rent boy

This is the third 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.


I’m probably going to upset many of my readers with this chapter. I have been urged to write some sort of ‘Pretty Woman’ type of love affair between Ben and Andy Mason. That was, indeed, my original intention. However, as the story developed it became more and more clear that Andy Mason has to be a major figure in London’s organised crime. This, as far as I am concerned, makes him a bad person and I don’t want Ben to end up as his lover.

Driven by this the story will take a rather darker route. Ben’s road to happiness will have one or two twists along the way. Will Ben actually find happiness? Well, that would be telling.

If you are one of the readers who was looking for a romance between Ben and Mr Mason then you may not want to read any further. That’s not going to happen. On the other hand, if you want to find out if Ben does find love, and with whom….

Enjoy the story.


Chapter 3 — And they’re off…

The bed was so comfortable; like sleeping on a cloud. I rolled over, gradually waking up. There was a quick flash of panic as I wondered where the fuck I was, and then another panic of a different sort when I remembered. I opened my eyes and looked across the bed. He wasn’t there but I could hear noises coming from the bathroom which suggested he would be back any minute.

I really didn’t know what was expected of me. What was the protocol? Was I supposed to slip out unseen, picking up the money from the dressing table on the way out, or was Herr Schlitz expecting to find a hot and horny little slut ready and waiting to do his every bidding? Given that the only item of clothing I possessed was the raincoat Mr. Mason had given me on the way out of the party, I didn’t have too many choices.

Herr Schlitz seemed to be taking his time so I got out of bed and looked out of the windows. The view stretched right across Docklands with the Millennium Dome in the distance and really was fantastic. It brought back memories of the previous night and, with this in mind, I leant forward and put my arms against the glass. I could appreciate the way this made my bum stick out and I gave it a little wiggle.

“Ah, ein nackter Junge am Fenster! Das ist schön zu sehen. Very pretty. Very good to see in the morning,” Herr Schlitz said, coming out of the en-suite. “Stillhalten! Stay still, stay where you are.”

I looked round to see him standing there in a white towelling dressing gown.

“Did I not tell you to stay where you are? Kiss the glass.” He came up behind me and smacked my backside hard enough to make me squeak with pain and, to cover this I leant forward to do as I was told. Of course, pushing my face to the glass just made my arse stick out more. He moved closer, kicked my legs further apart, and he must have undone his dressing gown as I felt his bare thighs pressing against the back of mine, his prick between my arse cheeks. He took off the belt from his dressing gown, doubled it up, looped it around my neck and fastened it off, not tight enough to stop me breathing but tight enough to let me know it was there.

“This is how you like it, isn’t it? You like to be the pony, yes?” He gave a tug on my ‘reins’. “You like to be a pony for a rider who is hard, really hard, don’t you.”

“Yes, Herr Schlitz, yes please.”

All the time he was pushing with his hips, rubbing himself against me. I wondered how far he was going to take this, what exactly he wanted, and whether my backside was up to it, when we were disturbed by a knocking at the door.

“That is good, I am ready for my breakfast. Go and see to the door.” Herr Schlitz dropped the ‘reins’, stood back and let me move away from the window. I knew better than to make any comments about my nakedness but I reached for the dressing gown belt around my neck and started to take it off. I felt his hand on my arm and turned to look at him.

“No, you are good with the rope. Moment.” He adjusted the dressing gown belt so that the free end was hanging down in front, not at the back. “You were good, now you are better. Go! Tell the maid to bring the breakfast to the bedroom; I will eat it in my bed.”

I went to the door and answered it. It was, indeed, room service with a breakfast trolley. She kept her face pretty impassive when she saw me but I did see a flicker of a smile as she glanced down and checked out my prick which was still standing proud.

“Herr Schlitz will be having breakfast in bed,” I told her. She nodded and wheeled the trolley through to the bedroom area where he was now back under the covers. The maid parked up the trolley next to the bed, fetched out a bed tray from underneath and laid it across his lap. On top of this she then placed the various plates, removing their cloches to reveal a German breakfast of rolls, pumpernickel, ham, cheese and boiled eggs. A coffee pot held the thick dark almost Turkish coffee that the Germans like to drink.

“My apologies, Herr Schlitz, we were unaware that you had a guest with you. Would you like me to fetch another breakfast?”

