Colt
By Musuko

Tim stood with his arms folded and his feet spread, a proud figure of strength and confidence. And why shouldn't he be? He was lord of his little kingdom, the farmhouse, the stables, the barn, and the acres of fields and forests all around it. Now, greeting a guest to his kingdom, he had every right to stand tall as its rightful king.
	“Hey Laff!”
	“Hey,” huffed Lafayel, dragging the first of many heavy duffel-bags out of the back seat of the taxi. “A little help?”
	Together, they trudged up the path to the farmhouse. Tim turned to wave as the taxi pulled away.
	“How's dad?” said Tim.
	“He's fine.”
	“Just fine, huh? Did he give you any messages for me?”
	“Sends his love and stuff.”
	Tim glanced back. Lafayel was wearing a face that looked like it had been chewing on a spider. “Cheer up.” Tim pushed open the door with his knee and lumbered inside with the bags. “We're gonna have a great time this summer, just you and me.”
	“Great,” muttered Lafayel.

The stables stank. The wheelbarrow full of manure-soaked straw stank. And, thanks to the sweltering sun steaming the tin roof, and the muck that managed to get into his fur regardless of how careful he was, Lafayel stank too.
	“Yeah, real great time, big brother,” he grumbled, trying to balance the rake under his arm and lift the wheelbarrow's handles at the same time. From over one of the stall dividers, a gargantuan equine head emerged, leaning over and staring at him with one great, unblinking watery brown eye.
	“What're you looking at?” he snapped.
	The horse, of course, said nothing. It huffed a snorting breath through its nose and slowly blinked.
	“This is your shit I'm cleaning up, you know that right?” He grunted as he pushed the wheelbarrow, having to fight to get the wheel out of the rut of straw it had wedged itself into. “You better appreciate this!”
	The horse said nothing.
	As he made his way outside, from the sweltering, sweaty, stinking heat of the stable, out into the marginally more bearable clean heat of the sun, Lafayel made a list of all the things he would rather be doing than cleaning out his brother's stables. He started with “playing video games”, continued with “watching a television show”, and soon concluded with “anything in the world that isn't shovelling horse muck”.
	He tipped the wheelbarrow over the growing pile a little way from the stables, then turned around to head back and reload. On the way, he noticed Tim standing on the porch of the farmhouse, sipping from a mug. Tim waved to him. Lafayel responded with his middle finger.

The telephone's speaker crackled and hissed in Tim's ear. Out here, the signal was poor at best. Through the wash of ocean-like noise, Tim could just barely hear his father's voice.
	“You knew it was going to be difficult,” said his father. “You just have to be patient.”
	“He's not showing any improvement, though,” said Tim. “It's been a week. I'd have thought there'd be some changes to his behaviour. But he's still as moody and withdrawn as when he arrived. He flipped me off today. And I'm pretty sure he's wetting the bed. Did you know about that?”
	“Yeah, I know about that.”
	“I just don't think this is working, dad. It was a nice idea, but-”
	“Do you remember when you were his age?”
	Tim flushed. “Of course I remember, dad.”
	“And do you remember what I did to set you straight?”
	“Yes,” he said, almost too quiet to be heard over the hiss on the line. “I remember.”
	“Why don't you do the same with Lafayel?”
	Silence for a while, broken only by the static.
	“Are you still there, son?”
	“I'm still here, dad. I just...what did you mean by that?”
	“You know exactly what I meant, son. You remember what I did to set you straight, so you can do it for Lafayel. Pay it forward. It worked for you, so it'll work for him.”
	“But...are you sure?”
	“If honest hard work and clean-living isn't working, then yes, I am sure. I'd have done it myself if I weren't so busy with work. Speaking of which, we're being called back in. I've got to go.”
	“Bye dad.”
	“Good luck, son.”
	Tim set the phone down. Do to Lafayel what dad did to Tim all those years ago. And with dad's explicit permission and blessing. For Lafayel's own good.
	Right...he had some things to get prepared.

Lafayel had read stories on the internet about midnight kidnappings. Some well-meaning, but deranged, parents would pay for their rebellious kids to be snatched from their beds and taken away to some camp in the wilderness to be forced into flying straight and true. Lafayel could sympathise with their plight after being sent out into the country to slave away for his stupid brother on his stupid farm for the whole summer while his dad was off on some long and stupid business trip.
	He could sympathise even more when a hand shook him awake to see a dark figure standing over him, right before the bag went over his head and the zip-tie snicked tight around his wrists.

