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The Making Of A Ponyslave (5)


The Overseer led us out and across the yard towards a building with a small chimney coming out of the roof. The sand was burning the soles of my feet, and the sun was beating down unmercifully on my naked body.

“You’ll soon toughen up.”, the overseer said to us “All of the slaves soon get a layer of very tough skin on the soles of their feet just from walking, and in the work you three are going to, it will happen very quickly. And your skin soon goes dark, dark brown from the desert sun. In fact, we hardly need to mark slaves at all, really – all we need to do is to get a suspected slave to strip, and we can tell from the way he’s browned all over that he must be a slave. That’s why I always keep these shorts on – I’ve nothing to be ashamed of down there, but the white area around my cock and ass is very special when so many men are totally brown.”

We arrived at the building, and went it. It was obviously a forge – there were many tools for bending metal around, two huge anvils, and a roaring furnace. The fire in the furnace was kept at high heat by blowing air through it, just like in a normal forge, but there the blower was not driven by an electric motor but by a naked slave. A black guy was standing on a treadmill, stoically pedalling away, and a belt transferred his motion to the fan.

The overseer called out “Slave !”, and from the shadows further in to the room the blacksmith appeared. He too was, of course, a slave, and so he was naked. He truly was massive, with shoulders and biceps obviously well exercised from his work. He had absolutely no body hair, and his massive cock swung freely between strong, muscular thighs.

The overseer said “These three are for marking. You – “, pointing at Hans “first.”

The blacksmith motioned to Hans (he obviously had a tongue restraint, like us) to go over to one of the large anvils, and to lie on it. Hans did, so that the sharp pointed end stuck out between his legs, and his feet were on the ground on either side. The blacksmith proceeded to get out a set of webbing straps with the type of fastenings on the end that in the USA people use to strap things on to the roof of their car, and used them to tie Hans firmly to the anvil. One went around his waist, one around his shoulders under his arms, and four held his arms and legs immobile. The blacksmith signalled to the black slave on the treadmill, and he started to pedal faster and faster, making the fire glow white hot.

The blacksmith got out a small tool and put in into the hottest part of the hearth, left it there a couple of minutes, then withdrew it, its end now glowing white from the heat of the hearth. Without hesitating for a moment, he stepped over to Hans’s immobile body, and pressed the end of the tool firmly, centrally, into Hans’s left ass cheek.

Although he couldn’t articulate words, Hans could still scream, and an anguished roar came from his taught body. We could see him straining, desperately trying to get his ass away from the white hot tool, but it was no good – the webbing straps held him immobile on the anvil, and this was of course too heavy to move. There was a terrible smell of burning, charring flesh.

The blacksmith did not flinch, and kept the tool – which we now realised was a branding iron – pressed against Hans’s ass cheek for several seconds. He then released the webbing, and Hans fell to the floor, groaning and sobbing from deep down in his throat.

But the horror was not over yet. Whilst Hans was not properly in control of his body, the blacksmith pulled him up from the floor and pushed him backwards onto the anvil, and again strapped him down. It shows what a giant of a man the blacksmith was, because Hans was a big, muscular guy and the blacksmith had been able to pick him up and get him restrained easily – Hans was in no position to put up any sort of resistance, as he had been overwhelmed by the pain he must be feeling.

The branding iron went back into the fire, and when it was white hot, the blacksmith repeated the branding onto Hans’s right pec, just above the nipple.

“It shows you how we think in advance “, said the overseer, looking at Mike and me. “If we hadn’t had your chests shaved, there could have been a nasty incident there as your hair caught fire with the branding iron!”

The blacksmith released Hans, and the overseer gestured with his stun gun for Mike to move over to the anvil. Mike knew what he was in for, but realised there was no escape – there he was, naked, in the middle of the desert, with an overseer with a stun gun standing over him. What could he do, but submissively lie down on the anvil, and lie there, clenching his fists impotently, as the blacksmith strapped him down.

The gristly ritual was repeated on Mike, and he too was left groaning on the floor next to Hans, and then it was my turn!

I shall never forget the searing pain as the white hot branding iron bit into my flesh. The pain from my ass was bad enough, but when my pec was branded, it was an order of magnitude worse.

But we were not finished in the forge yet. I was allowed to sit against the wall, where I huddled with my arms around my legs in absolute misery, whilst the blacksmith went to work on Hans and Mike again.