“No, this is good, Maria. There is plenty enough here for the two of us. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome, Herr Schlitz,” she said as she turned and left.

“And now, my Flittchen, meine kleine Flittchen, we will have breakfast together. Come here.” He reached across the bed and flicked back the covers to indicate that I should get in. As soon as I was in reach he grabbed the dressing gown cord around my neck and pulled, forcing me to scoot over until I was right up next to him.

“Is meine kleine Flittchen hungry? Shall I butter a roll for you?”

“Yes, please, Herr Schlitz.”

“But if I am buttering the rolls what will you be doing? Only those who work are allowed to eat, that is only right, is it not? Be careful not to spill anything.”

It took a second or two to work out what he meant about not spilling anything and then the penny dropped; there was only one way I was going to ‘earn’ breakfast. I reached my arm out, under the covers. His dressing gown was wide open and I quickly found the firm washboard of his abs. Being very careful not to upset the bed tray I reached lower and the tips of my fingers found his prick. Herr Schlitz gave a little sigh.

“Ah, that is good, but not good enough,” he laughed. “Come on, little Flittchen, or you shall go hungry.”

I stretched a little further and was able to take his prick in my fist.

“Is that how you like it or,” I adjusted my grip so I was holding him with my finger tips, “is this better?”

“The first way, I think. Yes, like that, not too fast. We don’t want any accidents.”

So I lay there and stroked his prick as he had his breakfast. From time to time he would hold out bits for me to eat. Although it was weird it was also rather nice, lying there snuggled together sharing together. Herr Schlitz seemed to be enjoying it; he was certainly hard enough. While we ate he started to chat.

“So, meine kleine Flittchen, you are not like the others. You have no tattoos.”

“I don’t like tattoos.”

“This is good. So many of the boys are too quick to mark themselves. You are very hübsche… pretty without any marks. If you were mine…”

“But I am yours, Herr Schlitz.”

“Only for a little time. Then you must go back to Mr. Mason and belong to him again.”

“Please, Herr Schlitz, don’t let’s talk about that. I like being yours, if only for a little while.”

“Sweet words, my little Hure! You wish that I should pay you more?”

“It’s not like that,” I blushed.

“How prettily you lie to me. I might almost believe you. Here, I will give you extra pumpernickel.”

“Please, Herr Schlitz… It really is not like that. I’m not a Hure, well, I wasn’t until yesterday.”

“Oh, and what happened yesterday.”

“I owed Mr. Mason a big favour and, in return, he asked me to make you happy. You… you were my first.”

“Your first! More sweet lies!” but he looked at me long and hard. “But perhaps they are not lies. Perhaps you tell the truth. Never trust a Hure, but, if you are not a Hure…”

“Oh, but I am now, I’m your Hure.”

“Then I shall not trust you,” he said laughing. “And now It it getting late. I have business to attend to but, before I go I think that you also have business to attend to.” He looked at the bed tray. We had finished breakfast but, even so, I was a bit slow that morning. “Come on, meine kleine Hure, it is time to earn your money.”

I slipped out of bed, picked the bed tray up off his lap and took it through to the kitchenette. When I returned he had thrown back the covers and was lying there, legs akimbo, with his prick standing proud. I grabbed a condom from the bedside drawer, ripped open the packet, and slipped it on him. Then I scooted up between his legs and did my best to please him.

I took my time, partially because I was still under orders to give Herr Schlitz the best time ever and, partially, because I liked the feel of his prick in my mouth. It felt so deliciously naughty to break all those boring middle class rules I had been brought up with. Fuck them and their petite bourgeois conventions. There was something very fine about having man’s prick in my mouth, especially a man as powerful as Herr Schlick. It was my tongue, my lips, my mouth that controlled his pleasure.

Mind you, that didn’t last. A man like Herr Schlitz needs to be in control. He reached down, took my head in his hands and, in a very real sense, fucked my face. It didn’t take much of that before he exploded in my mouth. Again, I wished he hadn’t been wearing a condom. I wanted the taste, the sensation of him pumping his spunk into me.

He lay back and relaxed and, as soon as he was flaccid, I slipped the condom off him and took it into the en-suite to flush it away. When I returned he was out of bed and over by the wardrobe getting dressed.