Cursing and shouting didn't work. Kicking and clawing didn't either. His assailant had a good hold of him, slinging Lafayel's smaller body over his shoulder. The warmth of the house changed to the cold air of night in an instant, bleeding all the heat from his pyjamas. Shivering, whimpering, he could do nothing as he was carried across the crunching gravel of the path, expecting to hear the clunk of a van's door, and after that the roar of an engine driving him away to a fate unknown.
	Instead, he heard the rattle of the stable's door latch, then smelled the potent tang of the horses. The air was warm again, this time with the musk-laden heat of the animals. Lafayel stayed quiet.
	He dropped heavily into straw, wincing as his elbow drove all the way through to the dirty concrete below. He rolled onto his side and tried to prop himself up. In the next instant he was dazed and blinking away blinding light as the hood was whisked off his head.
	When his vision cleared, he saw Tim standing over him. They were in one of the empty stalls in the stable.
	“What the hell's going on?” squeaked Lafayel. “Is this your idea of some stupid prank?!”
	“No prank, little brother. This is education.”
	Tim pulled a knife from his belt. Lafayel froze.
	“W-wait a minute! What are you...”
	The knife cut through the zip-ties like they were nothing. Lafayel instinctively rubbed his wrists, distracted for a moment. A moment was all that Tim needed. From beneath the straw he pulled a heavy chain, quickly looping it around Lafayel's ankle, pulling it tight. A padlock went through two links, closing with a sharp click. Tim sprang back to the far end of the stall, just in time to evade Lafayel's rage-filled lunge. The chain yanked taut after a few steps and Lafayel stumbled, nearly falling. He turned to look; the chain's other end was attached to a sturdy hook cemented into the floor.
	“Tim, what is this? Tim?!”
	Tim said nothing. He turned away and walked out of the stable, ignoring Lafayel's shouts. A moment later, the light went out, leaving only moonlit darkness.
	“T-Tim?”
	Dozing horses snorted in the darkness around him. Half-blind, he felt his fingers along the chain, trying to find a break. He tugged at the loop around his ankle, trying to slip his foot through it, but it was too tight and just ended up bruising himself. The hook at the other end wouldn't budge, no matter how hard he pulled. He felt along the walls of the stall, finding nothing but painted wood and a few empty hooks. There were no handy hacksaws within reach. He was stuck. He sat down in the stinking straw, hugging his knees, wishing he was somewhere else, and tried not to cry.

 Dawn came a million years later. If Lafayel had slept at all, he couldn't tell. The stinking dark of the stables matched the dark behind his eyelids. The straw was soft, but scratchy. It wormed its way in through every available gap in his pyjamas and tickled him in the worst places. The musky manure smell soaked into his body. It was everywhere.
	The door creaked and Tim appeared at the entrance to the stall. Lafayel curled up and hugged his legs. In Tim's hands was a bucket.
	“Tim, what's...”
	Freezing water arced out from the bucket and fell in a drenching torrent across Lafayel. He shrieked and threw an arm up to shield his face. Immediately, he began to shiver.
	“What the hell?!”
	“Take your clothes off.”
	“What?!”
	“And stop saying 'what'. Take your clothes off. Now.”
	Lafayel hugged his arms around himself and shivered. Water dripped down his face and into his eyes. His teeth chattered. “N-no.”
	“Take them off.”
	“No!”
	“Last chance...”
	Lafayel gritted his teeth and glared. Tim sighed and set down the bucket. He moved out of sight, and when he returned he was carrying a pair of shears.
	“Hold still.”
	“Tim, please! Stop!”
	Tim's hand closed around the front of Lafayel's neck and squeezed. He pushed, and down Lafayel went, squirming and squealing on his back as the shears sliced through his pyjamas, scraping over his skin. Tears came, merging invisibly with the cold water.
	Tim tossed the wet, tattered scraps of clothing over the stall divider.
	“I'll be back in a minute,” he said.

Leather has a scent that's even more potent and overpowering than the musk of the horses. The smell reached his nose before his eyes could recognise what they were seeing. There were so many straps and buckles, gleaming chrome and soft, supple leather, glistening black. This was a harness. That much was clear. What wasn't so clear was why Tim was holding it, here, now, with a grin on his face.
	But Lafayel could guess.
	“Not going to say 'what' this time?” said Tim.
	Lafayel shook his head. He was hard up against the stall wall, curled up tight, shivering at the end of the chain.
	“Come here, little brother.”
	Another million years passed. Tim raised an eyebrow. Slowly, Lafayel uncurled and rose to his feet, arms still around himself to fight off the chill, leaving his naked body's modesty unprotected. Tim unslung the straps from his arm and held them up, like a jacket being offered for wearing. Lafayel shuffled forward, dragging the chain.
	“Do you know what this is?”
	Lafayel hesitated, then nodded. A sideways glance confirmed it; the horse two stalls over was wearing a similar harness across its body. He had seen Tim hooking ploughs and traps to horses wearing harnesses like that. The harness in front of him, though, was far smaller, sized perfectly to fit him.
	“Good,” said Tim. “Hold your arms up.”
	“Please stop this,” whimpered Lafayel, barely a whisper. “I'm sorry. I'll be good. I won't swear or complain any more.”
	“I know you won't,” said Tim, his voice soft. “Hold your arms up.”
	Lafayel did as he was told.