He took lengths of chain and fashioned a sort of harness for each of them. There were two loops that went over their shoulders and around under their arms, and a short length of chain joined the loops together in front, just above the arm pits, and at the back, just below the shoulder blades. These were welded into place, so they could not be removed, and the blacksmith had to put wet rags inbetween the chain links and their skins whilst he was hammering home the final red-hot connections. In the mifddle of each of the back chain connectors a large ring hung down, about 9 cm in diameter, and I wondered what this could be for.

The Overseer had several discussions with the blacksmith whilst the chains were being fashioned and fitted to each of the men, and at one point he made the blacksmith insert an extra link into one of the loops around Han’s shoulders. Later I was to realise that the Overseer had again being doing his job, and making sure that the Sheikh’s property was being treated properly. The chains were a loose fit now, but as Hans and Mike put on extra muscle, they would become a tight fit. The Overseer wanted to make sure that they did not become too tight after the muscle growth, and dig into Hans’s flesh.

“Good “, said the overseer, “another job done. Now they only have to be numbered”.

He gestured at us with his stun gun, and in spite of the agonies we were in, we had no choice but to haul ourselves to our feet, and stumble after him as he led us out of the forge and into the searing sun, and across the yard again. I didn’t even notice the pain from my feet this time, as the other agonies from my ass and pec were so intense.

We went into a small office, and were allowed to subside onto the floor, still making little inarticulate cries in our throats.

We were now subject to the final indignity in our induction into the Sheikh’s estate – we were tattooed on our left arms with our slave serial numbers. The overseer carefully checked against a list in the office, then instructed a slave who came in to tattoo each of us in turn. The numbers were quite large, so they could easily be seen at a distance.

When it was over, the overseer led us out, back in to the building where we had started out the day, and we were locked into a cage to allow us to recover from our ordeal.

As well as the awful physical pain from our brands, we all felt, I think, the pain of the loss of our freedom. Before, when we were being auctioned, there might have been some hope that it was all an elaborate stage setting, and that at some point someone would shout “surprise”, the curtains would roll back, and we would see the normal world we knew again. But now we had been physically hurt, badly, and we knew these people were not joking.

We sat on the floor, naked, unable to speak, only moan, with our new brands pulsing angrily with the inflamed flesh on our asses and pecs. And the indignity of knowing that we had just been marked like a piece of property – because, of course, that was just what we were to the Sheikh.


The following morning we were fed and made to eat all the slave meal that was given to each of us, even though we did not feel like eating at all. Then we were taken to the now normal hole to piss and crap, before returning to the single shower head to wash each other. We all took particular care as we soaped each other’s asses not to touch the angry wounds that our brands had turned in to.

The overseer collected us from the shower, and told us that we did not look bad, considering what we had been through. Then he told Hans and Mike to bend over and grip their ankles, so that he could give them their daily hormone injection into their ass cheeks. “I’m going to be kind “, he said, “and inject you into the right cheek to avoid the brand! We can’t let up on this, as it’s important to get you properly bulked up with new muscle before the Sheikh comes to inspect you in a few weeks time. “.

He then led all three of out of the building and we shambled, because of the pain in our bodies, across the yard, through an entrance way, and into a long, low, building. Inside, at a desk, was another European just wearing shorts, like the Overseer.

“I am the Sheikh’s stable master “, he said, “and you are the new ponies who have been assigned here to the stables. In future, you will be treated just like ponies – you will be commanded in Arabic, fed and groomed by the stable-boy slaves, and work each day at pulling carts around the estate.”

“You two “, he indicated Hans and Mike, “will be proper work horses. You will work in a team of eight stallions pulling a large cart with heavy loads around the place. You will not be required to run much, but when the cart is full, pulling it at ordinary walking pace will require every ounce of muscle and effort you posses. The chains that have been welded onto you are your harness – you will be attached to the cart by the ring at the back, as we like to leave your arms free. We find that work stallions pull best when they can pound with their arms, so in general you will not be shackled, or your hands bound behind you. And, of course, you have to load and unload the cart.”

“The other six slaves in your team are indeed stallions, like you – we don’t geld ponies doing this type of work, as it’s important they keep all their energy for the hard work they do, and we find that geldings lose that important will to pull just that bit harder when the whip bites. They are however all farmed slaves, unlike you. They came to the stables here when they were 18 years old, and most of them have been doing this heavy pony work for five years. We usually find that ponies doing this heavy pulling can carry on until they are about 40, so providing there’s no attempt to escape, you can look forward to more than 15 years of working together. I can see why the Sheikh bought you – your physique is already almost there: you’re quite like the other six ponies in general height, shape, and muscular development. And by the time you have been working for a few weeks and your muscles have finished bulking up, it will be difficult to tell you apart from the other six. The Sheikh likes his teams to look smart and regular, so your hair – both on your head and on your bodies – will be kept cropped and trimmed as it now is, to emphasise the similarities between all your bodies.”

