A gay sex stories: Pony Boy Ch. 05
This is the fourth chapter of ‘Pony Boy’ and, if you haven’t read the rest, then please do so first. Quite a bit of the story refers back to events in the earlier parts and it won’t make much sense if you read them out of order.
And, of course, there are the usual disclaimers; anyone involved in sexual acts is over eighteen and we’re all fictional.
Enjoy
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It was noon on Saturday before I finally woke up and, when I went to the kitchen area of my bedsit to fill the kettle and make myself some coffee, I couldn’t help but notice my bright scarlet fingernails. Top of my ‘to do’ list had to be going out and getting some nail varnish remover. Getting caught with painted nails would lead to all sorts of questions, none of which I was ready to answer. I nipped down to the local discount chemists and, blushing somewhat as I paid, went and bought some, along with baby wipes and a few other bits and pieces.
As I scrubbed at my nails I thought things over. I had a lot to think about. This whole thing was escalating out of control. Right at the beginning I had just thought that I’d run a few races. OK, so I’d be naked but, I thought, that would be it. No sex apart from, as Mr. H had once said, a little groping.
And now? And now I’m up on the stage being caned and sodomised for the entertainment of some sort of East End gangster.
Mr. Bothwick’s coming home party had been simultaneously frightening, exhilarating, exciting, painful, sordid, erotic, and, above all, an intense experience. There can be few things more degrading than being on your knees in some filthy toilet stall giving a complete stranger a blow job and yet… and yet… just thinking about holding their hardening cocks in my hands, taking them in my mouth, feeling them respond, hearing them gasp with pleasure as they came, sent little tingles through me. It was almost as if I wanted to see how far down this walk on the wild side could take me.
There was the same sort of ambivalence when I thought about how the way in which Mr. Bothwick had used me. I had been nothing to him, a mere party favour that Mr. Mason had laid on for his amusement. But, more than that, Mr. Bothwick had sought to humiliate me further by making me watch myself in the mirror. He had wanted to rape my dignity as well as my arse. But this had backfired. I had wanted to watch, I had wanted to savour the humiliation. By humiliating me, especially when dressed as Belinda Bombshell, he was playing to my deepest, darkest fantasies.
And if ever there was a tangled web of emotions then it was my relationship with Belinda Bombshell. Was she my inner whore? She certainly wasn’t me, except, of course, she was. Right from the start, when I had been sat on Arthur’s knee, I had discovered the simpering coquette that lived inside me. Last night, putting on the clothes, the wig, the makeup, had transformed not just my looks but my whole persona. Acting as Belinda Bombshell I would do, and be, things I wouldn’t dream of doing otherwise. Importantly, although it was Belinda Bombshell who was doing these things, it was Ben who was getting the kicks from it.
And finally, as I worked away at the bits of varnish that seemed to get stuck in the cracks, I thought about my relationship with Jed. It had been Mr Jarman’s idea of a sick joke to make us perform together, to play to our well known rivalry. Now it seemed that we were stuck with each other. The thing was, now that I was getting to know him, he wasn’t that bad a guy. He had had every opportunity to make me suffer and yet, when push came to shove, he had been almost gentle with me. Being fucked by Mr. Bothwick had turned me on because of the thrills, the danger, the edginess. Being fucked by Jed had turned me on because he felt good inside me. I wondered what it would be like to have him fuck me when we weren’t surrounded by onlookers, if it were for us, not for an audience.
When my nails were finally clean I took my clothes down to the launderette. Both skirts, several pairs of panties and my blouse all needed washing. I mixed in a few tee shirts and my towel to make it look a little more normal. As for my shoes, they were all but ruined where the toes had been scratched from all the kneeling. If, as Mr. Mason had intimated, we were to do this again, then a new pair would be needed. I’d have to ask Mr H about that when I went to get paid on Monday.
On Sunday I had a footie match and this meant that there was a Rubicon I had to cross. There was no way I could wear my footie kit without it being completely obvious that my arms and legs were shaven and, when we showered together afterwards, my mates would see that the rest of me was bare. However, there was no way round it. Mr. Mason was not going to let me stop shaving so the choice was give up footie or brave it out. I really didn’t want to give up footie, especially as all the gym work I was doing had made me fitter and faster.
“Hello Ben, what happened? Get a bit carried away with the razor?”
“I lost a drunken bet with this girl I met down at Club Sanuuk and, after that, well, once you try it you never go back.”
“Bollocks, you’re just gay.”
“Bollocks to you too. Seriously, it was a bit strange at first but Wendy, that’s the girl I met, she went wild for it. Shame she was such an airhead. I like a bit of conversation after the sex.”
“Ooh, listen to Casanova! Still, if you score goals as fast as you score birds you can be as bald as a coot for all I care.”
And, effectively, that was it. I did get one or two strange stares but, once we were out on the pitch, the extra pace I’d picked up from the training held me in good stead and I was tearing through the opposition defence. After that no one gave a damn. In the showers afterwards there was a certain amount of joshing but it was clear that, although I was thought a bit odd, I had got away with it.
Monday lunchtime found me, once again, climbing the stairs to Mr H’s office. Tracy sent me through to the inner sanctum where, once again, Mr. Mason and Jed were also in attendance. Naturally sorting out our wages was the first order of business. Apparently we were to be paid two hundred each plus, of course, our three quarter share of the tips.
“Before you count out the money…,” I said as Mr H took the notes out of the cash box. I was really nervous about what I was about to say and it would have been easiest if I stayed quiet but I had worried about this all weekend and was determined to see it through. “Look, it’s about the tips. I think they should be shared fifty, fifty.”
“Really? That’s very generous of you,” Mr. Mason looked amazed.
“It’s just that…. Look, when it’s a race meeting we’re all equal and it’s every pony for themselves, right? I’ve got no problem with that and I’m not suggesting we share tips from race meetings.”
“I should fuckin’ well hope so,” Jed interjected.
“But when we’re doing these shows, and I assume there will be more of them,” I looked at Mr. Mason who nodded, “then it’s not the same at all. We’re not competing against each other, we’re working together. The tips we get, it’s for the show and we’re both part of the show.” Still they seemed unconvinced. “Look, it’s like when I worked in a pub,” I continued. “All the tips went into a jar and, at the end of the night we split them evenly.”