Horses made this look easy. Lafayel cursed under his breath, with what little breath he could spare. He gripped the straps across his shoulders in his fists, adding a tiny bit of support against the straining chafing. His bare feet slid and stumbled in the soft, clumpy dirt. Sweat trickled down his naked body. His knees were filthy from repeated falls. The plough dragged behind him, heavy and cumbersome. And when Tim revealed that this was just one of the lightweight 'training' ploughs that he used with the young colts, Lafayel wanted to just fall face-first in the dirt and die.
	“I think that's what I'll call you,” said Tim. “Colt. How's that sound, little brother?”
	Lafayel said nothing. He just concentrated on pulling. Get this field done, and he could stop. Then maybe Tim would let him have a hot shower and a proper bed to collapse in, and this whole stupid prank would be over.
	Tim tapped his crop against Lafayel's hip. “I said, how's that sound, little brother?”
	“It sounds fine, Tim,” gasped Lafayel, thinking precisely the opposite.
	“Glad to hear it. Keep pulling. You're doing a great job. You're almost halfway there.”
	Lafayel decided he would never again complain about having to muck out the stables. He lowered his head, gritted his teeth, and concentrated on planting one foot in front of the other.

A hot shower and a comfortable bed were not waiting for him at the end of the ordeal. Tim unhooked him from the plough and led him on the end of the rope back towards the house. At the last moment, he veered away towards the stables.
	“B-but,” said Lafayel.
	“No talking, Colt.”
	Instead of a comfortable bed, he was given the straw pile in the stall. Instead of a hot shower, he was treated to a drenching from a cold hose. No matter where he danced and dodged in the stall, the stream of water followed him, merciless and unstoppable.
	“Please, Tim! You've got to stop th-mmph!”
	A blast of water into his open mouth reduced him to coughing. He dropped onto his knees and cowered, trembling and crying.
	“There, nice and clean,” said Tim. The stream died away to a dribble.
	Lafayel rubbed his shoulders and shivered. “I'm c-c-cold,” he said.
	“Don't worry. I'll be back in a little while with some things that will help you warm up.”
	Held once again by the chain, Lafayel waited.

“Hold your hands out.”
	“No way.”
	“It'll be easier for you if you just do what I say.”
	“No!”
	“Pony...”
	“I'm not a pony! I'm your brother! You can't treat me like this! I'll tell dad! I'll tell the police! I'll...”
	A soft tapping noise interrupted him. Tap tap tap, in rapid succession. It was Tim, tapping the end of the crop against the wall of the stall. Lafayel had yet to feel the full sting of the crop and wasn't eager to do so.
	“You wouldn't...would you?”
	“I will if I have to. If you don't hold your hands out.”
	“But...but I'm not a pony, Tim!”
	“Hold your hands out.”
	“Why are you doing this?”
	The crop whistled as it sliced through the air, swinging a wide arc towards Lafayel's thigh. A pain like a thousand bee stings bit into his flesh, wrapping right around across his rump. He lurched away from it in a spasm of panic, tripping over the chain and falling backwards until the stall wall broke his fall. He stared at Tim, tears in his eyes, mouth agape.
	“Hold your hands out,” said Tim, his voice showing no anger, no impatience; just the quiet calm of a parent or teacher who knows what they're doing. With the pain still lingering, and a powerful fear growing, Lafayel timidly held his hands out in front of him.
	“There's a good Colt,” said Tim. He turned slightly to one side and Lafayel could see what he had tucked into the back of his belt. For a moment, he felt the lurch of confusion as his perception struggled to comprehend the strange sight. It looked as if Tim had sprouted a pair of hooves out of his butt. Then his mind caught up and realised that what he was seeing was a pair of hoof-shaped gloves. Tim pulled them free and Lafayel got a better look; they were black, and made of rubber or something similar. His perception adjusted again; these certainly weren't gloves. The hooves looked solid, with no room for anything inside except for a balled-up fist. There was an integrated strap at the wrists, each with a padlock hanging loose. Lafayel figured it out fast; once worn, they weren't coming off again.	
	“Please...” he whispered, before silencing himself. What was the point? He kept his arms out and ready, and watched as a disengaged passenger in his own life as Tim held up the first of the fake hooves and carefully slid the open end over Lafayel's fingers.
	“Make a fist...not yet. When your fingers reach the end. That's it.”
	The rubber was tight. His fingers barely had enough room to move. As he bent them, the pressure of Tim's pull forced his fingers to keep bending. Once they were curled up, they couldn't get uncurled.
	Lafayel felt his heart begin to race. He tried to tug his arm backwards, but Tim had his wrist in his grip now, and he wasn't letting go. Lafayel shook his head and whined quietly, watching Tim fit the padlock. He couldn't move his fingers. They wanted to uncurl, to flex and stretch and be free. But every attempt at movement was met with the firm squeeze of rubber. Lafayel had never experienced claustrophobia until now.
	“Please, Tim! Take it off. I don't like it. It's horrible!”
	“You don't have a choice, Colt. You need to get used to that.” He took hold of Lafayel's other wrist and forced it into the second false hoof. Lafayel stuck his confined hand between his thighs and gripped it there, trying to pull it free. It wouldn't budge.
	Emotional pleading wasn't working. The logical approach?
	“How am I going to eat? And...go to the toilet? Tim!”
	Tim smiled. “Don't you worry about that, Colt. You don't need to worry about how I'm going to take care of you. Ponies don't fill their heads with those kinds of responsibilities.”
	“B-but...”
	“Hold still now. There's more to come.”