There wasn’t much I could do so I went and grabbed an apple out off the discarded breakfast tray and lay on the bed, watching him as I ate it.

He hadn’t quite finished getting dressed when there was a knock at the door and, this time, I didn’t need to be asked. I threw the apple core away and ran to the door where I found Mr. Mason waiting outside. He looked at me, looked particularly at the dressing gown cord which was still round my neck, and smiled. He was carrying one of those huge carrier bags you get from the West End stores and he handed it to me.

“Herr Schlitz is still getting dressed,” I announced. “If you’d care to take a seat I’ll…”

“Andy! Good morning. You are well?” Herr Schlitz appeared from the bedroom.

“I’m fine, Hans. Are you ready to leave?”

“In two minutes I will be finished here.”

“No problem. When you’re ready.”

Herr Schlitz disappeared back into the bedroom and Mr. Mason sat on one of the armchairs while he waited. I was evidently superfluous to requirements so I kept myself out of the way. In a lot less than two minutes Herr Schlitz reappeared, came over and gave me a kiss.

“Maybe next time, meine kleine Flittchen,” he said, clutching my arse as he did so.

And then he was off. I had been dismissed and he and Mr. Mason left without a backward glance.

I took the bag Mr. Mason had given me and looked inside. I was more than a trifle relieved to find it was full of clothes; hopefully clothes for me. I took the whole lot through to the bedroom area and laid them all out on the bed. They were clothes for me and not just the ones I had worn to the pony meet. In addition there was a brand new pair of chinos, a beautiful shirt, a black leather jacket, black slip on shoes and all the accessories I could want. Everything was a perfect fit. I guessed that he had had access to the measurements Tracy had taken when I had first applied. I didn’t recognise any of the labels but they certainly weren’t Primark or even Marks and Sparks. But that wasn’t all that was in the bag. There was a package at the bottom with my name on it. Inside I found my house keys, a brand new leather wallet with one hundred pounds inside and a letter. Well, more of a note, really, as all it said was ‘Harold’s Office. 11:00′.

I got dressed and looked at myself in the mirror. Talk about looking a million dollars! The leather jacket, in particular, looked fantastic. I had never been able to afford stuff like this. How generous of Mr. Mason to buy them for me.

And talking of generous, there on the dressing table was a hotel envelope with ‘Meine kleine Flittchen’ written on it. As this was Herr Schlitz’s pet name for me I opened it up to find two hundred quid. Wrapped around the notes there was a piece of writing paper with the word ‘Danke’ written on it. I was up three hundred quid plus a cracking new set of clothes and I hadn’t even been paid for the pony racing. Not bad for a night’s work!

Just short of eleven I climbed the stairs to Mr H’s office, knocked on the door and went in.

“Hi Ben, cool threads.”

“Thanks, Tracy. Is Mr. H available.”

“He and Mr. Mason are waiting for you.” She pressed the button on the intercom. “Harold, Ben’s here. Yep, I’ll show him in.”

I went into the office. Mr. H was sat behind his desk, Mr. Mason in an armchair.

“Take a pew, Ben, take a pew.”

I sat down in the one remaining chair which had been arranged so that Mr. H, Mr. Mason and I formed a triangle.

“How did you get on with Herr Schlitz,” Mr. Mason asked.

“Fine, no problems at all.”

“Good, because he seemed very happy with you. And that leads me to my main point. You’re on my firm now and it looks like I’m going to have quite a bit of work for you in the future.”

“What sort of work?” as if I didn’t know.

“I provide a service to those who are bored, or lonely, or simply those who want a bit of variety in their lives. What they’re looking for is a bit of company, someone to spend some time with, someone to make them feel special; maybe they just fancy a change. That’s where you come in. What I’m always short of is nice, polite young men who look smart and presentable, the sort you can take out to a good restaurant, but are also not shy when it comes to other things. You did an excellent job last night. You made the client feel special and I gather you were suitably rewarded.”

“But what about my college work?”

“Oh, I still want you to carry on with that. I don’t want you dropping out or anything stupid like that. I’ll make sure all your bookings are in the evenings and I certainly won’t call you any more than you can handle. Say one or two evenings a week. You won’t be the first student who has paid their way through college with a little escort work; I can assure you of that.”

