Wednesday Special. From Skinnie Stallion

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Hi Everyone

   The Wednesday round up is put on hold for one week, but will hopefully return next week, with the usual collection of stuff, But this week I have clearer the decks for or friend Skinnie Stallion to present the first part of his brilliant story A stable Existence.

  As ever this lives in Skinnies version of the Andyverse, but is no less valid than any other. It was inspired by a piece of art previewed on Patreon a few weeks ago, a piece which you will see glimpses of until it's final reveal.

  So it's over to you Skinnie Stallion,oh and one more thing, Skinnie may be absent for a few days so please bear with him, because he will answer all your comments.

XX

Andy

A Stable Existence By Skinnie Stallion

1. Sold

The gavel banged down.   “Sold to Mistress Aaliyah!”  Andy immediately found himself being led off the stage.   This couldn’t be happening.   Not again.   He’d been sold once before at a Sisterhood auction back in England when Aunt Jane had gate-crashed one of their functions, but this was different.  There was no Aunt Jane this time even though that whole experience had been much more humiliating for her than him.  But since the bounty hunters caught him, he had no clue what had happened to her.  He’d enough problems of his own.  Once the hunters had hooded him, he had no idea where they’d taken him.

He'd been kept in silence and isolation in a darkened cell.  He’d lost track of time and dreaded to think what he looked like.   Earlier that day they’d brought a hairdresser and beautician to ‘sort him out’ as his warder put it.   They’d given him a cute little pink ra-ra skirted latex dress with matching headband, latex bobby-sox, and pink Louboutin heels to wear: maybe his fortunes were turning.  It was nice to be clean, groomed and properly dressed, and wonderful to be wearing make-up again and feel properly feminine.  Maybe Aunt Jane had negotiated his release?  

And then he found he was being auctioned.

As he was led away, Andy went into shock.   There was no Aunt Jane.  He wanted to cry out but knew The Sisterhood would just gag him if he tried.  And then they gagged him anyway.  A latex gimp hood was roughly pulled over his head as he entered the service elevator.  Its ball gag insert was thrust into his mouth and a strap round the back of his head tightened it in place.  Darkness returned.  He was worried what the tight hood might do to his make-up.  Some steps from the elevator and then he felt warm night air. Someone whispered softly in his ear: “Step forward, Mees Aandy, and valk up zhe ramp.”  The female voice was warm and richly accented.  There was a gentle tug on the rope binding his wrists.  He edged forwards and tottered slightly in his heels on the incline.  “Carefool, Mees Andy.  Bibut. Slowly.”  It felt like he was walking the plank.   “Naeam.  Zat’s the vay.”   His heels that had clicked on the ramp now squelched on the floor.  From the echoey sound, he realised that he was standing in a metal box.  He felt a something tighten round his waist and realised he’d been cinched by a rope or leather strap.  His wrists were attached to a rail on the wall.  “Zere are you are daarleeng.  All zafe and zecure. Greep the rail, Mees Andy, as we start and stop.  We vill ride two hours to zhe ranch.” 

‘Ranch?’ thought Andy.  He was perplexed.   He heard whoever had placed him in the box leave, and then there was a loud clank.   Immediately the echo in the box became more obvious.  Every noise resonated.  Noise that increased as a diesel engine growled into life and the box lurched forward.   Andy had to hold the rail to steady himself.  He sniffed and wrinkled his nose.   The box stank.  He realised what he was standing in.  And in his lovely Loubous.  

As he tried to stay steady in what he now realised was a horse box, he mused about the lady’s accent.   ‘Italian?   No, more exotic.   Greek?    No, it didn’t have the somewhat staccato intonation?  Russian?  No, it lacked some of the guttural sounds.  Indian?  No, it lacked the depth and turn of phrase.   Turkish?   Maybe.   It was mellifluous, but that still didn’t seem to fit entirely with the rich timbre and sing-song tone.

2. Captivity

Back at the mansion in old Los Angeles where Andy had been held, a different conversation with altogether harsher voices was taking place.  

The penis gag was removed from Jane’s mouth.   That was better.   She detested having that thing in her mouth.  The real thing might be occasionally acceptable and had been one of her occasional treats for his Lordship, God rest his soul, but that had been quite enough.  Sucking on a rubber one was horrible and reminded her of the last time she’d been tormented by the Sisterhood after that ridiculous  Fundraiser function.  “You’ll be pleased to know tonight’s auction went well.”   Jane shivered at the thought of what might be happening to her boy.   Surely they’d not auctioned him again?  And she’d not been there to try to purchase him  and save him.   “He went for a very good price.  It’s amazing what people will pay for a pretty sissy, even for just a one year lease.”   

Jane wanted to curse the platinum blonde Mistress in front of her but knew it would only open up another world of pain.  Nevertheless, she couldn’t stop herself from croaking, “If anything happens to him...” 

“If anything happens to him, what?   I’m sure a lot is going to happen to him.   And you’ll get a stroke from the crop for that.  I’ll get Chantelle to come in and administer it.”

“Chantelle!?”

“Yes, Chantelle.   Didn’t you know?   Oh, poor Jane.   Chantelle’s always worked for us.   Did you really think she was attracted to a wannabe has-been like you?”

“Bitch!”

“I think that’ll make it ten strokes rather than one.   And just when your bottom had been healing.”