Their father probably didn't invent the technique, but he was the one to teach it to Tim, via the effective route of practical application. Where Lafayel stood now, Tim could remember standing many years ago. It seemed so horrible for him now, but it would all make sense in hindsight.
	The principle was simple; when a person could not control their own life properly, control should be taken away from them, their life set back into order and structure, and slowly returned to them once they were ready.
	Control meant everything. And it meant an unsettling level of intimacy. Lafayel would have to come to terms with it; it was just one of many small liberties that he would be denied. Already he had stood naked in front of his brother. Now, though...

“Get away from me!” screamed Lafayel.
	Tim stepped forward. He was in no hurry. Lafayel was at the extent of the chain's reach, backed up against the rear wall of the stall. There was nowhere he could go. The hooves on his hands took a lot of the sting out of any struggle he could put up; certainly, he couldn't scratch. The matching hooves locked to his feet added a further helplessness; their unfamiliar balance made Lafayel unsteady. They kept him teetering on his toes, their rigid shape bending his ankle almost straight. It was like trying to walk in ballerina shoes.
	His mouth, though, remained uncovered. He could probably bite just as well as he could bark. But, Tim had the crop. He tapped it against his hip.
	“Stop being silly, now, Colt. This is happening.”
	“You're a pervert!”
	Tim stepped forward, and Lafayel attempted to find out if his shoulder-blades could burrow through solid wood. They could not.
	“Please, Tim. I don't want to wear...that thing.”
	“Would you rather stay naked?”
	“I don't want either!”
	“It's nothing to be scared of. It won't hurt.”
	“I don't want you touching my junk!”
	Tim placed a hand on Lafayel's chest. Lafayel's hooves came up and ineffectually rubbed against his wrist, trying and failing to grip. The smooth rubber just slid. Tim lifted up the contraption. It looked old; worn metal, scratched and pitted, as if recently cleaned of rust in a hurry. Lafayel had never seen anything like it, but the concept was easy to understand; there was only one area of his body that this thing would fit. The ring would go around...and the tube would go on...
	He bit his lip and felt the warmth rise in his face. No matter what he did, Tim would soon be touching him down there, fitting that creepy thing to him, locking it on. And...then what? Leaving it on there, like the hooves and the harness? He could pee through it, he could tell; that's what the holes at the end must be for. So what was the thing for? The only thing he wouldn't be able to do was...
	His eyes widened and his face fell. Tim noticed and smiled.
	“Figured it out, huh?”
	“No way...”
	“Yes way.”
	“That's sick!”
	“Why does it matter so much, little brother?” Tim's hand slid down Lafayel's chest, over the straps of the harness and his trembling tummy. Lafayel tensed and tried to wriggle away to the side, but Tim's hand darted down, finding and grabbing Lafayel's naked cock and balls, gripping and squeezing, the whole package neatly contained in his hand. “You don't do anything naughty with this, do you?”
	“F-fuck off.”
	“You shouldn't be playing with it,” said Tim, his voice a sing-song mockery of a scolding teacher. “All this does is make sure you won't.”
	“Why do you even have these things?” whined Lafayel.
	Tim said nothing. He kept his hand on Lafayel's crotch, squeezing tighter when Lafayel wriggled too much. His other hand brought the device into position. The latch clicked and the ring swung open in two halves. Lafayel winced as it touched him.
	“Is it pinching?” said Tim.
	“It's c-cold.”
	“It'll soon warm up.”
	Of all the things to suddenly think about, as Tim was manhandling his cock into the little metal tube, Lafayel found himself thinking about roller-coasters. Specifically, he thought of the advice their father had once given a six-year-old Lafayel, when he was too scared to go on the little kid-friendly roller-coaster at a local fair.
	“Son,” his father had said, “you're incapacitated by your fear right now because you have a choice; you can choose either to go on the ride, or you can choose not to. But once you get on the ride and it starts moving, you don't have a choice any more; you have to see it through to the end, and no amount of fear can change that. So, what happens when your fear is useless?”
	Lafayel had shrugged his little shoulders. He glanced at the ride, where other kids were screaming and laughing.
	“When your fear is useless, it goes away. When you're powerless, and you have no choice, you can be brave. And then you can even enjoy yourself. Are you going to be my brave little boy and come enjoy the ride?”
	Lafayel had gone on the ride, and he had enjoyed himself. With no choice but to sit there until the ride ended, a miracle had happened; the oppressing miasma of the fear had lifted, and he had shrieked and giggled in carefree glee, lost in the giddy freedom of not being able to, nor wanting to, care about what happened to him.
	Though Lafayel didn't feel any happiness right now, he did feel the lifting of the fear. He couldn't escape what Tim was doing to him. Tim had all the control. Lafayel had none. Fear was useless now, so it went away. And in the numb emptiness it left behind, a small glimmer of curiosity crept in. Lafayel craned his neck to look down and watch as Tim wrestled the little tube in place and pressed the padlock's bolt home.
	“It feels weird,” he said.
	“You'll get used to it,” said Tim. “Trust me.”