“However I know the Sheikh wants to breed more wildness into his herd from bought-in slaves, so from time to time you will be used to cover the brood mares. But remember what you have been told – it is absolutely forbidden to fuck any of the Sheikh’s mares without being told to do so; and babies that are born to them that are yours, outside the breeding program, will result in death for you.”

“The other six ponies in your team have never covered mares, and never will. As soon as they were sexually mature they were introduced to the joys of fucking their fellows up the ass, and they do this every night. You were told that slaves were not allowed to buggar other slaves, but we make an exception for you ponies in the heavy teams – we want to ensure you really work together and understand each other’s bodies, and getting you to be totally intimate with each other every day is the best possible way we know of accomplishing this. And, of course, there’s no loss to the Sheikh: the large, heavy muscles you have in your thighs and backsides are not attractive to him or his friends, so he will not want to fuck you and he doesn’t care therefore whether your ass is being kept virgin for him to play with, or not”.

Hans and Mike were then led off down the stables, and into a stall. I should have said that we were standing at the top of a large central paved corridor, lined on each side with stalls – small wooden fences that came up almost to mid-thigh height. You could see all of the body of a slave standing up in a stall, but if he lay down, he could not see over the top of the stall. I could see Hans and Mike standing there, looking bewildered, until a stable boy came up and shouted at them Arabic until they lay down.

The Sheikh’s stable master then looked at me and said “But you are a different thing altogether. The Sheikh has bought you for two reasons – to cover his mares and breed some of your blond colouration back into the lines that are too dark, and to be a rickshaw pony.”

“The Sheikh and his friends travel around the estate in rickshaws, and you will be one of the ponies specially trained to pull them. You don’t need enormous strength, like the ponies who pull the heavy carts, because the rickshaws are light and run on ball-bearing wheels, but you do need stamina Typically, the Sheikh travels over 10 miles a day around his estate, and you need to be able to do that mileage, day after day. You’ve got good long legs, and a lithe athlete’s body, so after we have put you through the endurance training you should be able to cope.”

“But let me warn you now. Don’t fuck around with any other ponies. You have exactly the type of body that appeals to the Sheikh and his guests – you’ll have good muscular development without being ‘puffed up’, and a great butt because of the work we’ll do to build your leg muscles. The Sheikh and his guests will certainly want to fuck you, and they like a really tight ass to grip their cocks as they ride you; they don’t want you spoiled because one of the other ponies has repeatedly pushed his prick up there. If I ever see you being mounted by another pony, I’ll have him killed and you castrated.”

“We’ll keep your balls in good condition because we want to breed from you, and because it’s more aesthetically satisfying to see a pony with balls in peak condition. We do that by jerking you off every evening when you come in to the stables – we call it the nightly milking. The only other thing worth mentioning is that you are unusual in still having a foreskin. The Sheikh specifically said it was not to be cut off until he has had time to observe you in his rickshaw – I think it’s a bit of a novelty, as so many of our wild slaves are Americans and they almost universally are circumcised as infants.”.

With that, he motioned to one of the stable-lad slaves, and I was led off into a stall and the stable slave gestured for me to lie down, which I did. The floor of the stall was covered in a peat-like material, so it wasn’t uncomfortable. My wrists were then pushed into a clamp, which the lad then locked shut, and left me alone.

I was left lying there on the peat, with my arms stretched out above my head and my wrists immobile. I could reach to one of the water nipples similar to that in the cell on our first day at the Sheikh’s ranch, and I could if I wanted get up on to my knees. But I couldn’t stand, and therefore couldn’t see over the stall partitions on either side of my enclosure.

I could see into the stalls opposite me on the other side of the corridor, and over the next two hours each of these was filled with other naked slaves, with his wrists clamped in to the front of the stall, as were mine. Most of the stalls had a single pony slave in them, but immediately opposite me the stall was filled with four black pony slaves, who, like the eight that Hans and Mike had joined, were all basically similar. Four in a stall was a bit crowded, and I could see them wriggling together to try to make the most of the limited space available to them. I was to learn later that this was a team to pull a light carriage, and again the emphasis was to have four slaves as closely physically similar as possible.

