This story is by guest-writer Stefan Lowry. Welcome to HumanPony.org!
Decca Beresford was nervous as she sat beside her mother in the car. Her mother was driving, having dispensed with the services of the usual slave. It was only a few more miles to Cleveland Manor. Just a short distance, in fact, before one of the more important events in her young life. Several weeks earlier, Decca had turned 19. Traditionally, this was when girls – rather, young women – purchased their first male. Strictly speaking, it would be Decca’s mother who made the purchase, but the slave would be Decca’s property for all practical purposes. It was a significant moment - the first time she would assert her full dominance over another human being.
Decca had started university in October. The college had slaves, of course, and the students were permitted, even encouraged, to use these men. It was the usual problem, however; namely, budgets. There were never enough men to go around. Each lecture hall was provided with twenty men for the women to use. You could stand on them, sit on them, slap them, kick them, do whatever you liked with them (within reason, naturally). Fine, were it not for the fact that the average lecture was attended by about a hundred students. Even if the girls doubled up, which was uncomfortable, there were still not enough slaves. So, unless you arrived ridiculously early, you ended up disappointed. In one lecture, about a month before, Decca had arrived early enough to find an available slave. He had been fairly young, about 27; a redhead. Feeling less confident than she wished to appear, she had snapped her fingers and pointed at the floor. Instantly, the slave had gone down on all fours, and she had had the exquisite pleasure of sitting on his strong, muscular back.
To reiterate: the man had been young, and handsome enough, and she had loved feeling his muscles straining under her, but the time had passed all too quickly. And needless to say, experienced riding slaves were in even shorter supply. So, most of the contact that Decca had had with college slaves had been confined to the elderly men who worked as cleaners or janitors, or the nervous youths who served her meals in the dining hall. No wonder she was looking forward to owning her own male.
‘Now remember, the women at the Manor will try to sell you the most expensive slaves. Or failing that, they’ll try to offload some workshy 50-year-old that nobody wants. It’s your choice, but choose wisely.’ Her mother had made the same speech at least five times already.
Decca rolled her eyes. ‘Mum. I know. Seriously. Don’t just choose a pretty face. Take your time. Ask questions. I know.’
‘All right, darling. I don’t mean to nag. But picking your first slave is important. He could be with you for years, and if the chemistry is right, you may even choose to have children with him.’
Decca blushed. ‘First things first, mum. I’m interested in a pony slave.’
‘At this stage, sure. But “ponies” have other duties, too.’
Kate Beresford could see that she was making her daughter embarrassed. She tactfully changed the subject. ‘You’re a great young rider, Decca. You ride your big brothers like a woman twice your age.’
‘Sure, but it’s different… in the family. You know.’
‘I know. But your brothers will have to be sold soon. And if they find mistresses as skillful as you, I’ll be delighted for them.’
‘Do they really have to be sold?’ Decca looked down at her lap. She was elegantly dressed in a blue jacket, blue miniskirt, sheer black pantyhose, black high-heeled shoes. Today, indeed, she looked more like a young businesswoman than a student.
‘I’m afraid so. The money will be useful, not least for your education, and families that keep males at home after the age of 25 have to pay tax on them. You know that. We’re well off, but we’re not made of money. Anyway, you’ll be able to visit them if their owners agree.’
‘Unless they’re sold abroad.’
‘I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen. And I’d never sell them to women from any of the extreme matriarchies. Ever. I know how men are treated there.’
‘Yes, I watch the news. A man given 50 lashes just for failing to kneel in Madrid last week. Two girls kicking a man to death apparently for fun in New York, and no action taken.’
‘So. That’s in the extreme matriarchies. Not here.’ Kate Beresford glanced at her daughter with concern. ‘Are you turning into a men’s-rights activist, all of a sudden?’
‘Not at all, but you see how things are going. Plenty of women want that here too.’
‘Not me, and not you, I’m sure. Anyway, all the more reason to sell your brothers quickly, to decent women who won’t abuse them too much. Obviously, a man must know his place. But I’m no fan of pure sadism. You know that, Decca.’