Lafayel slept easily that night. He was too tired to care about the scratchy straw or the stink of horses or the inescapable cold. His body and mind just shut down, finding relief from the aches and stresses of a busy day.
	He dreamed.
	He walked in the sun, over baked fields. The harness was comfortable. His hooves trod sure-footed on the bumpy earth. The bit rested firm against his tongue, and the blinders kept his eyes on the tree-studded horizon. The gentle rumble of the wheels of the cart behind him was an ever-present companion. So too was the instinctive sense that his owner was happy with him, relaxing in the cart. Soon, they would return to the stables and his owner would...

Lafayel burst into wakefulness, blinking and gasping, feeling like he had been hit by a bucketful of cold water. He had to pat himself down just to be sure he hadn't actually been drenched. The stables was cold and dark and quiet, and his crotch ached as if it had been kicked.
	“Ugh,” he gasped. He rolled over onto his side and clutched at the chastity tube. Inside, imprisoned, his cock strained against the metal, the pleasure of a morning hard-on turned into agony. In his misery, the dream faded. He waited, whimpering, for the pain to subside.
	He shuffled over to the far corner of the stall to empty his bladder, aiming for straw that was as far away as possible from where he slept. He shuddered as he thought of what else he might have to do when nature inevitably called again.
	Sleep came less easily this time. He didn't dream again.