And then her colleague spoke: “Understand us Jane, we love your spirit, your mind, your beauty, your body, we are so alike, but your ill-advised, unauthorised and arrogant appearance on American TV was quite unacceptable.  There are only two true mistresses of The Sisterhood, and they are my sister and I, and you Jane - arrogant, proud, vain, immodest Jane – will kneel before us. ”

Her sister continued: “Do not worry, your beloved nephew will learn nothing of this.  To him you will still be his adored Aunt Jane, strong, unbowed and he does adore you.  He totally does.  Your manipulation of him is proof of that.”   (‘It’s not manipulation, it’s love’ thought Jane.   ‘What would these two know about love?’)   “You have created the most desirable feminised boy in the world with no fuss, no threats, just a sweet young man wrapped around his Aunt’s finger willing to do and be whatever she desires.”  (‘And what he knows, in his heart, he desires,’ Jane thought.  ‘These two had no understanding of him.’)  “But know this Jane, you will show humility before us, or you will be taught it within the heat beneath our skirts.”

Her colleague continued, “Your Boy will kneel too.  Since you joined The Sisterhood, he is contracted to us.  We control his appearance and his appearances.  He will be brought to heel.   You should read any paperwork that you sign more closely: we own him, like we now own you.”

With knees raw from the flagged stone floor of her dungeon cell, collared and restrained by arm-spreader and leg-spreader, Jane could only comply.  “Yes, Mistresses,” she said grudgingly.

 “And who knows, we may allow you to see him.   If you’re good, that is.”

“You’re not drinking our lovely champagne.  Silly girl.   Might us well put your gag back in.   Time to get Mistress Chantelle.”     Jane’s mouth closed round the rubber protuberance, and she was left to ponder her fate.   And Andy’s.

3. Arrival “You need vaater after your ride,” the voice whispered. As Andy’s hood was removed, he closed his eyes then blinked, expecting to be dazzled by the light but found himself standing and tethered in a faintly lit wooden stall. “Dreenk. Ma. Put your lips round the spigot. Prezz against ze ring.” Andy approached it gingerly. In the gloom he could see an anatomically shaped metal protrusion. “Come on, Mees Andy. I’m zure you’ve zucked before.” As Andy opened his mouth, he just had time to glimpse a pair of golden dagger heels, before the hood was pulled down enough to cover his eyes. “Zlide your lipz along the zhaft.” The domed head slid against his tongue. “Zat’s the way. Now prezz the plate.” Three inches of the spigot filled his mouth before his lips reached the face of the ring. “Prezz hard. Zee vaater will come.” He had to push forward with his head to get enough pressure on the ring while curling his tongue round the bulbous tip that started to dribble cool refreshing water into his mouth. “Zat’s good. Lotz of ma. You’d had practice zucking, Mees Andy.” “Vhen you’re vatered, you can zettle down in your stall. I vill be back in ze morning to hoze you and groom you myself. Zen ve vill start your training. You vill call me Mistrezz Aaliyah. Tomorrow you vill be broken to the bit.”

4. Training

Andy was still sleeping every night in his stall in the stable despite spending much of the day in the house as a maid.   He slept naked under a blanket, tethered by his collar, his wrists cuffed, and hobbled be a chain around his ankles.   First thing every morning the stablegirls would hose him down and groom him.   They’d fit him into his open-crotch latex bodysuit and straitjacket, binding his arms behind him .   Then they’d sit him down and lock on his ponyboots.   Of all his ponygirl regalia, he loved his boots most.   They might lack a heel but now that he was used to them and could balance in them, he felt delightfully feminine.  Since Auntie had never let him wear platform heels, he adored the way the hooves gave him extra height.  He liked to show the stablegirls how he now stood in them without a wobble.  Then he’d stand while they harnessed him: a bridle attached to the posture collar on his suit, and a crotch strap to secure his buttplug and tail, and something else that they didn’t want flopping around.  Pony ears and headpiece completed his ensemble.  

Mistress Aaliyah would come down to watch the final stages of  his preparation.   Only when she was satisfied with his grooming did she lead him out on a rein to the paddock.  At first she added a Martingale to stop him tossing his head but he soon learned to control his movements. He realised that the posture collar was helping to walk more erect and he learned to welcome its firm embrace.  Every day she took him through dressage steps.  Initially it was just training to walk and halt at her command.   Her commands were quiet and gentle.   Even when he had difficulties, she never raised her voice.   She might carry a riding whip, but she never used it. The bit and the reins had been useful at first but now  her voice was enough to control him.   Andy had learned to like that calm, soft, mellifluous voice with its occasionally bizarre pronunciations.  

They were now moving on to the trot.   Andy thought this would be easy but found the required knee lift harder than expected: he needed to get fitter and stronger. Mistress Aaliyah was patient with him.   “Again, Mees Andy.  Again, pleaze.”

Each session would end with her playing music and getting him to keep his steps in time.  This was easier.  It reminded him of dancing with Aunt Jane.   It was always a useful jolt since he was becoming increasingly drawn to Mistress Aaliyah.   She looked a lot like his Auntie but was taller and had a more olive complexion.   How could he put it?   She was nice.   He felt safe and secure when he was harnessed and with Mistress Aaliyah.  She might carry a crop but she never used it on him. It was nice that he was plugged too when he was with her: that made it so much better.   The feel of his tail brushing against the backs of his thighs was a nice reminder that he was hers.

To Be Continued........

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