The two women travelled in silence for ten more minutes, before the car finally pulled up in the courtyard of Cleveland Manor. It looked much the same as in the brochure. A large, elegant country house in the architectural style of the eighteenth century. Even from here, one could see that the grounds were extensive. They stretched out behind the house as far as the eye could see. Across fields and hills in the distance, women were already riding men.
A naked slave approached the car, and knelt down, respectfully, a few feet away. Well, almost naked. Decca noted that he was wearing a saddle. Not the usual shoulder type, but on his back – the sort usually used for indoor riding. He also had kneepads and thick gloves. He was obviously expecting to be ridden, which was fine.
Kate lowered the window. ‘Good morning. My daughter’s cases are in the boot. Her name is Decca Beresford. She’s expected.’
The slave, still kneeling, bowed his head low. ‘Of course, Mistress. Welcome, Mistress Decca. With your permission, I’ll unload your bags, then show you to the Director’s office.’
‘Very good.’ Decca tried to sound authoritative. Admittedly, she’d spent her whole life dominating males within her family, sitting and stepping on brothers, uncles, even her own father. On occasion, she had used the whip. Yet she was still a little shy around unknown slaves.
Her mother reached over and hugged her. ‘See you in a week, darling. You’ll have a lot of fun. And if you don’t see anything you like, don’t buy. There are other places, and I promise you, plenty of other slaves.’
‘All right, mum. Only the best will do. See you next week.’
The two women hugged again, Decca got out of the car into the December sunshine, and her mother drove away.
The slave approached Decca, knelt, and placed his forehead on the ground at her feet. Very gently, he took her right foot in his hand and placed it on the back of his own head. This was the new, ultra-submissive greeting that was increasingly in vogue, and which more and more young women were demanding of every male they met. Some of Decca’s less refined friends referred to it, mockingly, as the ‘cock grovel’. This didn’t stop them insisting on it, she noted.
‘If you please, Mistress, another slave will take your bags to your room. I’ll show you to the Director. Would you prefer to walk or ride?’
Decca looked at the slave, kneeling so submissively before her. He was blond, muscular, about 22 years old.
‘What the hell,’ said Decca. ‘I’ll ride. I may as well start as I mean to go on.’
The slave gently removed her foot from his head, and got on all fours. His saddle, expensive leather, glistened in the morning sun.
Decca swung one black-nyloned leg over his back, careful to avoid laddering her expensive pantyhose. She then sat down in the saddle, raising her feet and placing her high-heeled shoes in the stirrups. She held the reins, attached to the slave’s head, but barely had a chance to speak before he began crawling. Although the courtyard was gravelled, the slave moved quickly and smoothly. She might have been on wheels. Beneath her, she felt his muscles moving and straining.
‘You’re very comfortable, slave. You’ve been well trained.’
‘Thank you, Mistress.’
The slave approached the stone steps leading to the main entrance. Remarkably, he seemed to glide up, barely causing Decca even to sway.
‘Are you one of the men for sale?’
‘No, Mistress. I belong to the Manor, or rather its shareholders.’
A moment later, the woman and her human pony entered the house proper. It was sumptuously decorated. Expensive paintings hung on the panelled walls. In the lobby, there was a selection of chairs and sofas for the use of visitors. Also, Decca noted, four slaves on hands and knees, ready to be used as chairs. Indeed, two were already in use. Not far from the door, a black slave of about thirty was being sat on by a tall, red-haired woman of about thirty-five. A businesswoman, by the look of her. Near the centre of the lobby, meanwhile, a woman of about Decca’s age was sitting on the back of a middle-aged slave with short, greying hair. The girl, dressed like a goth, was absorbed in her smartphone. Short black dress, long black hair, fishnets, black make-up. As she sat on the man, she casually rested the sole of one Doc Martin boot on the back of his head. The male was perfectly still; he might as well have been ‘real’ furniture.
