Ms. Catherine Langston loved to ride on the sandy beach below High Gate Stables in the first hours after dawn. The fierce power of the summer sun was still gentled by the morning mist. The seaside sounds and smells admixed to form a perfect balm to the hustle and bustle of her busy life. Her palm pilot lay peacefully in her locker. Her cell phone lay nestled quietly beside it. Wave following wave, the waves rushed up onto the beach and receded smoothly into the ocean. Her Pony's harness creaked rhythmically as his powerful thighs rose and fell. His callused feet pounded the hard sand with each distance-devouring stride. Raucous calls of sea birds accented the complex euphony. Cathy inhaled the tangy sea air, aroma of richly polished leather and the faint musk of her Pony's perspiration. Her phone's incessant ringing and her endless schedule of urgent conferences and critical meetings slowly faded from her consciousness.

Her saddle, perched high at the back of her Pony's neck, set solidly between his wide shoulder blades. The saddle's light-weight aluminum frame secured his heavy arms and transferred her weight downward to his pelvis and lowered their collective center of gravity. His neck was even thicker than either of her trim thighs that draped over his broad shoulders and chest. The toes of her soft, leather mid-calf boots rested in the hanging stirrups. For now, her heels rested lightly on his flanks.

The Pony was a human male, carefully selected, genetically engineered, and hormonally augmented. His lungs' capacity to extract oxygen from the air was increased, as was his peak cardiac output. His muscles were substantially strengthened. With scientific nutrition and rigorous physical conditioning since childhood, he had grown to more than 2.2 meters and 200 kilograms. He carried Ms. Langston's 50 kilograms with ease. Rigorous mental and psychological conditioning began in childhood. The 'will to serve' was both a Pony's strength and curse. Neither his heart, nor his lungs could keep pace with his muscles' maximal demands and a Pony could run until he literally broke his heart.

Training a Pony was major investment. Few were ready to ride before 16 years of age and most didn't gain full strength until almost 20 years. If good service was repaid with meticulous care, a Pony might serve until he was forty, but few survived to forty-five and most had to be put down before then.

One might well wonder how a woman might manage so large and strong a male. At 165 cm, Ms Langston was not short, but the top of her head reached no higher than the middle of Lucky's back. He outweighed her almost 4-fold. However, experienced riders, even smaller than she, easily controlled even larger Ponies with the padded wooden dowels - called reining rods - inserted deeply in their exquisitely sensitive ear canals and held securely in place by a sturdy bridle - a leather strap that passed around the forehead and over the back of the head and two cross straps. One cross strap passed around the Pony's thick neck and a second passed through the mouth, where a metal bit prevented him biting through the leather. Stout hand grasps were provided on either side where the strap passed over the temples. The slightest pressure from the heel of a hand on a reining rod pressed against the ear canal and turned the Pony promptly to the right or left. Pressure on both rods brought him smartly to a stop. A male's size and strength were firmly restrained to the service of his female rider.

A rider and her Pony seemed to symbolize the new gynarchic order that arose after the Revolution that began in 2016 in response to President Jeb Bush, of the one-term Bush family. Winning narrowly in the Electoral College but gaining no more than one-third of the popular vote in 2012, he quickly fulfilled his campaign promise and totally banned abortion. "Register babies, not Barettas," his supporters chanted. "Mommies kill people guns don't!" screamed their placards. "Abortion is murder!"

In response to concerns about dangerous back-alley procedures, he and his enthusiastic Congress instituted mandatory fortnightly pregnancy screening for all menstruating females. Three days late and a woman found that her credit and ATM cards suddenly stopped working. Seven days late and the cards set off alarms, rousing store security and summoning the police. Loss of a pregnancy necessitated a medical inquest. Women who had had abortions were called accomplices and tried for murder along with their practitioners.