There, he’d said it, escort work. Mind you, I’d been a bit of a fan of that Billie Piper thing, ‘Secret Diary of a Call Girl’, and that didn’t make it seem too bad. I thought of the three hundred quid in my pocket. Three hundred for a night’s work and I still hadn’t been paid for the racing. I would only have to work one night a week and it would sort out my student loan in no time.

“Just one or two evenings a week?” I asked for confirmation.

“Whatever you’re happy with.”

“And what about the pony racing?” I asked Mr. H.

“Oh, we’ll still want you for that. More than ever after last night,” he replied.

“And, above all else, as long as you’re working for me you know that you’ll be safe. There are some pretty tough characters in this game and Archie isn’t the only thug who will have taken an interest in our newest pony boy recruit but, now that you’re in my employ, they’ll leave you well alone. I’ll make sure of that.”

“Thanks, Mr Mason.” That was the reassurance I wanted. The whole Archie thing had scared the shit out of me and, without Mr. Mason’s protection, I knew I would be prey to all sorts.

“And how much will I be earning?”

“That depends a lot on the client and what services they want but you can reckon on one hundred pounds an hour, give or take. And then there will be tips on top of that.”

“I didn’t get one hundred pounds an hour for last night.”

“Yeah, but that was a favour for me, wasn’t it? Your way of saying ‘thank you’ for getting Archie off your back. Anyway, you didn’t do too badly; you even got a nice new set of clothes out of it.”

One hundred pounds an hour, plus tips! I must have been with Herr Schlitz from midnight until nine in the morning. That would have been nine hundred quid!

“I don’t think I can say no, can I?”

“Good lad, Ben, good lad. Well, Harold, I think that just wraps it up for me. I’ll see you down the club later, OK?” Mr. Mason got up from his chair and headed for the door. “Oh, one last thing,” he said turning back towards the room. “I know you keep yourself pretty fit but I’d like to oversee your training. I’ve booked you in at the Chester Road gym, six o’clock, Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Ask for Albert and, don’t worry, it won’t cost you a thing.”

“Do I have to?”

“Yes, you do. Don’t let me down on this.” And, with that, he was gone.

“And that just leaves the race money to be sorted,” Mr. H said, reaching for his cash box. You did pretty well last night. Now, let’s see…”

By the time he had finished I had a little over three hundred from the racing. It was less than last time but, as Mr. H explained, the last time had included the two hundred that Mr. Mason had put up so it was to be expected. Still, I was, all in all, over six hundred quid richer for one night’s work. I’d have to flip an awful lot of burgers to earn that sort of money.

And that was it for the next few days. I didn’t hear anything from either Mr. Mason or Mr. H over the weekend.

Come Monday morning I struggled out of bed and made my way down to the gym in Chester Road. If I was expecting one of those modern places with rows of treadmills and multi-gyms then I could not have been more wrong. When I entered the first thing I saw was a boxing ring and, even at this time of a Monday morning, there were a couple of lads sparring. I asked for Albert and a burly man in his fifties came over.

“And you are?”

“I’m Ben, sir. Mr. Mason said I was to come here for training.”

“You’re Ben, are you? Follow me.” He took me through to a room at the back and told me to strip.


“The first thing you’re going to learn, sunshine, is to do as you’re fuckin’ told. Mr. Mason wants me to put some meat on your bones and I need to do is see what I’m working with. Kit off, now!”

Albert wasn’t as scary as Archie but that was hardly the point. I took off my tracksuit and, after some encouragement from Albert, my shorts and tee shirt as well. The room was quite cold and I stood there shivering before him as he examined me as thoroughly as Mr. H had done before the races, possibly more so.

“First things first. You don’t ever come into this gym unshaven.”

I must have looked blank

“You’re working for Mr. Mason, right?”

I nodded

“And my job is to make you look good for the clients.”

“I guess so.”

“You guess so? I know so, sunny Jim and the first thing you’re going to do is shave, all over. Arms, legs, chest, armpits, everywhere. The punters aren’t paying for some sort of gorilla, they’re paying for a pretty boy and that means shaven. Don’t need to shave off all your pubes but they should be neatly trimmed. What’s more you need a haircut. Something smart. Now, as to your training…”

Albert allowed me to put my shorts back on but not the rest of my gear. He told me that, if I felt cold, then I should work harder and that would warm me up. But that was far from the only incentive. He coming by to watch over me and had me working so hard that keeping warm was the least of my problems. By the time the session was over I was a puddle of exhaustion. Still, Albert seemed happy with me so I had a quick shower and went home in time to get to lectures.