Without being asked, Decca’s pony-slave carried her over to the large reception desk. A pretty young receptionist smiled at her. Intrigued, Decca stood up, and couldn’t resist peeking over the desk itself. The receptionist was elegantly dressed in the Cleveland Manor staff uniform. Navy-blue blouse, matching skirt and pantyhose, black high heels. Sure enough, she was sitting on the back of yet another naked male. Specifically, the girl was sitting on his lower spine. The upper part, between his shoulder blades, including the tops of his arms and the back of his neck, was covered in vivid red welts. They appeared to be the recent product of a cane or a strap.
Some place, thought Decca. Even the staff have their own slaves. And they obviously don’t spare the rod.
The girl seemed to read her thoughts. ‘Oh, we don’t have our own private males,’ she said, grinning. ‘But we’re allowed to requisition them, now and again, when the guests aren’t using them. It reminds them what they are, and it surely beats those hard, plastic chairs they give us. I’m Cally. Pleased to meet you, Ms… ?’
‘Beresford. Decca Beresford. I’m here until next Friday.’
‘Oh, yes. Of course. Your room’s all ready, Ms Beresford, but the Director would like a quick chat first, if that’s all right. The slave will take you. Meanwhile, if you need anything, day or night, there’s always someone on reception here.’ ‘Thank you, Cally. See you soon.’
Decca sat down in the saddle once again, and allowed the slave to carry her down the hallway towards the elevators. Yes, she was certainly going to like it here.
The Director’s office was on the fourth floor. Decca passed several other women on her way, mostly between the ages of twenty and forty, all very elegantly attired. A few walked; most rode on the backs of slaves. Perhaps sensing her apprehension, they gave Decca encouraging smiles.
Soon enough, the slave arrived at the carved, antique door of the Director herself. Without disturbing Decca’s seat, he knocked on the door, and, when the Director responded, reached up himself to open the door before carrying her in. Rather impressive.
The office itself was large, and as elegantly furnished as the rest of the building, albeit in a slightly more modern style. The slave carried Decca to the front of the Director’s large, glass desk. Both women stood up to shake hands. ‘Good morning, Ms Beresford. I’m Petra Daniels, but please call me Petra. Would you like a regular chair, or are you happy to sit on the slave?’
For Decca, the choice was not hard. ‘The slave, please. And I must commend him. The ride up here was perfectly smooth.’
‘Yes, Dylan is one of our better mounts. We bought him three years ago, and he’s been very carefully trained. Well, let’s discuss your stay, Ms Beresford.’
Petra Daniels was an attractive brunette; early thirties, surprisingly young to hold such an important post. She was dressed smart-casually. A dark-red jacket and thigh-length, dark-red skirt. Decca’s eyes were drawn, however, to her knee-length, high-heeled boots. Immensely expensive, by the look of them.
Petra sat down on the back of a muscular, latino-looking man of about her, Petra’s, age. Decca saw the man’s back muscles tense slightly as he adjusted to her weight. Petra was slender, but not far shy of six-feet tall, so the weight was probably quite considerable. More surprisingly, Decca saw a very young slave, hardly more than eighteen, lying on his back under Petra’s desk. She stretched out her legs and rested her boots on him: one foot on his chest, the other on his face. Alarmingly, her sharp left heel was extremely close to one of the boy’s blue eyes. Either the Director didn’t know, or she didn’t care. Utterly degraded as he was, the boy stuck out his tongue and tentatively began to lick the sole of Petra’s boot. A shiver ran down Decca’s spine; she felt distinctly envious.
‘Yes, I know,’ said Petra, smiling. ‘An extravagance to have a chair and a footstool. One of the perks of the job, I’m pleased to say. Now, Ms Beresford – Decca. Let’s talk about how we can make your stay here as comfortable as possible.’
In a few sentences, Decca described the male she was hoping to buy. Petra listened attentively. ‘So, Decca, if I can just recap. You’re looking for a pony-slave, but he should be able to manage other duties. Age and looks are not critical, within reason, but he should be tall and strong. Understandable, if you’ll be riding him often. Is that about right?’