The lights were turned out in the stable, and I tossed and turned, trying to sleep. I sucked at the water nipple, because I was very dry, but the pain from my two brands was still so intense that sleep was impossible. It must have been a couple of hours later that the inevitable consequences of drinking a lot struck – I had a desperate desire to piss. What was I to do? I couldn’t leave the stall or even stand up to get attention, because my wrists were clamped in. I couldn’t shout to attract attention, because of the tongue restraint, and there was no obvious piss and crap hole in the floor of the stall. I then realised why I was lying on peat – it wasn’t to make it more comfortable for me, but to allow me to piss if I wanted to without the piss running out in to the corridor and making the place look unsightly! I held it as long as I could, but eventually had to let go a long, warm stream of piss – the feeling of relief was exquisite, and I felt a bit better than I had done all day. Of course, as I was effectively stuck in one position, I soon realised that I then had to lie on the damp patch in the peat for the rest of the night.


The following morning as soon as it was light the stable lads came along and released my wrist clamps, and I was motioned to get up and stand in the corridor between the stalls. This was lined with the other ponies, and most of them, like me, had their over night hard-ons still very visible. Without being able to touch my cock because of the wrist clamps, I had had to lie all night with an erection, without being able to do anything about it.

I soon realised that it was a requirement at this time to stand at ‘display position’ as slave masters would say, with my legs apart, and my hands clasped behind my neck. Not surprisingly, most of us stayed erect, too.

Group by group, the pony slaves were led away by the stable lad slaves, and it became my turn. A young 16-year old came up, grasped my outstretched cock, and used it as a handle to lead me along the central corridor. I was taken into a shower stall, and four of the stable slave lads proceeded to wash me thoroughly – and I do mean thoroughly! As well as shampooing my hair, and rubbing soap all over my body, they pushed back my foreskin and washed under it, slid soapy hands between my ass cheeks, and made sure that even my anus was squeaky clean by rubbing a soapy finger over, around, and even slightly in to it. I felt completely humiliated, but there was a guard with a stun gun standing around, and I knew what would happen if I made any protest or move to stop the stable lad slaves doing their job.

They rinsed me off with an icy deluge of very cold water, which had the effect of at last causing my erection to subside, and one of them slapped me hard on the right ass to signal that they were finished, and that I was to “move out”.

I then joined a line of the other ponies waiting for our morning feed. We went past a guard who stood at a small machine. As each of us came up to it, he read the number from the tattoo on our arm, and punched it into a keyboard. The machine then delivered a measured quantity of the slave meal from a nozzle into the cupped hands of the slave concerned, and we had to eat it as we continued to move along the corridor.

The other pony slaves then went on outside, but I was taken off to the side, and led into a room with what looked like an exercise machine in it – the type you see in health spas all over the USA, where you run along a moving belt that is rotated by an electric motor to a speed you choose. A leather belt was put around my waist, and a spring attached to it joining me to the rear of the machine. My hands were cuffed to railings on each side of the machine. The stable master then came in and said “This is the first day of your training. In a moment, I will turn the belt on, and you need to start running to keep away from the back of the machine. If you give up, and you are carried backwards, you will touch an electrified probe that will give you a very unpleasant electric shock. The spring behind you makes you run against a tension, to simulate the load of pulling a rickshaw. And the angle of the belt will change randomly, from where it is now, flat, to quite a steep slope as the exercise proceeds, so that you get used to running up and down hills. You will feel that the surface of the belt is rough, and this is intentional, as we need to get the soles of your feet toughened quickly – I expect you will be bleeding before the end of the session, but don’t worry, that is quite normal for your first few days. Today, you’ll only have to run three miles this morning, and three this afternoon, and we’ll increase it every day until you can do ten miles non-stop.”

With that, he turned some dials to calibrate the machine, and turned it on. The belt beneath my feet began to rotate slowly, and I had to walk forward because I could see, over my shoulder, the sharp probe sticking out from the machine behind me. It didn’t seem too bad at first, but the belt picked up speed until I was doing a light jog, and then quite a pacey run. I’ve jogged and trained a lot at college, and at first I thought that three miles would be a breeze. But there’s a difference between jogging around a college town, in your own time, and running at a fast pace, uphill. I began to sweat, and my lungs felt on fire. Faster and faster it went, and I couldn’t keep up the pace, until suddenly I got the most terrible jolt of electric shock as the probe behind me touched my naked butt – I leapt forward with renewed energy, and began to pray that my ordeal would soon be over.

