulder bag. He seemed rather keen to be shot of me so I gave him one more peck on the cheek and left.
Standing in the lobby of the hotel waiting for the taxi I felt every inch exactly what I was: a transsexual prostitute who had just serviced her client. Her client? I guessed that, as long as I was dressed as Belinda, I would think of myself as Belinda. The night receptionist kept a close eye on me. She knew exactly what I was and was as keen to get rid of me as I was to go. Fortunately it wasn’t long before the taxi arrived and, thank heavens, the driver wasn’t one of the chatty ones. I sat gingerly in the back, my battered buttocks sore against the seats, and checked out the envelope. A nice round ton. At least ‘daddy’ tipped.
On Thursday I had nothing planned until the race meeting at seven thirty. I suppose I should have gone to some lectures but term was all but over and I wasn’t sure how long my university career would last. Instead I took my clothes to the laundrette and dry cleaners as appropriate and, while out, dropped in on Mr H’s office to collect my wages.
Of course, when I got there, Mr H reminded me that a large part of the money would be used to pay off the clothing bill. Even though I had clocked up four hours with the Embassy gig and three with Mr Simmons I still owed Mr H over four hundred pounds so there was only around two fifty in my pocket. Mind you, with Mr Simmons’ tip and the Texan’s generosity I wasn’t exactly short.
That evening, as the minibus did its rounds, there was a new face among the ponies. When he got on he got the same hazing that I had got and, because I noticeably didn’t join in, he came and sat next to me. To my jaundiced eye he looked incredibly young but, as he chatted away nervously, he let slip that, like me, he was at university which put him at eighteen or nineteen minimum.
“I won’t have to do anything sexual, will I? Mr H said there would just be a certain amount of groping.”
“You’ll be OK,” I assured him. OK, so I was lying through my teeth but the poor kid was nervous enough without knowing exactly what he was in for. And how was I to know? Maybe he would only be subjected to a little groping.
As we went through the pre-show showers I could see that his nerves, if anything, were getting worse. Jed sidled up to me.
“Recognise yourself?”
“Was I really that bad.”
“Yep.”
“I should warn him.”
“No you shouldn’t. He’ll learn. Same as we all did. Look at you now. Right little tart. Mind you, he looks fit and he’s a non smoker. You might find you have some competition for a change. My guess is that Mr Mason, seeing how much he’s making out of you, is now aiming to recruit some more college kids.”
I looked across at the new pony. He did look rather sweet. He was young and clean and had the cutest little arse. I could be sure the punters would go for him. Jed was right, I had some competition, I was no longer the new kid in town.
Jed’s forecast that he would be a real contender in the races was backed up when Mr H did the seeding. It was clear that he was looking to get a final between the new kid and myself. The fact that, as far as the punters were concerned, Jed and I were still deadly rivals, was also taken into account but it wasn’t long before we were all sorted out and taken out to our respective sulkies.
Fortunately I still had Pete as my jockey and, before he fitted me with my bridle, I asked what he thought of the new pony.
“Little Angel, that’s what Mr H is calling him. Yeah, he’s fast and he’s fit but he’s new and we can use that against him. You and I can take him, easy as pie. Now, open wide.” He buckled the bit across my mouth and that ended the conversation.
We went through the ritual of putting on my harness and, when it came to inserting the plug, it just slipped in fine. I did hear a squeak of pain from across the warehouse. I guessed that Little Angel was finding what is was like to have a butt plug inserted for the first time. Part of me was sympathetic. The other part, like Jed, had a ‘he’ll learn’ attitude.
He certainly caused a stir among the punters. There were the usual crowd who hung around me pre race but, even blindfolded, I could tell that there were fewer than usual and their main topic of conversation seemed to be comparing me with Little Angel, a comparison I didn’t always come out best on. I know it was a bit childish of me but I was getting fed up of hearing about him. Jed’s petulance at my first race meeting was much more understandable now.
I got through the first two heats fine and, without too many problems, defeated Jed in the semi finals. All the while I could hear that Little Angel was winning his heats and becoming more and more the fancied. Indeed, when we came to the final, he was the punter’s favourite to win. That rankled.
We were led out to the start line, our blinkers were opened and the starter dropped his flag. We were off.
Almost immediately he pulled ahead. Bloody hell he was fast! I had to put in everything I had just to stay in touch. It was an eight lap race and I was prepared to wait my time but, unlike the others, he showed no sign of weakening, no sign of slowing. By the time we got to the seventh lap I knew I would have to dig deep.