“Breakfast!” called Tim, bringing with him a flood of sunshine and fresh air through the stable doors. Lafayel stirred in the straw, covering his eyes with his arm. Then his mind caught up and remembered the confinement of his hands and his...
	He pulled himself upright, groaning. His body ached and itched, and his stomach growled. He staggered to his feet, wobbled, unbalanced, and fell back onto his knees. On all fours, he crawled over to the entrance to his stall, and watched as Tim walked right past with a sack on his shoulder. He moved out of view, but he could hear the horses grow restless, and the soft hiss of feed grain being poured into troughs.
	“How come you fed them first?” said Lafayel, when Tim finally appeared at his stall.
	“Here you go, Colt. Eat up! Today's a big day.”
	Tim set a bucket down on the floor. Inside, half-filling it, were dry oats.
	“Aren't you going to answer me?”
	Tim turned away, seemingly not hearing, or not listening. He returned with another bucket, this one half-filled with water. Neither looked particularly clean. Lafayel crawled over to them; his stomach demanded food, even when it came like this.
	“I can't...nngh.” Lafayel tried and failed to grip the sides of the bucket of oats with his hooved hands. “I can't lift it. Can you take these off?”
	Tim reached down and petted the top of his head, then smiled and walked away. Lafayel didn't bother calling after him.
	“Bastard,” he whispered.
	The hooves were no good for scooping out oats either. They just rolled off before he could get them to his mouth. For a long while he stared at the buckets. He knew what he'd have to do, but couldn't bring himself to do it.
	Finally, he sighed, and remembered the roller-coaster; if there's no choice, you might as well just go with it. He lowered his head down into the bucket and scooped up a mouthful of oats with his teeth. They were dry and horrible, but he recognised them as regular breakfast oats, like you might feed to a baby. At least he wasn't getting real horse food. Once he took a mouthful of water and swilled it all together, the resulting sludge was at least palatable enough to swallow. But only just.
	“Your face is a mess!”
	Lafayel froze, wet oats dripping from his chin. That wasn't Tim's voice. That was a new voice. That was...
	Carl!
	He looked up. Someone was standing at the door. Someone short and slim, with a blaze of red hair on his head. The someone laughed. Definitely Carl!
	“Aren't you gonna say hi?” said Carl, walking over to the stall. He leaned casually against the divider and looked down at Lafayel with a big grin. Lafayel shrank back, trying to hide his body with his arms. The fact that he wasn't completely naked was no comfort when the clothing that he wore was as perverted as this.
	Wait a minute. Why hide at all? If Carl was here, it meant that Tim must have invited him. And there was no way Carl would believe Lafayel did all this to himself; they'd been friends long enough for that to be obvious. That meant Carl knew Tim was behind this. That meant any accusations of perversion rightfully went to Tim, not Lafayel!
	All the same, Lafayel felt himself go bright red, and he kept his arms in front to cover himself up.
	“What are you doing here?” he said.
	“Came to ride a pony,” said Carl. And from his pocket he produced a large key. Lafayel recognised it. Quickly, he shuffled round and brought his chained ankle in front of him.
	“Thank god,” he said. “Unlock me, quick, and get me out of here!”
	Carl crouched down. He did indeed unlock Lafayel's ankle. But before he could utter his thanks, Carl brought the chain swinging up and over Lafayel's neck, looping it around and yanking down hard. Lafayel lost his balance and crashed forwards, landing with his face in the straw, his arms and legs a tangle beneath him.
	“What the hell!?”
	He heard the click of the padlock again. He pushed against the floor to get up, but his head was stuck; the chain was looped snug around his neck and padlocked to the floor an inch below his chin.
	“Carl, what are you doing?” he squealed.
	“Told you,” said Carl, getting up. “Came to ride a pony.”
	“I don't...w-what?”
	Carl moved out of view. Lafayel heard the rattle of a belt buckle. He became acutely aware of the shameful position he was in; head held down, knees on the ground, naked rear held up in the air. He started to realise...
	“You're not gonna...” He whimpered, then yelped, feeling the cold drip of something liquid against his butt-cheeks. “Oh god, you mustn't! You can't!”
	“Can and will,” said Carl. “You're just a pony. You don't get a choice.”
	Carl had definitely been talking to Tim. Lafayel felt the wetness of tears as Carl's finger started to touch and caress, stroking that cold liquid down between his cheeks. His fingertip grazed Lafayel's pucker, making him shudder.
	“Please no,” whimpered Lafayel, defeated, wrapping his arms around his head and squeezing his eyes shut.
	“Don't worry,” said Carl. “You'll like it.”

The worst thing was, he was right.
	It hurt at first. It hurt like nothing else Lafayel had ever felt. It wasn't the sharp, stinging pain of the crop. That was nothing compared to this. It wasn't even like the throbbing ache of the chastity confining an erection. He tried to place the pain in his memories, trying to find a distraction other than screaming and bawling. It was like...being hit in the balls and getting a really bad paper-cut, all rolled together and made ten times worse. He barely even noticed what Carl was doing or saying as he rocked above him, hands on Lafayel's hips, grinding him down against the dirty floor while his cock slammed into his rear.
	Then, gradually at first, then sweeping in a sudden rush, came the change that brought so much shame. The pain ebbed away, as if soothed by a numbing balm. In its place came an uncomfortable feeling of fullness, as if he needed to use the toilet. Instinctively he responded, trying to push outwards. And that's when the discomfort turned into something electric and wonderful, pulsing right the way through to his crotch, where it made his cock spasm against the chastity. He moaned into his arms.
	“See?” panted Carl. “Told you you'd enjoy it.”
	Lafayel couldn't respond. Not with words, anyway. He pushed again, and felt the spark of pleasure ripple through him again. He tried clenching, and that brought a moan to Carl's lips and made his fingers dig deeper into Lafayel's hips. The universe contracted down to a dot; a single point of pleasure, against which Carl thrusted, over and over, with no mercy or care, until Lafayel was a trembling, gasping, sweating mess, with no control over even the tiniest of motor-functions. He could barely breathe, let alone talk.
	At some point, Carl finished, and staggered away, making satisfied noises. Lafayel collapsed, limp and sprawled, not even caring that his wet and ravaged rear was naked and exposed. Carl said something cheerful and clattered about amongst the equipment at the other end of the stables. Lafayel didn't catch what he said. His cock ached in its prison, but he felt good. Satisfied. As if discovering that the roller-coaster ride was the best experience ever.