The machine stopped after a time, and I sank down onto my haunches with exhaustion. I was covered with sweat, my lungs were burning, trying to suck in enough air to keep me going, my feet were painful from the motion over the sharp surface of the belt and there was still the nagging pain from my ass and pec from the brands, which were now covered in ugly blisters.

The stable master entered the chamber, saw my pitiable condition, and said “Good. No pain, no gain. You won’t find it any easier this afternoon when you have another session, or on any subsequent day. We adjust the level of difficulty each time, so you will always feel like this at the end of an exercise. It’s only by pushing you to your absolute limits that we can get you properly in shape for carrying the Sheikh and his friends in your rickshaw.”

He undid the shackles keeping me on the machine, and said “Now to the gym. We used to make the mistake of only exercising a pony’s legs on this machine, and of course their hearts and lungs. But that left us with superbly muscled butts and legs, and somewhat scrawny arms. The Sheikh thought that this was aesthetically unsatisfying, and has decreed that you have to do upper body exercises too to give you good development of your shoulders and arms, and a lot of trunk exercises so you have a reasonable six-pack. You won’t find it any easier, as we use the same techniques – you have a measured amount of work to do each day on the exercise machines, and electric shocks keep you at it”.

We went in to the gym and there were about seven pony slaves on different pieces of normal-looking weight-room apparatus. I was led up to one, and told to sit down. The stable master glanced at my tattoo, and pressed my number in to a keypad. A dial in font of my eyes lit up, and he said “Start lifting the weights. If you flag, the pointer in front of you will go back around the dial. And if it crosses the 12 o’clock position, you will get a shock!”.

The leather seat of the weights machine I had sat on was slick with the sweat of the previous pony slave – obviously they didn’t bother to clean it off between ponies, and I soon understood why. The weights were just about as much as I could lift, and looking at the needle on the dial, I could see that I had to do a fast pace of reps in order to avoid getting shocked.

I spent the rest of the morning, rotating between different exercise machines, and on each one I felt I was pushing the limits of what I was capable of.

It must have been around noon when I was finally allowed to rest, and the Stable master came up to inspect me. He stood there looking at my heaving chest, as I continued to try to recover my breath from the hard exercise, and said “You can rest now before we do it all again this afternoon, but we can’t waste your time: we’ll use the rest period to start you off on your tan, else when you first go out in a cart you’ll get too sunburned. We don’t care about the sunburn of course, but it might prevent you from working for a day and that would not be good for the Sheikh who wants to get his money’s worth from you”.

So saying, his rasped some orders to two of the stable slaves, and I was led away into a yard in the centre of the stables. It was open to the sky, and about five metres square.

The slaves put a collar on me, and gestured for me to put my wrists behind my neck, where they were then fastened to the collar with small straps. Ropes from the corners of the yard where then attached to my collar, so I could not leave the centre of the square. The slaves then went away, and came back with a bucket of white, oily stuff, which they proceeded to rub all over me. I realised that this was sun cream – obviously they wanted me to get brown, but not to burn! They paid particular attention to my armpits which were of course cruelly exposed to the sun because of the position of my hands behind my neck, and rubbed the cream deep into my ass crack, my balls, and my cock – I guess I should have been grateful for this, but I had not been a slave long enough and it was still humiliating to have another guy rubbing oily cream into my cock and balls.

It was so hot under the burning sun, and my slickly oiled skin was soon beaded with drops of perspiration. But there was no escaping the rays, as I couldn’t move from the centre of the yard.

It was almost a relief when I was led back to the exercise treadmill, and made to do another three miles on my already painful feet, followed by another gruelling session in the gym.


After my second gym session I could barely move: I realised that everything must be finely timed – obviously they had a lot of experience in training slaves to their physical limits. My brands still throbbed, but the pain from my feet, and every muscle in my body, almost drowned out those pains. My skin felt it was on fire all over, and I could see it was red, but not burned.

Back in the stable I joined some other pony slaves who had just come in. They stood there physically drooping with tiredness, and I could see that this was to be my lot, too, from now on – complete physical exhaustion each day.

In turn each of the slaves in front of me crouched low over the usual crap and piss hole, then moved on into a communal shower area – just a large tiled room, really, with a couple of spraying nozzles on one wall. They resignedly raised their arms into the air as they went in – this was obviously what you were supposed to do. There were four of the stable lad slaves in the shower already, and they proceeded to soap and wash the pony slaves thoroughly, using a hose pipe in addition to the fixed nozzles on the wall to make sure the pony slaves were thoroughly clean.