But it was Pete who won the race for me. As we came to the last turn but three he gave that little flick of the reins that told me to go for the inside. I couldn’t see the gap but I trusted Pete and, sure enough, as we went into the turn, Little Angel was going too fast and swung wide.
Using every ounce of my strength I forced my way through on the inside and, just, managed to keep the sulky upright. Now it was a matter of holding him off for a lap and a half. The crowd were going wild. This was a really tight race between two favourites and both ponies were carrying a lot of money.
I could tell from the frantic flicking of the reins that Little Angel was gaining on me and Pete was trying to squeeze out every last drop of my strength and endurance. I guess that, in the end, the gym sessions paid off because, despite Little Angel’s best efforts, I managed to cross the line a couple of feet in front of him.
There were cheers for me and even a few boos for Little Angel as, triumphant, I was led back to the centre circle. I could tell that Mr H was delighted; he always was when the favourite falls. But more than that. We had put up a real spectacle. Even those who had lost money on Little Angel agreed that it had been a thrilling race.
I was given quite a while to recover while the other ponies were run in the ad-hoc races but I knew I would be called upon again. What I hadn’t bargained on, although maybe I should have, was what I heard over the Tannoy.
“Ladies and gentlemen. We are proud to announce a special race. A rematch of the final between College Boy and Little Angel. Mr Mason has put up a special prize of two hundred pounds for the winner and, if that were not incentive enough, the loser will give the winner a blow job right here, in front of the judges table. This race will start in ten minutes so make sure to place your bets right away.”
This took me back to my first time. It was an exact repeat of what had happened between Jed and myself. I wondered just how much the outcome would be determined by our racing and how much would be down to other factors.
In the end it was subtle but it was definitely fixed. Once again Little Angel got ahead early, once again I struggled to keep up but managed to keep in touch and, once again, I went for the inside on the third corner from home.
But this time, although at first I was getting ‘go for the inside’ messages from Pete, just as I had committed myself, I felt a tug on my reins telling me to go for the outside. That was enough to put me off and I missed my chance. And then, as we came to the second to last corner, again I got mixed signals. Someone, my guess would be Mr Mason, had got to Pete and, without his guidance, I was lost. Oh, sure, I tried my hardest but part of sulky racing is team work between pony and jockey and without that the best I could do was to come in a respectable second.
Now I fully understood how Jed had felt. Not only had I lost the race but my humiliation would be completed as I was publicly forced to go down on this… this upstart. I tried to bottle up my anger but with mixed results.
We were led to the centre circle and lined up facing each other in front of the judges tables. Little Angel’s prick was unbuckled from his harness and fitted with a condom. I noted that he didn’t seem to be quite so shy now.
And then, in front of everyone, I got down on my knees, the bit was removed from my bridle and sucked him off.
Sure, when compared to being sodomised for the Belinda Bombshell show this humiliation might not seem like much but, as a way of reinforcing that I had been well and truly beaten, it could not have been surpassed. The crowd around us were cheering, or rather jeering, and many who had felt that I had been too high and mighty by being ‘party only’ were glad to see my downfall.
I guessed that Little Angel had never had a blow job in public before and it took him quite a while to get there but then, I also knew from when I had been on the receiving end that he was taking his time so as to bask in the adoration. After what seemed like forever he gave a shudder and, finally, came.
I looked up at him and he looked down at me. Even though he tried to hide it I could see the triumph in his eyes. Welcome to my world, Little Angel, and enjoy it while you can. With each step, with each blow job, you’re getting deeper and deeper into the trap. Soon it will be you on your knees, just like me.
When the racing was done Little Angel seemed bemused to find himself showering again. And then, when we were all getting dressed in the racing shorts, I saw the light dawn for him. This was not over yet.
As we were getting into the minibuses to take us to the party I could see Little Angel torn between trying to get next to me to find out what was next and keeping away from me because of how I had been humiliated on his behalf. In the end he wangled the other minibus and, for a while, that was the last I saw of him.
Jed, on the other hand, was on the same minibus. He spent some time loudly teasing me that there was a new boy in town and that I was no longer top pony. However, just as he was being at his meanest and nastiest he gave me a wink and I realised just how much this was all for show. The Jed that bought me dresses was strictly confined to his fortress. Out in public we were still playing at being bitter rivals.
When we got to the party I was, at first, handed one of the trays of canapés and sent out to fend for myself. I hadn’t got far before one of groups of guests, seeing the previously unavailable College Boy free to the first who asked, called me over and demanded that I spend time with them. I was immediately divested of my running shorts and, after chopping out the lines of coke, set to giving blow-jobs to those who required it.
However, I hadn’t been there long before one of the waitresses came over.