Lafayel just wanted to sleep. But a pony doesn't get to make decisions. While Carl and Tim chatted behind him, Lafayel pulled against the harness and chewed on the bit gag. The blinders kept his eyes on the path ahead. The steel clips affixed between his wrists and the harness kept his arms folded up against his chest, his hooved hands under his chin. The hooves encasing his feet comfortably cushioned his soles against the hard gravel, and the harness kept him balanced upright. Even if he stumbled, which he did, especially at the start of the ride, the cart he was attached to kept him up. He didn't even have to think about the direction to head in; periodically, Tim would tug against the straps attached to each side of his bit gag, and Lafayel would just turn towards whichever direction his head was pulled.
	Which meant the only thing he had to think about was keeping his head up, his hooves moving, and his panting breath regular. The weight of the cart and its two occupants wasn't too bad once it was moving. His naked body was a blessing in the heat of the day. His sweat just evaporated away. Even the chastity was comfortable; it stopped his bits from swinging and banging against his thighs. In all directions there were restraints hemming him in, confining him to a comfortable niche where there was only one direction to head in. His mind emptied, free of all stresses of decision-making, and he trotted, with greater speed and confidence. By the time Tim pulled him to a stop, undid his gag, and held up a dish of water for him, he didn't even think to speak a protest or a thank-you. He dipped his head and drank, thinking nothing, feeling only a glowing warmth that was, what, pride?

Back in the stables, Tim eased the sweaty harness off of Lafayel's body. The rest stayed on.  The gag forced drool down Lafayel's chin, and the blinders constricted his world to a narrow cone. He stayed focused on Tim and tried his best to stand still, not letting the trembling fatigue in his body beat him.
	“Good pony,” said Tim.
	The bucket contained warm, soapy water. The sponge was soft. Lafayel murmured pleasantly through the gag as Tim washed him. Were his hands free, there'd be nothing stopping Lafayel from doing this himself...or punching Tim in the face and running away. Were his hands free, though, would he want to do those things? This was nice. He was helpless, yes, and being looked after as if he was a helpless animal. But...
	He chewed on the gag and tried not to think about the fact that his cock was straining against the chastity because his brother was gently caressing his naked body with a warm, wet sponge. He tried to think about other things, but that proved impossible when Tim turned him around and ran the sponge slowly down the cleft of his rear, cleaning up the dried-in residues of Carl's earlier pleasure. Soapy water trickled down over his tender pucker. Tim's hand paused there, resting the sponge for a moment, and Lafayel wondered if he was going to do something else. He murmured wordlessly into the gag and tilted his hips back, just a tiny bit, just enough to signify willingness.
	He felt a fool when Tim took the sponge away and hurriedly left.

“He's taking to the role really well,” said Tim, clutching the phone hard against his ear to hear through the hiss and crackle. “Too well, I think. He's just kind of fallen into the role, with hardly any fuss at all. It scares me, Dad. What do I do?”
	“There's no such thing as too well, son. If it's worked well, then it's worked well.”
	“But I think he might want to stay like this.”
	“What's the problem with that?”
	“He's meant to change. Get his freedoms back. Be able to cope with the responsibilities.”
	“Not everyone is made to be in control, son. Lafayel might be one of those who thrives under the yoke.”
	“But that doesn't seem right at all.”
	“It is if it makes him happy and whole.”
	“How will I know if it does?”
	“You'll have to do something...drastic. Your idea to have his friend Carl visit was inspired. I've an idea to build on that. But you may not be up to it, son.”
	Tim chewed on that for a while. It was long enough for his father to call down the line to see if he was still there.
	“I'm up for it, Dad. What do I need to do?”

It took a few weeks to arrange, but it was worth it. Lafayel stopped counting the days that passed. Each was the same. It would start with the light of morning after a cold night in the stables. He had, at least, learned the trick of burrowing into the straw for warmth, even though that impregnated his body with the musty smell for the rest of the day. Tim would bring him his breakfast of oats and water. Sometimes he would add a slurry of vegetables in sauce; leftovers from Tim's dinner the night before, no doubt. One morning, he was treated to some scraps of bacon. Lafayel had no idea why.
	Tim would then fit Lafayel with his bridle and gag, and lead him outside into the fresh air. Out in the middle of the field, Lafayel would squat and fertilise the ground while Tim stood by, sometimes watching, sometimes staring idly at the horizon. Lafayel had lost his shame, and had given up protesting. Ride the roller-coaster. Placidly take what comes when you have no choice.
	The shower would come next; a harsh hosing down with cold water, cleaning off every inch, yet somehow still leaving the musk of the stables. It must have burrowed deep into his pores, never to be cleaned away.
	Once fresh and clean, the work of the day would start; pulling the plough through the fields, or trudging along the paths dragging a cart loaded with hay or sacks of feed. Sometimes, when there was no other work to do, Tim would take him out pulling the trap, doing laps around the extensive farmland until Lafayel was nearly comatose with exhaustion.
	Then came the hardest part of the day, when Tim would clean him again, more gently this time; stroking his sweating body with the warm, soapy sponge, until Lafayel was panting with trembling need, his cock aching inside the chastity. He could never complain or beg, though; any attempts to talk were either stopped by the gag or by the threat of the crop. Tim in turn barely spared a word for him other than instructions or the occasional praise or scolding. Lafayel was not a person; he was an animal, and that was starting to sink in. The days blurred together. The routine became normal, almost comfortable. Lafayel was unaware of the calming fog that was descending into his mind. His world shrank to the confines of the farm. What went on beyond its borders was none of his concern. In the few instances when his thoughts strayed out beyond the tightly-controlled world Tim had made for him, he found himself recoiling; the complicated confusion of it all was too much to bear contemplating. Had he really lived in that world?
	And then the big day, the disruptive day, came. Lafayel knew right away that it was different; Tim seemed distracted and uncomfortable during breakfast and the morning routine. Then, when the time came for Lafayel to find out whether he was pulling a plough or a cart or a trap today, Tim approached him with the chain.
	“Down on the floor, Colt,” he said. “And put your head down.”
	