As soon as they pony slaves in front of me were almost finished, the stable lad slaves motioned for me to go in, too, and they started to shampoo me. It was difficult, as I had the remains of the sun tan cream on me, and they needed to scrub my sore skin quite hard to make an impression. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the ponies in front of me being “finished off” from the shower – one of the four stable lad slaves was jerking them off whilst they still stood there with their arms in the air. Their semen spurted on to the stable lad slave’s naked body, but he was obviously used to this as he didn’t seem to find it at all unusual or repulsive. So this was what the slave master had meant by the “evening milking”!

Then it was my turn. One of the lads grasped my cock. I went to stop him, but the moment my hands came down, there was a shout from a guard who I now saw was standing in a “viewing gallery” overlooking the shower room. He gestured for me to get my hands up again, and I could see his stun gun ready, so I did. The stable lad again grasped my cock, and briskly brought me to a climax, following which I was led off, fed as I had been in the morning with a measured amount of slave meal, and locked by my wrists into a stall as I had been the previous night.

I lay watching the stalls opposite me fill up as slaves came out of the shower, and as I was near the end of the row, I could see into one particularly large stall. The eight muscular ponies in the team that contained Hans and Mike were led into the stall, and I noticed that they were not locked down. I remembered that this was because those slaves were allowed uninhibited free sex with each other as they were meant to bond and team, and the stable master did not want to prevent them having free access to each others’ bodies. Six of the slaves seemed to be completely at home with each other, and there was a lot of fucking, kissing, and mutual masturbation going on. But two sat at the side, against the wall of the stall, with their heads down in shame – I guessed these must be Hans and Mike.

Several of their team mates went over to them and tried to start jerking them off, but Mike and Hans hit out at them. The other slaves in their stall clearly couldn’t understand their behaviour, and there was a lot of puzzled looks and shrugging of shoulders as if to ask “what’s up?”.

Then the lights went out, and I tried to sleep, in spite of the pains all over my body.

The next day was just like the previous one; and the one after that, and the one after that. It was clear that the routine of getting up, being showered, being fed, exercise, being showered, being jerked off, being fed and going to sleep was a pattern that would repeat endlessly.

The only change came on day five, when after my evening shower, when I had been “milked”, the veterinarian came over and gave me a quick “once over” with his stethoscope. He also ran his hands all over my body, feeling for strains and injuries, and inspected the brands on my ass and pec, where the scabs had now just dropped off the healing wounds. He finished off by cupping my balls in his hands, and I winced and a scream came from my throat.

“Good “, said the veterinarian , “That’s to be expected. Have you been getting a lot of pain from your balls these past few days?” I nodded in agreement, because the previous night I had hardly been able to sleep because of the dull throb that was coming from them – I had wondered if it was the jerking-off by the stable lad slaves that was the cause of the problem, but as I had usually jerked myself off at least twice a day when I was still “at home”, I didn’t really think this was so.

“That’s the running”, said the veterinarian. “Almost all our European and American ponies feel pain in their testicles for the first few weeks because they are not used to exercising nude. I expect that when you were playing football, and taking part in track and field events, you always wore a jock strap under your shorts to provide support. And a lot of young guys always wear briefs rather than boxers, and even if they wear boxers, their trousers are tight enough to give them some support. The pain you are feeling is because your balls are bouncing up and down, unrestrained, as you run, and they suffer slight bruising from them swinging against your thighs and from having your cock flop up and down on to them in time with your running steps. I expect that slaves in ancient Greece didn’t have this problem, as of course their games were always played nude!”

“But don’t worry, after a week or so, the pain will go away as your balls get used to their new life. And just be grateful that the Sheikh doesn’t want you to be ringed, as some of his neighbours do. They have their ponies’ balls pushed down in their sacs, then a broad collar welded around the stem of the sac so the balls are no longer floating free. It certainly cures the problem, and doesn’t seem to affect the ponies’ virility, but the Sheikh here has decided that he likes to see his ponies ‘au natural’, and won’t allow ball sac ringing, or, indeed, permanent collars or shackles of any kind welded onto his animals unless it’s absolutely necessary for the work they do. Personally, I think it’s a shame, as I like to see a slave with four bands welded around his wrists and ankles, but there you are – the Sheikh pays the money, so he has the choice!”.

I was led off into my stall, for another night’s sleep.

To be continued …

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