Shaving was a right pain. I took a long hot bath and used a whole month’s worth of blades before I’d finished. It was weird to look at in the mirror and, when I got dressed, my clothes felt funny against my skin. I was also a bit worried about what my mates at college would think so I started wearing long sleeved tops.

Wednesday morning found me back down at the gym and, once more stripped for inspection. Albert gave me a right bollocking as, apparently, I’d missed quite a bit, mostly in and around my arse, not to mention a couple of patches at the back of my legs. Given that I was, as he put it, so bloody useless, he called in one of the other lads to give me a hand. The lad showed no surprise at this so I tried to hide mine. We went into the showers and he re-shaved me before getting some tweezers to pick out the hairs from between my arse cheeks. He suggested a number of creams to use as, apparently, they keep you smoother for longer. “But for Pete’s sake keep them clear of your balls and arse. Burns like buggery,” was how he put it.

Of course this meant that I was late starting my exercises and Albert insisted that I stay late to make up the time.

Around seven Mr. Mason appeared and he stayed for quite a while chatting with Albert about how I was getting on. He spent some time having me pose naked and he looked me over hyper critically. I was glad I had had the extra work done with the hair removal as he seemed quite pleased with the result.

“Race meeting tomorrow,” he told me. “Make sure you get some new trainers. I want you looking your best.”

“I will, Mr. Mason,” I assured him.

That afternoon I went into town and ended up spending over a ton on a pair of top of the range Nike trainers. With all the money I was earning I could afford them. While I was there I saw a tracksuit I fancied so I also picked that up as well. I reckoned it would be just the thing to wear to the race meetings.

Thursday evening I changed into my new tracksuit and went down to the meeting place a few minutes early. I recognised a couple of others waiting at the same spot so I went over and said hi. I still didn’t really know them but at least I was beginning to feel more confident around them. Having Mr. Mason’s protection helped a lot. Five minutes later and the minibus arrived and we all got on. At the next stop we picked up Jed and, as soon as he saw me, he gave me a certain amount of stick, calling me ‘bum boy’ and taking the rip out of my new trainers and tracksuit. “You always think you’re better than us, that’s your problem, bum boy. But in the end you’re just another rent boy like the rest of us.”

I just ignored him. His words hurt; I really didn’t think I was better than them. Well, better educated, from a better home, maybe, but not a better person.

We got to the warehouse and, after the usual hanging around, it was time for the showers. I stripped off my tracksuit, put my house keys in the pocket, and folded it up and put it on the chairs.

“Check out bum boy,” Jed called out. “Smooth as a baby’s bottom. Do you reckon you’ll get more punters that way?”

“Can’t harm, can it?” I called back. I wasn’t going to admit that I’d done it to order. “You know what they say, happy punters means bigger tips.”

“Still doesn’t make that dinky little prick of yours any bigger.”

“It’s not my prick they’re interested in; it’s my cute little backside, the one you’ll be watching every time I overtake you.” I’m not sure what had made me so bold but at least it got me a round of laughter. The minibus driver told us sharply to cut the chat and get on with our showers so the banter came to an end.

When we were lined up for inspection I felt like I stood out even more than I had on the previous occasions. Still, there was no banter in the line and Mr. H seemed more than happy with my turnout. As with the previous week I was assigned sulky number five. I hoped I would get Pete as my jockey again and when we went out to the sulkies, there he was, waiting for me.

“You’re looking a bit more cheerful today,” he commented as I approached.

“Feeling like a winner!” I replied.

“Well, let’s get you looking like one. Stand between the shafts with your legs apart and your arms out.”

I did as I was told but, instead of reaching for the harness and bridle, Pete pulled out a bottle from his jacket pocket.

“What’s that?”

“Posing oil. It won’t make you faster but it will make you look better. Mr. Mason’s orders. Now stand still.”