“Excuse me, gentlemen, but Archie has requested that I send College Boy over. If you have no objections…”
“Objections, for Archie. No, no, of course not. Of you go, boy. Don’t keep Archie waiting.” It was quite clear that the guests respected Archie’s role in the organisation and whatever Archie wanted that was what he got. I got up off my knees and, after giving the guests a little curtsey, followed the waitress to the alcove where Archie was holding court.
“Ah, College Boy, good of you to come.”
I just kept silent. I had more sense than to get entangled with Archie more than was strictly necessary.
“What’s up? Cat got your tongue? Well, that’s not important. Get on your knees and get your laughing gear round my chopper pronto. And I want you to make it look good but I’m not to come, well, not until I say so.”
I knew better than to disobey so, as quickly as I could, I got down to business. I had only been there a few minutes before Mr H arrived and, to my complete lack of surprise, he had Little Angel with him.
“Here you go, Archie. Some of the lads waylaid him but he’s here now,”
Come here, boy, closer. Come and stand next to Archie.”
Archie leaned forward and, with me still sucking him off, reached for Little Angel’s balls.
“I lost a lot of money on you. I had you down to go all the way.”
“Sorry, I’m sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t cut the mustard, sunshine. You let this little runt beat you. Mind you, you did all right in the re-match. Why did you lose?”
“I… I misjudged it.”
“So it’s all your fault that I lost my money.”
“Yes, sir, sorry sir, please, sir, please…”
I could tell from Little Angel’s voice that he was in agony, that Archie was twisting off his balls the way he had twisted off mine.
“And they tell me you don’t put out. Is that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why’s that? Too good for us, are you? Look at College Boy here, down on his knees where he belongs. Mind you, you know all about that one. He sucked you off earlier. So, you’re prepared to take blow-jobs but not hand them out, is that it?”
“Please! Mr H promised.”
“But I didn’t promise. First you lose me money and now you won’t put out. What sort of pathetic pony boy are you?”
“Please, sir, you’re hurting me. Please, please, pleeeeease!”
“Having fun, Archie.”
Mr Mason had arrived to save Little Angel in exactly the same way that he had ‘saved’ me all those weeks ago. Now I could see the trap so clearly, and I could see it closing around Little Angel.
“Just getting to know the new ponyboy.”
“He’ll be a gelding if you carry on like that. Let him go, Archie.”
“He’s fucking useless anyway. Someone take him away, will you.”
Sobbing and bent double, Little Angel was led away. Mr Mason followed shortly after. And all the while I just kept myself busy between Archie’s knees.
“There, that’s business out of the way. Now it’s party time. OK, College Boy, stop fucking around down there and get on with it.”
Archie sat back while I gave him the best blow job I could. Every time I had any contact with him it gave me more reason to be scared of him. Thankfully it wasn’t long before he finished and I was ordered up onto my feet. This time it was my balls Archie took in his hand and squeezed.
“I do hope you’ve learnt enough not to cause any trouble. You’re not going to cause me trouble, are you?”
“No, Archie, of course not Archie.”
“Because, with a little training, Little Angel is going to be a nice little earner, same as you are. Got me?”
I just nodded.
“And, if anything should go wrong, if someone were to do anything that might prevent that, well, that would be most upsetting. Are you going to do anything to upset me?”
“Of course not, Archie.”
“Make sure you don’t.”
With that I was dismissed and thrown back into the party, as it were. Of course, by this point, as I was the only ponyboy left, it wasn’t long before I was claimed and, for the rest of the evening, I was pandering to the various appetites of one of the groups of guests.
On the other hand, although I was well used and abused, I didn’t get taken home for the night which meant that, when the party finally wound down, I was one of those waiting for the minibus to take me home. Over in a corner of the kitchen was a very contrite Little Angel. I thought about going over and consoling him but there was not that much I could say. The obvious thing was to warn him of what lay ahead but with Archie’s threats still ringing in my ears my only option was to keep schtum.
However, I couldn’t stop Little Angel sitting next to me on the minibus.
“Hi, my name’s Jack. Sorry about…”
“The blow job? Don’t worry about it. It wasn’t the first I’ve given and it won’t be the last. Oh, and my name’s Ben.”
“That Archie, he’s really scary, isn’t he.”
“Yeah. You really don’t want to upset him.”
“But Mr Mason seems OK. He’s been really kind to me tonight. Not like all the others. I feel like I can trust him.”
Archie’s threats came back to me and, heaven help me, there was only one thing I could say.
“Yeah, he’s OK.”
The minibus rolled through the night taking us home.
*****
More soon