They stood in a line all along the outer wall of the stables, each one of them male, each one of them nude. Lafayel recognised every single boy; they were classmates, friends and acquaintances. Some were older than Lafayel. Others were younger. Those were the ones that fuelled the blush in his cheeks. They were the ones seeing an older boy being treated like this.
	The first boy approached, blushing nervously, almost as red as Lafayel. He needed some coaxing from the other boys, with whoops and whistles cheering him on. His body, though, needed no such encouragement. And with his head chained to the ground, and his rear high in the air, clean and lubricated and helpless, Lafayel could play no part in controlling what came next.
	The boy's hands were warm and soft against his rear. Lafayel groaned and closed his eyes. He chewed hard on the drool-coated bit-gag. He could remember seeing this boy in school; quiet and timid, always reading. Now, he was naked and hard, standing over Lafayel, touching the warm, fleshy tip of his cock against his rear and guiding it in towards his waiting pucker.
	“Nngh,” gasped Lafayel. The boy was surprisingly big. So too was the next, even though he didn't look it. Perhaps they weren't big. It had been a while since Carl had used him. Perhaps it was just lack of practice. He jerked his head up and scanned the queue, but couldn't see Carl. He wondered why he felt disappointed.
	His clean, fresh body grew progressively sweatier and muskier as each boy rode him, thrusting in slick and easy, jabbing in hard thrusts or slow, smooth strokes, grinding his prostate and making his cock ache inside its prison. Lafayel's face was rubbed raw from so many hours pressed against the straw and the dirty concrete. He could feel liquid trickling down his inner thigh. Whenever a boy dismounted, his tender pucker tingled under the assault of the cool air, before the next boy cockily sauntered over and shoved himself inside. A party atmosphere grew, with small groups forming amongst the waiting and already-satisfied boys, chatting and mingling and laughing. Lafayel wasn't invited. He was the party piece, not a guest. He was tired, but the boys kept coming.

“How do I know if he's happy, Dad? He doesn't have any control over his life, and I can't exactly ask him if he's happy. He'd either be obedient and say yes when he means no, or he'll lie to avoid punishment, or who knows. And I can't give him a choice and see what he picks...that'd just defeat the point.”
	“You know your brother. You can spot his happiness, I'm sure. Try something that you think will really push his boundaries and see how he reacts.”
	“Like what?”
	“You know what, son. I can hear it in your voice. I've heard it in your voice for weeks now. Just do it. There's no shame in it.”
	“Alright.”
	“Attaboy.”

Lafayel slowly became aware of the sudden hush that had fallen over the stables. He lifted his head, weary and sore, and looked up over his shoulder. He expected to see another boy, ready to plunge into his aching hole. Instead, he saw Tim, wearing no clothes, and sporting an expression of unusual uncertainty.
	“I'm going to fuck you now, little brother,” he said, almost a whisper. It wasn't a question, or a request. It was a statement of fact. Even so, it seemed almost like a plea, something that Lafayel could divert away with the smallest hint of rejection.
	With a stifled groan of pain, he found some reserve strength in his thighs and rose his rear up as high as it could go. He met Tim's gaze over his shoulder. He held his breath.
	Tim was slow. He was gentle. And in the end, he left the boys gasping and whispering amongst themselves, watching as the brothers entwined on the dirty stable floor, Tim's face buried in the back of Lafayel's neck, Lafayel's head tilted back to caress his brother, his hooved hands fumbling to reach up and clasp at Tim's arms, trying to pull him in deeper and harder. Tim had his answer, and Lafayel had his future.
	He was Colt.