Starting with my shoulders, Pete smoothed the oil over my body. Once he had done my arms he had me clasp my hands behind the back of my head so as to give easy access to my chest. He was rubbing the oil well in and, even before he got to my groin, I was starting to react. My whole definition of what was and wasn’t sexy had been turned on its head in the previous couple of weeks but standing naked and immobile in this open and vulnerable pose while being oiled was something else. By the time he got to my buttocks I was as hard as they come.

“Ooh, someone’s happy tonight. You’re loving this oil, aren’t you?” Pete joked. “How about this?” He smoothed the oil back and forth along my prick.

“God, Pete, that’s….”

“Careful now, we don’t want you popping your cork too early. That would never do.” He carried on, now working on my thighs. It wasn’t much better; I still felt as horny as hell and my prick felt like it was going to explode at any minute.

When he had finished with the oil he put the stopper back in the bottle and wiped his hands. Now it was time for the harness and we were onto more familiar territory. As Pete fitted the various straps around me I looked at my body, oiled and hairless. I rather liked the effect. By the time he had me fully fitted up, with the tail in place and everything, I felt like I must look the prettiest pony in the show. I wished that there was a mirror I could see myself in. I could feel the tail cascading down the back of my thighs. I gave my bum a wiggle and felt it move. I wondered what it must look like. I had seen the other ponies but never myself. Still, I was there to race, not just look pretty. I had a growing reputation to keep up with.

When the punters arrived I got lots of comments about being shaven and oiled. There had always been a few who liked to use ‘examining’ the ponies as an excuse for a good old grope but this time there was more than ever. It’s an odd feeling, standing there constrained, blindfolded, gagged and all but naked while complete strangers feel you up but I would find myself drifting away, stood there, enjoying it all. My world seemed centred on the tight straps that bound my prick. God it felt good!

Mr. H announced that it was to be another handicap event. I could feel the sulky jerk as they attached the weights; as the favourite, I would be carrying the greatest handicap. When the brakes were released and I was taken towards the race track I found the sulky harder to pull, harder to control. Even so, I didn’t do too badly in the first heat. I got away in front and was able to hold off the challenge without too many problems. However, all that extra weight knocked some of the stuffing out of me so, when it came to the second heat, I failed to get in front and it was only by giving it everything I had that I was able to overtake on the very last lap. Even then I couldn’t get cleanly past and the final dash for the finish line was neck and neck. The punters loved it, especially when I won.

There was only a one race gap before I was led out again for the third heat. As we went past the bookie’s stalls I noticed that the odds on me were lengthening. The punters weren’t blind to the way I was struggling against all the weight I was carrying. I wasn’t quite the certainty I had been before.

Right from the start of the third heat I found it hard, right from the start I fell behind and, right from the start, I failed to find the strength or the stamina to make the push I needed. On the back straight of the seventh lap Pete gave me the signal and I really tried my very best but the other jockey was ready for it and his pony put on a spurt at the same time and, even with me giving it my all, my legs simply failed to respond. For the whole of the eighth lap Pete was urging me on. If he had had a whip I’m sure he would have used it. Not that it would have made any difference. The other pony was, if anything, pulling further away and we came in a couple of lengths short.

I all but collapsed. Not only had I raced my heart out, I didn’t have the adrenalin of winning to prop me up afterwards. All I wanted to do was go somewhere, lie down and get my breath back but, attached to the sulky, this was not an option. I even got some boos from the stands which was pretty demeaning. Someone took hold of my bridle and, completely exhausted, I was led from the ring.

Pete was wiping me down in the centre circle when Mr. H came over.

“I think you may have overdone the handicapping, Mr. H” Pete said to him.

“Always good for the bookies when the favourite fails to win,” Mr. H replied with a chuckle. “How is he?”

“A bit winded but he’ll be fine in a minute or two. If you’re putting him in the post meet races you might want to take some of the weight off.”

“What, and have him winning all the time? Where’s the fun in that?”

“Hello, Mr. H, this College Boy, he’s a bit special, even if he did make a muck of the last race.” I turned to look but, with the blinkers on, this newcomer was out of view.”

“Hello, Tel. Yeah, he is a bit special.”

“So how about a blow job? How about I take him to the stalls? How much are you charging?”

“Sorry, Tel, he’s party only, Mr. Masons orders.”