With the support of the Supreme Court, he suspended elections in 2016, calling them divisive and unhelpful. He pointed out past irregularities, vast inconsistencies in electoral practice across the country, and an egregious lack of equal protection. He appointed Chief Justice Katherine Harris to head up a blue-ribbon select task force to explore reform and convened the so-called Long Congress whose first act was the expulsion of Senator Hillary Clinton from New York.

"You wouldn't do this to your grandmother," Sen. Clinton admonished them.

"I thank God every day that you're not my grandmother," someone retorted sharply but anonymously.

Tensions built and finally, violence erupted. Emily Brauer, a Missouri woman and mother of three children, was condemned to death for having an abortion. Even her husband testified against her, pleading that he had nothing at all to do with her despicable act. He had a drinking problem, he admitted, but he wasn't drunk all the time. And if he didn't want to work, why had he had so many different jobs. He confessed that he had hit her and more than once with obvious remorse, but he hadn't beaten her every single day and he had never drawn blood

Many rose to her defense although Emily said little for herself. She was poor self-advocate. Her sadness and ambivalence were apparent to all who saw her. Pleas for clemency were met charges of soft headedness. "We have to destroy her in order to save her," Concerned Citizens for Christ argued. Pleas for pardon were ignored. Letters of condemnation arrived from human rights organizations in Saudi Arabia and Singapore. The Israelis and Palestinians signed a joint declaration.

Media gathered at John Ashcroft Memorial State Prison to televise the execution. The value of commercial time soared to equal Super Bowl rates. All of America and much of the world watched at home. Minutes before the scheduled lethal injection, prison guards, men and woman both, mutinied and freed Ms Norton from Death Row right in front of the cameras. Other guards surrendered to the mutineers. The few guards who resisted were shot down.

The Army was sent in. Most units were mixed, comprised of men and women both. Although women were a distinct minority, the women generally had more education than the men and a higher percentage held leadership positions. Some units promptly joined the mutineers, while most others simply refused to fire on fellow Americans. A few did fire and the more numerous, well-armed, and well-trained mutineers fired back. All of America and much of the world watched at home.

The Revolution ended two years later with surprisingly little loss of life. The female leadership that emerged was different from the traditional feminist elite. It was less ideological, less well dressed, and unconcerned with seeming 'nice.' The new elite was more practical and more ruthless. It had tasted power and was loath to lose what had been won after so long a struggle.

The surviving male leaders were stripped naked and half dragged and half carried to the top of the Washington Monument. Pale and flabby, they were one by one thrown to their deaths, out an open window. Their female accomplices were imprisoned and forgotten. The Washington Monument itself was then demolished as a hated symbol of male oppression. The rubble was left where it fell. The area was cordoned off and the site - now fenced - was solemnly rededicated in memory of the female victims of the millennia of patriarchal terror.

Subjection of a Pony to one's will was viewed as an ineluctable demonstration of leadership and ability. Parades and civic celebrations often featured a unit of costumed riders and their Ponies. College students, who could never afford membership in a Riding Club, often volunteered as grooms or exercise girls just to get a chance to ride.

Cassie, Catherine's niece loved to ride and nagged her mother unceasingly for a Pony of her own. Linda, Catherine's sister and Cassie's mother refused, even though she had space on her farmette. She feared that her daughter would be unable to control a Pony's tremendous strength and male propensity for violence. Cassie was now sixteen years old - ripe and ready for some responsibility. Her older sister was already in college.

Catherine Langston prided herself on her wise management of her Pony's strength and stamina. She had as little patience for the careless riders who left their Pony's blown and exhausted as she had for those whose Pony's ears bled from too vigorous working of the reining rods. She listened with horror at one woman's boasting of the Pony she had driven mercilessly until his heart had literally burst. Dying, he collapsed under her and she had jumped desperately for safety, suffering bruises, abrasions and a torn and soiled riding costume. The woman sensed Catherine's obvious distress and blithely assumed that Catherine was upset by her travail rather than by the Pony's clearly avoidable demise. Catherine had voted to allow the Chief Trainer to ban careless riders for repeated offenses after a formal written warning.

