Chapter 3

Next came the bridle. “Close your eyes,”

Charles instructed. “It’ll go on easier if you can’t see what I’m

doing.” A slim belt slipped around my neck like a collar and my

hands flew up to make sure it wouldn’t choke me. Charles slapped

them away. Beneath his breath, I heard him mutter, “Should’ve done

the hooves first.”

Another belt went around my forehead, and

twin straps on either side of my head framed my ears to connect the

belt to the collar. When I raised my hands again, Charles didn’t

stop me from running an experimental hand over the bridle. A

triangle of stiff leather stood up on either side of my head—ears,

I assumed—and hard plastic shields framed my face at eye-level. I

opened one eye again, then the other, only to find that my

peripheral vision was gone. “What are these?” I asked, plucking at

the shields. “I don’t like them.”

“Blinders,” came Charles’s reply. He stepped

directly in front of me so I could see him and gave a sympathetic

grin. “Welcome to a horse’s life, Mr. Drew. Hold out your hands,

please.”

I did as I was told, and watched Charles

retrieve the horseshoes from the table. They were attached to

gloves fashioned into hooves. Inside each hoof was a thin steel rod

that I curled my hands around in a strong grip as Charles snapped

the gloves into place. Under my breath, I muttered, “What the

hell?”

“Ponies don’t talk,” Charles reminded me.

“Just a few final touches before you’re ready to go. Sit.” He

pointed at the only chair and knelt down to guide my feet into the

waiting boots. They had a slight heel and snapped up the side like

vintage ladies’ shoes, but hooves poked out below the black fringe

around my ankle. I had no idea anyone went all out like this just

for a little kink in their sex lives. How much did all this pony

paraphernalia cost? Did people actually dothis behind

closed bedroom doors? Wouldn’t a regular fuck suffice?

I didn’t really want to know. Once the boots

were in place, Charles helped me stand. I tottered a bit when he

moved away—the way my foot clicked on the floor meant that there

were horseshoes nailed to the bottom of the boots, as well.

Shifting from one foot to the other, I listened to the noise the

shoes made on the hardwood floor and wondered if Charles would get

pissed if I asked him to take all this crap off. Thanks for

dressing me but I’m done playing now.Somehow I didn’t think

that would fly. Nodding at the saddle on the table, I asked, “Do I

have to wear that, too?”

“Not as a beginner,” Charles replied. From

the straps hanging on the wall, he selected a pair of thin reins

and a long fall of hair—a horse’s tail. “Turn around, Mr. Drew,” he

said.

For a moment I thought he was going to call

me Mr. Ed. Hoofed gloves or not, I would’ve had to hurt him then.

But, since he didn’t, I complied and turned my back to him. The

tail snapped into place on the belt above my butt, and the reins

attached to steel rings on the bridle on either side of my mouth.

Faint hairs from the tail brushed along the back of my thighs,

ticklish and strange. When I reached behind me to brush them away,

Charles caught my wrist and snapped something onto it. “What are

you doing?” I wanted to know. I knew I should’ve hit him when I had

the chance.

“A hobble,” he explained, securing my other

wrist behind my back, too. “When standing, a pony is always

hobbled. It keeps you from messing with the tack.” Taking my reins

in one hand, Charles yanked open the curtains and led me out of the

small dressing room. “You’re as ready as you’ll ever be,” he told

me. Before I could answer, he tugged on the reins and reminded me,

“No talking now.”

Ahead, a bored woman in a latex Lolita getup

stood in the far corner of the room, clipboard in hand. Beside her,

a dozen people dressed like me stood in a group, arms secured

behind their backs and reins tethered to a chrome railing. Charles

pulled me up to the group and tied my reins onto the rail with the

others. “His name is Drew,” he told the woman, who scribbled

something down on her clipboard.

I turned to keep the groom in sight, but he

slipped behind one of my blinders and disappeared. Then I tried to

see the faces of the ponies beside me, but they shied away when I

stared at them. From the corner of my mouth, I whispered, “Sean?”

No one answered, and the ponies closest to me moved away. “Hey,

Sean, you here?”

Something slapped across my ass with a

stinging blow, and I whirled to find the woman with her clipboard

in both hands, ready to strike again. “No talking, pony,” she

growled.