She shifted slightly on her ‘chair’, causing the slave to flex his muscles.
‘Yes, that’s right. If he can cook, that’s a bonus, and he must be able to drive. Otherwise, it really depends if the chemistry feels right.’
‘Absolutely. You may feel that, as a business, we’re all about the sale. Actually, we like our clients to leave here feeling that they made a really good purchase. It’s better for our reputation in the long run.’
‘Well, Decca, great to meet you, and I‘m sure we’ll meet again during your stay. The slave will take you to your room. I imagine you’ll be anxious to visit the stables today, maybe even have your first ride?’
‘You read my thoughts.’
Decca placed her feet back in the stirrups, and moments later, the slave was carrying her along yet more corridors towards her room. She dismounted by the door. ‘Slave, wait here for now, if you have no other urgent duties. I’ll ride you down to the stables in an hour or so. I just need to get changed.’
‘Of course, Mistress.’
And, unbidden, the slave bent forward, and kissed both of Decca’s feet.
She entered the room, where, as promised, her bags were waiting. It was a large suite, with a four-poster bed, a writing table, a large TV on the wall: all the comforts of home. Although Decca’s family was relatively wealthy, she couldn’t help but be slightly impressed. Absent-mindedly, she picked up the remote and switched on the TV. A political talk show was on, and a stern-looking young woman was holding forth, shaking her finger at the interviewer. ‘In this country,’ the woman was saying, ‘we criticize others for taking our own principles to their logical conclusion. We need to rid ourselves of this sentimental fallacy that men are human beings.’
But Decca was too excited to pay much attention. She would shortly be meeting Cleveland Manor’s stable of slaves. And who knew? Perhaps the one would be there too. She put on a clean white blouse and removed her heels and skirt. She kept her pantyhose on, as the weather was cold, but over the top of them, she pulled on a pair of new, cream jodhpurs. Then, her favourite pair of black riding boots. The ensemble was finished off by a red riding jacket – a gift from her mother last year. She considered pulling her blonde hair back into a ponytail, but on reflection, she decided to leave it loose. She knew it was one of her best features.
Less than an hour later, she left her room and found the slave waiting by the door as ordered. He immediately went down on all fours, and Decca mounted him. Her heart fluttered slightly n anticipation. This time, the slave took her by a different route. More long corridors, a different elevator. Eventually, they arrived at the rear entrance of the main house. The slave took her down stone steps and into the rear courtyard. On the far side, around 40 yards away, there was a long, single-storey, stone building. The stables.
Just as before, the ride was perfectly smooth, like moving on glass. Within a few moments, the slave arrived at a pair of large glass doors. Although the stable building looked to be a couple of hundred years old, it had clearly been renovated to the latest modern standards. The slave paused.
‘If you please, Mistress, these are the stables. Would you like me to carry you in?’
‘No, thank you. I can manage from here. Dylan, is it? You’ve been a good mount today. I’ll try to use you again.’
‘Thank you, Mistress.’ The slave looked genuinely pleased. Once again, he bent forward and kissed Decca’s feet, rather passionately this time. Decca dismissed him with a gesture, and entered the stable building.
A remarkable sight greeted her. There were about ten young women present, all about Decca’s age, presumably trainers. All wore riding gear. Two were sitting on the backs of slaves, deep in conversation. Two more were speaking sternly to a group of three men, presumably giving instructions. The slaves knelt before them, heads bowed. Four of the other girls were apparently engaged in some kind of admin work, tapping away carefully at their respective notepads.
This left the final pair. One of them, a tall brunette, looked slightly older than Decca, perhaps twenty-three. The other, a more petite blonde, was around twenty. Both were slender and attractive, both attired in jodhpurs, riding boots and white, polo-neck sweaters. In front of them, facing the wall, his wrists chained above his head, was a muscular male of about thirty. (It was difficult to judge his age exactly without seeing his face.) The two girls had long riding crops, and were administering strokes to the slave’s back, taking it in turns to beat him. First the brunette landed a blow on his shoulders. Then, the blonde struck his lower back. Then, the brunette again, aiming at his ribs. Etcetera, etcetera. The blows were hard, not remotely sensual. The slave was trying desperately not to cry out, but a groan escaped his lips with every stroke. His back and buttocks were already covered in welts.