“Party only? Is he to good for us plebs, then? You know I can’t afford the entrance fee for the party, not on what I earn.”

“Sorry, Tel, it’s really not my decision and, if you’ve got any problems then you’d better take them up with Mr. Mason. Here, why don’t you take a look at some of the others? Black Coffee, for example…” and, together, Mr. H and Tel wandered off.

Tel wasn’t the only punter that wanted my ‘services’ and, time and time again, either Mr. H or Pete had to explain that I was ‘party only’. I put two and two together. This was what Mr. H had told me about right at the beginning, this was my USP. By limiting my availability he was raising my desirability and this helped persuade the punters to shell out the entrance fee for the party. I had no idea what these ‘stalls’ were but, judging by the length of time the other ponies were away, they couldn’t be far. The idea of being taken round the back of the warehouse to give blow jobs to those who could afford them wasn’t particularly appealing.

Of course, being unavailable for blow jobs meant that I was available for all the post meet races. In particular, Jed had won the main race and, with me losing in the heats, we had never raced each other. Quite a few of the punters commented that this was the fixture they had come to see.

“Come on, Mr. H,” a particularly persistent punter urged. “College Boy and Dark Arrow; you know that will get the money in. But take off all that weight. Head to head, mano e mano, that’s what we want. I liked what you did that time when the loser had to give the winner a blow job. Makes it personal, like.”

This got an enthusiastic response and Mr. H was never shy to give the punters what they wanted so, in short order, Jed and I were lined up, weight free, for a four lap race. I was a little concerned about the distance. Jed, with his greater strength, tended to get away first and was quicker over the short distances whereas I had more stamina and came back at him later on. At least the weights were off.

When Mr. H announced the race there was quite a cheer from the stands followed by a bit of a rush to the bookies stalls. Mr. H played into this and, as part of the build up, Jed and I were paraded back and forth in front of the stands. Each time we went past each other he would look me in the eye and glare. Mind you, I was giving as good as I got. I began to understand why they have the weigh-in before a big boxing match the way they do.

As the queues at the bookies stalls died down we were led out onto the course, lined up and put under starters orders. The starter raised his flag. I watched him intently, checking for the slightest sign that…

And we were off. I tried, I really tried, but, like it or not, Jed was faster away and out in front before the first bend. I couldn’t play the waiting game, I had to stay with him, I had to keep right on his tail. I couldn’t afford to let him open up any sort of a gap.

On each of the straights Pete would give me the signal and I’d try to go past. Each time I couldn’t make it before the corner and he’d have to hold me off. On a positive note, each time I was getting closer. But this was only four laps, I was running out of time, I was running out of track. We came to the last straight and I was still behind him There, at the end, was the winning line. It was now or never. I searched for every ounce of determination I could find. I had no more strength left, this was pure adrenalin. By half way down the straight I had pulled level with the other jockey; there were no more corners, position didn’t matter, it was all about who was in front. I was nearly there, nearly up to him. Pete was screaming, Jed’s jockey was screaming, the crowd was screaming but my entire focus was the finish line getting closer by the second.

With a roar that filled the warehouse we passed through the finish line. All I had to do now was stop, stop before the corner that was… I jinked to the left and collided with Jed and the whole kit and caboodle went down in a heap.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a photo finish. We’re reviewing the video and we’ll have a result for you as soon as we can.”

Helped by Pete and Jed’s jockey we got to our feet and were led back to the centre circle. We were arranged facing each other in front of the judges table while they reviewed video of the finish, running it back and forth, back and forth. Jed looked nervous but I guess I did as well.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner and the winner is… by a short nose… College Boy!”

Talk about the place went wild. However, through all the cheering, through all the hullabaloo, there was Jed staring at me and, if looks could kill, I’d have been so, so dead.

“Blow Job! Blow job! Blow job!” someone in the crowd chanted and, in moments, the rest of them took it up. For some this was the high point of the night. With everyone watching, cheering, shouting, my prick was unfastened from its straps, Jed’s bit was removed from his mouth, I was fitted with a condom, and Jed was forced to his knees. Much as I still hated him I felt for the guy. His humiliation was complete.