It had taken four grooms and the powerful winch on the 4x 4 to lift the heavy carcass onto the truck bed. The other Ponies were confined to their stalls when they finally brought him to the yard. Simple morbid curiosity made Catherine watch. Death had loosed his bowels and bladder. The grooms hosed him off where he lay. Then they hung him by his ankles. Hanging, he looked even larger than he had standing. His feet were well above her head and his heavily muscled arms were bent at the elbow and his thick forearms rested on the ground. His pendulous sex flopped forward onto his belly, exposing his ripe ball sac.

This was a rare event at the Stables. Carrie, one of the trainers, hunted and had had some experience, although the Pony was much larger than any jack she had ever seen, let alone taken. Madison, the exercise girl, dragged out an old galvanized metal tub. Carrie lifted the Pony's head and she slid the tub underneath. Using an old hunter's trick, Carrie flicked his glans with her index finger. Eliciting no response, she unsheathed her well-honed Janie knife, squatted down and made a deep incision along one side of his neck, opening his great vessels. The blood flowed over his head and collected in the tub. Next, she tied off his penis in case his bladder had not emptied completely. Then she hosed him down again before wedging in between his muscular buttocks to cut a deep circle around his rectum. Her scrunched up face registered her discomfort as she reached in and retrieved a length of bowel, which she promptly tied off. She went in the barn to wash her hands, while Madison hosed down the carcass once more.

Catherine Langston looked stunning. The brilliant white of her blouse and jodhpurs and the flawless black of her highly polished boots contrasted with her mount's rich golden tan. His thick black hair was shaped into a 5 cm mane-like strip over the center of his head. The cool ocean breeze puffed up her sleeves and played with her white sun hat that was kept in place only by the string tied tightly under her chin. Her Pony, named Lucky, ran smoothly and strongly. She held the hand grasps firmly and enjoyed the wind in her face. She well appreciated her niece's love of riding. A short quirt hung loosely from her wrist and swung in counterpoint to Lucky's cadenced gait.

Lucky ran. He lived to run. He had vague recollections of the time before he had been Lucky, the Pony. He remembered playing Pony with his friends and watching the champion Ponies on the television. He felt envy for their undeniable power as they surged across the finish line and for the accolades that the winners received. He never saw the reining rods. He had had another name then, although he couldn't always remember exactly what it had been. "Michael" was his best guess. He had had five fingers on each hand then too, four fingers and a thumb, not four fingers and no thumb like now.

They told him that a Pony had no need of thumbs and were very displeased by his inquisitiveness. Thumbs and too many questions would just get him into trouble. How many questions were too many, he had asked with some concern. "One," was the answer. He didn't know why they taken his had thumbs either. He didn't miss them much. They didn't hurt anymore, but sometime when he wanted to undo a latch or unbuckle a buckle, he just couldn't do it.

He remembered the scalp burns from his electro-convulsive shock treatments. He remembered being fitted for his first saddle. He remembered his first trainer, Emily, and his pride at being able to bear her weight so easily and run so fast and so far. His trainer was proud of him too and he basked in her warm, sincere approval. At first, his bridle had no reining rods. His rider directed him only with the stout hand-grasps on his bridle. A touch of her padded spurs and he accelerated with power. He hardly even felt the bite of her quirt as she drove him to the front of the pack as he raced with the other young Ponies. A touch of her quirt on the back of his knee and he squatted so that she could mount or dismount. The other Ponies told him about the reining rods, but it was still very hard to believe.

Along with his joy, he remembered his pain also. He remembered the day he was branded, and the day he was pierced. Most of all, he remembered his first reining rods.