‘It’s unfortunate, but necessary.’
A buxom young woman with wavy brown hair abandoned her laptop for a moment and walked towards Decca, hand outstretched. ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Laura. You must be Decca?’
‘Welcome, Decca. I hope you don’t mind the punishment. This slave stumbled earlier today, and nearly injured a rider. I’m afraid we can’t have that. It’s a hard lesson, but the safety of our guests is paramount.’
‘I understand.’ The beating continued as the two young women talked. ‘And those young women are your colleagues?’
‘The blonde, Debbie, yes. The brunette lady is Carla, one of our guests, like you. She was his rider earlier.’
‘Well, no wonder she’s angry.’
‘Quite so. And Debbie’s not thrilled with him, either. It reflects on our training when a slave falls short, especially regarding safety. Well, Petra filled me in about your requirements. We have a selection of five slaves waiting for your inspection. If none of those suit you, we have more, of course. By the way, I like your boots. Male hide?’
‘Certainly not!’ replied Decca, shocked.
‘No offence meant. It’s legal now, of course, to use their skin when they die a natural death. I sense you don’t approve. Actually, neither do I.’
‘I’ll never wear male hide,’ said Decca, emphatically. ‘Don’t misunderstand me. Men are property, and rightly so. I’d hardly be here if I thought otherwise. But there are limits.’
‘Then we agree. A lot of women our age our becoming too… radicalised. They want us to be like the extreme matriarchies. I hope it won’t come to that.’
As Laura finished speaking, her colleague, Debbie, finally unshackled the wrists of the man who had been beaten. His back was now a bloody mess. Barely conscious, he slumped down onto the concrete floor. Without missing a beat, his former rider, the brunette Carla, stepped up onto his back, and raised her arms in a victory gesture. Laughing, Debbie took out her smartphone and photographed the scene.
Laura led Decca through the main stable building towards another door, at the rear. Passing through, Decca found herself outside, in a paved area, about 500 square yards in total. Waiting near the door, under the supervision of a severe-looking young woman in riding gear, were five men. Each wore a leather collar embossed with the words ‘Cleveland Manor’ in capital letters.
‘Kneel to this Mistress!’ barked the new girl, whose name was Sally. The slaves duly knelt, heads bowed.
‘Very well. Rise for inspection!’ The slaves duly rose.
Decca looked at the five men. Aside from the collars, they were completely naked, despite the cold. ‘As you see,’ said Laura. ‘We keep them fully naked for first inspection. I hope you’re not offended. This is because – sorry to be indelicate – their endowment is a factor for some clients. Having them on full view now will save time later.’
Decca blushed. ‘No, I understand. And it’s for the best. Endowment, as you put it, isn’t my first consideration, but I won’t pretend it’s irrelevant.’
Once again, she studied the five males, examining them one by one. There was a latino type, maybe 30, muscular, but balding. The next in line was a young redhead, not unattractive, but below average height. The third was a black slave, also about 30, tall and rugged. He had a striking, handsome face. Perhaps, thought Decca. Fourth, a blond young man, slender but athletic, stood with bowed head. He looked pleasant enough, but there was no spark.
Finally, Decca looked at the fifth slave. He was very tall, perhaps about 32 years old. His hair was dark brown, his eyes green. He had a slight tan, despite the season, but was generally ‘English looking’. Decca’s pulse quickened.
‘Slave! Yes, you.’ Decca tried to sound casual and authoritative, but her face was suddenly flushed. ‘Raise your head so I can see your face properly.’
The slave obeyed. He had a strong jaw, finely honed features, and a sensitive, almost refined expression.
‘What’s your name?’
‘If you please, Severin, Mistress.’