It was actually quite difficult to come. Although Jed was pretty skilled at giving blow jobs I could feel his humiliation and crowing over him felt wrong. On the other hand the crowd wanted a show and I had to pretend to be cock of the walk. In the end this helped; it wasn’t me who came, it was the character I was playing. As I thrust my hips towards Jed, so they picked up the rhythm and clapped along. It felt as unreal as if it were a Saturday Night TV show; ‘Strictly Blow-jobs’ or something. In the end friction did its thing and, as I climaxed, I threw my head back and cried out as the pent up frustration of having been turned on all evening burst from me and I got the feeling, if not the reality, of pumping my juice down Jed’s throat.

Mr. H was keen to restart the racing. After all, no races means no betting means no income. Jed and I were led away. I had quite a crowd around me but, even so, I was drained, physically and emotionally. Pete did his best to keep most of them at bay but I was still being harassed. Mind you, there were plenty of tips being stuck into my harness by grateful winners.

“Come along, ladies and gentleman, let’s give the lad some air,” Mr. Mason came over and, as so often at the moment, as soon as he arrived, my life became easier.

There was still plenty of interest and still quite a crowd around me but they gave me a bit more room and Pete was able to start massaging some life back into my legs.

“I wouldn’t race him again tonight,” Pete commented. “Not if you want anything out of him at the party.”

“Fair enough. He didn’t hurt himself in that fall, did he?”

“Nah, he’s fine. Fit as a fiddle.”

“Do his blinkers back up, will you. It will stop him getting distracted.”

“OK, Mr. Mason, you’re the boss.”

Pete adjusted my blinkers and, once again, I was blindfolded. I’m not sure what Mr. Mason meant about getting distracted but, increasingly, I was finding that being blindfolded, gagged and harnessed to the sulky put me in a strange place. I would zone out, just stand there, becoming completely passive. The hands that groped me, and there was always one or two who wanted to, were disembodied, ethereal. My erection, which had dissipated after the blow job, was back in force.

And all of a sudden it was over. Pete chased the last few punters away and undid enough of the harness to let me do the rest. Along with the other ponies I wandered off towards the shower area unbuckling things as I went.

Jed was understandably furious. This was the second time he had been publicly humiliated in this way and, naturally, he blamed me. However, with me under Mr. Mason’s protection, there was very little he could do about it. He didn’t say or do anything as we all showered together but he kept giving me looks; looks that would have killed if only they could. I made sure we were not in the same minibus as we made our way to the party.

Once more I was picked out from the rest as soon as we arrived. I was directed to the same alcove as last time where, as before, Mr. Mason was sat chatting with friends. I went towards him, expecting to be invited to sit on his lap but, before got there he looked up and saw me.

“Ah, Ben, you’re here at last. Barry Jarman has been asking after you. Go and keep him happy, will you?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Mason, I don’t know who Mr. Jarman is. How do I find him?”

Mr. Mason raised an arm over his head and clicked his fingers. Immediately one of the waitresses came over.

“More champagne, Mr. Mason?” she said holding out her tray.

“No thanks, Maureen. Can you take this young man over to Mr. Jarman.”

“Of course, Mr. Mason, I’d be delighted. Follow me.”

She led me through the party to one of the larger rooms where there was half a dozen men sat talking to each other. It was easy to tell who was the boss; he was the one holding court, the one the others were deferring to, and I didn’t really need the waitress to tell me that this was Mr. Jarman. I went over and stood next to him.

“Ah, College Boy, so good of you to join us. I lost quite a bit of money when you fucked up in the third heat.” He reached out and, inevitably, his hand went up the leg of my shorts and he grabbed me around the balls, pulling me towards him.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Jarman, I tried my best.”

“I’m sure you did. And don’t worry, I won all the money back again when you beat Dark Arrow so I’m all square on the night. Now, be a good lad and stand up on the table, give us a twirl, let’s have a look at you.”

I wondered about clearing the table first but decided against it. Stepping as daintily as I could between the condoms, coke and used glasses, I got up on the table. Mr. Jarman had asked for a ‘twirl’ so I gave him one and got a chorus of wolf whistles in response. I played up to this, playing the coquette and they lapped it up. That suited me down to the ground. Any nerves, any reservations I might have about what I was doing, were easier to deal with if I hid them behind a role. This wasn’t me, it was just a part I was playing and the role of sex mad floozy suited both me and the punters.

September 2018
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