Even with him restrained, the chief trainer and three grooms were unable able to insert them. When he saw them at first, they didn't look so frightening. They were just small padded wooden rods. When they first touch his ears, he simply panicked. He struggled on and on - twisting and turning- writhing and throwing himself about. The chief trainer showed him her forceps -an evil looking, three-pronged device. One prong would slip into his mouth and press against his hard palette while two prongs fit into his nostrils. The contraption could be tightened and his head would be immobilized. Finally, he calmed and allowed his own trainer, Amanda, to place the rods and secure them with his bridle.

Now the rods are removed each evening and replaced each morning after a groom, standing on a platform to match his height, inspects his ear canals with her otoscope. The first time, the reining rods were left in place for three full days.

That very first day, his Amanda took him out for a run. For the first mile or so, she guided him with the usual hand-grasps. He was glad to escape from the site of his torment and quickly recovered his native exuberance. Sounds were somewhat muffled, but nothing else seemed out of the ordinary. Unexpectedly, he felt pressure in his left ear. He jerked his head against the pressure and suddenly that vague pressure exploded into agonizing pain. He quickly learned that pressure on the right meant that he was to turn to the right and pressure on the left meant that he was to turn to the left. Pressure on both rods brought him smartly to a stop. His trainer knew that if he learned quickly, she could lessen his pain. She was pleased by how quickly he learned.

He returned to the yard, lathered in perspiration. Amanda dismounted and led him by a leash attached to his sturdy nose ring. She walked him until he caught his breath. She allowed him a short drink of water, then walked him more. When he had cooled down, she removed his saddle but left the reining rods in place.

Sleep was difficult that first night with the rods in place. When he moved his head a certain way, he put pressure on the rods and the pain promptly woke him up.

The second day, Amanda ran him until he was exhausted and he learned that fatigue was not a sufficient excuse to ignore the rods. He learned to be vigilant - to be aware of the subtlest hint of pressure on the rods and answer it with alacrity - promptly and with all his might. That second night, he finally found a way to sleep.

The third day came and Amanda let the exercise girls ride him in the yard under her watchful eye. No one else had ever been allowed to ride him. If they were somewhat less demanding than the trainer, their skills fell somewhat short of their enthusiasm. Their clumsy, heavy hands caused him substantial pain, however inadvertent. However, he had no choice but to follow their crude direction. That evening, Amanda and the others removed the rods.

Carrie, an exercise girl, rubbed a soothing salve into his raw ear canals. She inspected him carefully for any place where the saddle straps had abraded his skin. They washed him down and tended his callused feet. No one roused him the next day and he slept long and well.

The fifth day, his trainer swung open the door of his stall, flanked by two smiling, talking exercise girls. Lucky saw only his bridle and the hated reining rods in her hand. One of the exercise girls, Emily, held him by his nose ring. The other, whose name he didn't know, strapped him into his saddle. Amanda, his trainer, placed her empty hand on his shoulder, smiled, and circled slowly behind him. He was afraid of the rods and he trembled. They had given him so much pain, but yet he thrilled to her touch. He tried to turn his head to watch her, but Emily kept a firm grip on is nose ring. He felt her warm, soft hand stroke the side of his neck gently. She quickly slipped the bridle over his head and he stood obediently and passively. A second more and the reining rods were inserted and secure. He shook his head forcefully, wrenching his nose ring from Emily's grasp. He was too late. He had little left that he could do.

Amanda touched his knee wit her quirt and he squatted to be mounted. To his surprise, Carrie swung up into the saddle - not Amanda. Lucky was puzzled. He looked at his trainer and tried to get her attention, but Amanda walked briskly from the stall. Carrie's gentle but insistent pressure on the rods pierced his confusion and quickly reminded him to whom he must answer now. Carrie urged him into the yard and there they waited for a few moments.

