Unknown - Bea_s pony

Helen had wrapped her legs around his body and was responding to his thrusts by pushing upward. She was going to find out now, I thought, that size means something after all.

With all the activity going on, they had managed to turn clockwise about a quarter of a circle so that now I commanded a view of that marvelous machine as it jammed away at her. It appeared that several inches had yet to go on in.

I was still squeezing the roller between my legs and began to feel the first tug at my innards as the pleasureful sensation began to build inside me. It was taking a hell of a lot of energy to get myself off this way.

Helen had begun making the little clipped whines she was prone to utter as her orgasm approached. When the last one trailed off into a long sigh, I knew she had come.

Raver's testicles did that same melting action up into his groin that I had noticed before. He suddenly slowed his pumping and collapsed on her, convulsing spasmodically.

As my own climax arrived, I had to place a palm tightly over my mouth to avoid giving myself away. Having worked so hard to get it, the jolt left me utterly debilitated, like an athlete out of shape, and I wanted to sink miles into the hay.

I must have slept for awhile, for when I became conscious of my surroundings again, it was very quiet in the barn. I sat up and looked over where Helen and Raver had been, and they were no longer there.

Crawling along the floor, I reached the trap and climbed down the ladder. In a moment I was outside. Hearing voices inside the pony barn, I entered it to find Helen, Raver, and a man I presumed to be Cunningham engaged in conversation.

"This must be your sister," the man said, breaking away from them and coming toward me. He was rather a pudgy man, but well-dressed, and spoke with a soft drawl.

"Good grief, Bea!" Helen exclaimed. "We thought maybe you had run off with a hired hand."

"Only hand around here I know is Hack," I said, winking at her, amused at myself for making her blush.

"Yes indeed, ma'am," Hack said, "and I'm at your service." He seemed pleased as pie with himself.

Cunningham began telling us then a little of the history of his operation. It seems he had crossed a small Icelandic stallion with an unusually small Shetland mare he discovered at a carnival. He then bred the progeny with other Icelandics breeding back only those ponies that held their small size.

"That Shetland is the true prototype," he said. "Bought her for only twenty-five bucks from the carny guys, too. Been selling these for forty times that," he said proudly.

I was busily taking down everything in a little notebook I carried as we strolled past the stalls.

"The Icelandic gives them that clean look. Don't smell as much, either," he informed us. "You take a Shetland into a house, it'll smell like a barn right off. A Shetland'll bite, too. Can be mean. These ponies," he said, extending his arm in an arc, "are as gentle as a lamb."

I asked him about pictures, and he went into one of the stalls and untied the pony occupying it. With just a hand on its neck he guided the pony out. He walked back towards the open barn door to the sunlight.

"See that?" he asked. "Don't need a halter. Kids can ride without a saddle, too. Just grab hold of the mane." He clutched a bunch of the beautiful white hairs then let them go.

"They're just adorable," Helen said, stroking the pony's flank.

"Here," Hack said, lifting Helen by the waist and placing her on the pony's back. I noticed his hands run up over her breasts as he released her.

"Won't she be too heavy for him?" I wondered.

"Oh, I don't guess she weighs that much," Cunningham said. "I wouldn't ride him regular," he added.

We had come outside, and I took a few pictures of the pony with Helen seated on him. I took some more of her leaning over feeding him some sugar. Cunningham and Hack seemed to enjoy that pose as Helen was quite generous in revealing her charms. I took some head and shoulder shots of Cunningham alone.

"Tell you what," Cunningham said. "Why don't you take a pony home with you for a few days. Then you can get some good pictures of the animal around the house."

It seemed a good idea. Readers would want to see pictures of ponies in a domestic setting since he was advertising them as house pets. I looked to see Helen's reaction.

"Could we?" she asked, evidently pleased at the idea. She leaned down, throwing her arms around the pony's neck. "Would you like to come and stay with me for awhile?" she cooed.

"I didn't have this particular pony in mind for that," he said rather sheepishly, "but I suppose it'll be all right."

"What's wrong with this pony?" I asked, curious.

"He's not gelded, is what." Seeing the confusion in our faces, he went on. "He's not cut."

"Well, Mr. Cunningham," Helen said almost with indignation in her tone, "I know what gelded means. What difference does that make?"

"Thing is," Cunningham continued, "if any of you ladies come around," He blushed at the term. "If it's that time of the month, I mean. This pony being inside the house and all, he may get a little aggressive."

I could see the realization of what he was saying sink into Helen, and the gleam start building in her eye. She shot a quick glance at the animal's genitals. There wasn't much of a penis to be seen, but the testicles hung like two eggplants side by side.

"Well, we'll just put him in the garage," Helen said, the problem solved as far as she was concerned.

"Let me get you a halter and some grain, ma'am," Hack said, going back into the barn. Helen followed him inside.

"If you have a back yard he can graze in, you don't have to grain him but once a day," Cunningham told me, practically reading my thoughts. "They've been toilet trained to go only when they're standing on grass, but you have to take them out at least three times a day. Otherwise it's not like a dog. They really let loose," he cautioned me.

I had visions of great floods in the living room and huge piles on the kitchen floor. Suddenly it didn't seem like such a good idea, but I knew that changing Helen's mind now would have been very difficult. It was her house.

I asked him for the names of some local people who had purchased his ponies and had been keeping them as house pets for awhile. If I could contact them I might get a slant on a long-term situation.

He gave me the name of a man in Highland Park who had bought one of his first ponies, a mare.

"Beautiful animal," he said. "Had glass eyes, too, which is rare."

"Glass eyes?" I asked.

"Blue eyes, Miss Starr. Beg your pardon. Just an expression," he said. He was thumbing through an address book.

I jotted that down under the heading of local color and then laughed at the unintentional double entendre I had created. Another man, he said, a garage owner who lived on a lonely farm the other side of Fort Worth, had purchased several stallions over the past two years.

"Might be something there," he suggested.

"Man likes them that much to buy more than one."

"You used the word lonely. What did you mean by that?" I asked him.

"Creepy place," he replied. "I delivered the first pony, myself. House was kind of run down, shades all drawn, miles from any other farms. Lots of animals on the place, but just this one fellow living alone. That's what I meant."

"Many people prefer the company of animals to humans," I said. "It's not so strange. How many did he actually buy?" I asked.

He did some mental recollection. "Four," he said finally. "He bought the last one this past summer."

"And all stallions. No mares or geldings," I repeated. "Does he keep them all in the house?"

"Can't say," he shrugged. "Haven't been out there since, and the fellow never says much when he's here."