His voice was deep and pleasant. Decca turned to Laura. ‘This one, please.’
‘Certainly, but perhaps you’d like to try Carlo too?’ She indicated the ‘latino’ slave.
‘No, this one.’
‘Excellent. Of course, we have others if he fails to satisfy.’
‘No. This one will do just fine.’
Decca spent the next few minutes trying to appear calm. In reality, she was precisely the opposite. This slave, with the unusual name of Severin, was - well, no need to put it into words. The reaction of her body told her all she needed to know. Perhaps it was the eyes, perhaps the voice, perhaps his physique or his expression. Perhaps all of these factors. From the moment she saw him, she wanted no other slave. As to what the slave himself was feeling, it was hard to tell. As soon as the inspection ended, the other males had been dismissed, and Severin was ordered to kneel once again, with head bowed.
He looked at me, at least, thought Decca. Did he like what he saw, as much as I did? She chided herself for the thought. She was the buyer, he was the property. She was a modern woman, not some teenage girl in the nightmare world before the revolutions. Still, she would prefer to think he would be happy with the arrangement. She was young, but old enough to know that discontented slaves seldom made good ones.
‘You’ll be wanting to ride him right away, Ms Beresford?’ asked Sally, whose friendly tone towards a prospective customer contrasted sharply with her demeanour towards the men.
‘Very good. I’ll fetch a saddle. And you’ll be wanting spurs, of course.’
‘There’s just one thing,’ said Laura, quietly. ‘As you may know, a new type of saddle has been on the market for a year or so now. It’s not much different from a standard one, but it has a small ridge on the seat for… well, for added satisfaction. I’m sure you understand. I don’t mean to embarrass you, but I’ve tried them, and they really are worth the experience. Would you like a traditional saddle, or the new kind?’
Decca, already flushed, now felt herself turning deep red. But once again, the decision was not especially difficult. ‘The new type, I think.’
‘That’s really a good choice,’ said Laura. ‘And I don’t think you’ll regret it. Sally, love, would you get one of the “special saddles” for Ms Beresford, please? The largest size for Severin, of course. And a pair of spurs.’
A few moment later, Sally returned with the ‘new’ saddle. Quickly and expertly, she placed it on the shoulders of the kneeling Severin, securing it with straps across his chest. The stirrups hung down by his sides. A bridle was also fitted, and the slave opened his mouth to accept the bit. That left the question of the spurs.
‘Slave! Get down on all fours.’ Severin immediately obeyed Sally, who now addressed Decca. ‘Rest your foot on his head, please, and I’ll strap the spurs on for you.’
Decca approached the kneeling male and placed her boot on his head. This was, of course, the first direct physical contact between them. Without precisely articulating the thought, Decca was instinctively pleased that their first contact involved such an explicit act of domination. When Sally had strapped on the right spur, the process was repeated with the left. They were English spurs, small but sharp.
The moment of truth now arrived. Laura grasped Severin by his hair.
‘Slave, this Mistress will now mount you. If she’s pleased with you, she may buy you. In any case, her service and pleasure are your only concerns. She may ride you for a mile, or for ten miles. It depends on her. You’ll also comply with any other requests she may make. Displease her in any way, and you’ll regret it. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, Mistress Laura.’
Butterflies in stomach, Decca approached the kneeling man. Carefully, she placed her left boot on his left thigh. Then, like the skilful rider she was, she lifted herself up and settled in the saddle.
‘Up!’ she commanded. The slave complied immediately, seemingly without effort, and a moment later she was sitting on her new mount, high above the heads of Laura and Sally below.
‘Just one thing, Ms Beresford,’ said Sally, tentatively. ‘As you can see, this is one of our largest and strongest slaves. No offence, but you’re a little on the petite side. You may want to take it slowly at first.’
‘None taken,’ replied Decca, smiling. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be just fine.’
With that, she dug her spurs firmly into Severin’s sides. Without a second’s hesitation, he moved off, carrying her towards the paddock gates and into the fields beyond.