There, Amanda joined them, riding another young Pony. Lucky could see his obvious glee in serving Amanda, his trainer, and he was jealous. This new one didn't even have reining rods yet in his shiny, new bridle yet. Amanda looked pleased also. Up until that moment, Lucky thought that he was Amanda's Pony in the way that she was his trainer. Jealousy raged. Carrie jabbed him lightly with her rounded spurs and pre-occupied; he failed utterly to respond. She waited, likely longer than would have Amanda and jabbed him again with more authority. Lucky started out at a trot.

Sometimes, when he was alone in his stall, he thought about the past. Sometimes he felt just on the verge of remembering, and he found his vague recollections painful and unsettling. When he ran, he lost himself in the compelling rhythms of his breathing and his stride and found real peace. When Catherine jabbed him lightly with her spurs, he was almost grateful and gladly picked up his pace.

Up ahead, Catherine Langston saw two friends, Daphne de Winter and Sarah Ponsonby coming down from the stables on the twin Show Ponies who had just been purchased. The stable board wanted to focus more on Racers and Show Ponies in place of the utilitarian Work Ponies. Cathy was pleased to see them and eager to greet them. She wanted Lucky to run. She wanted to feel him surge under her. She went to her whip and at its first bite, Lucky found some yet untapped reservoir of strength and accelerated. She felt Lucky charge powerfully under her and she leaned forward, gripping the hand grasps tightly. The speed was exhilarating and left her wanting more. When she finally pressed on the reining rods to bring him to a halt, she was more breathless than he and smiled broadly, her quotidian cares completely forgotten.

Lucky was a sturdy Work Pony. He was selected and trained for surefootedness and endurance. Lucky's magnificent body had no covering. He had no shame at his nakedness. He had been naked ever since he had left home for the special school more than 10 years before. A Work Pony was larger and bulkier than a Show Pony. A Show Pony was chosen for intelligence and agility trained to perform a whole variety of school gaits and figures to musical accompaniment. A Racing Pony was configured and trained for speed on a smooth racecourse. He needed to bear no rider larger than his jockey, always a slight woman or girl really, usually less than 40 kilos. Racing Ponies were tall. Increased truncal height increased lung capacity and longer legs allowed a longer stride.

Where Show Ponies and Racing Ponies were usually depilated, a Work Pony was left with his natural male body hair which might protect him has he pressed through the undergrowth in the woods. Twice a week, his head and facial hair was clipped to 1 centimeter and combed for neatness sake. His gear was well made but simple. Where a Show Pony might boast elaborate piercing of his eyebrows, cheeks and lips, and nipples, only Lucky's nose and sex were pierced. Show Ponies were always gelded and small, compact genitals -as admired in classical Greece - had somehow again come to be a judging point. Modern microvascular surgery replaced ice packs and made penis reduction an option.

Lucky's thick cock dangled between his muscular thighs. His fat testicles bulged in their sac. Once male genitals had been the symbol of male power.

Lucky didn't know his history and didn't care. He stood impatiently while the women talked. He enjoyed his run and petulantly just wanted to run more. The women talked pleasantly enough. However, Lucky could hear little of what they said and understand less. The reining rods blocked his ears. He quickly became bored, standing one place for so long. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

Catherine sensed his growing unease and gently stroked the side of his neck and the coarse hair under his chin. She touched her throat and the contrast could not be more obvious. Where her skin was fine and smooth, his skin was covered by his neatly clipped, thick fur - a 'beard,' they had called it in the old days, she suddenly remembered and smiled at her random memory of ancient trivia.

He relished her touch but he needed to urinate. Nothing in his training restrained him from simply emptying his overfilled bladder.

Sarah Ponsonby noticed him first. She made a wry face and pointed him out to Daphne de Winter who did her best to ignore him. At first, Catherine Langton had no idea of what had attracted her friends' attention. Puzzled, she looked to see if something were wrong with herself or her attire. Looking down, she finally saw the stream of urine splashing onto the ground. Some people say that they're fully human, she marveled to herself while thoroughly suppressing any sort of outward reaction.

 

Cassie awoke and adeptly slapped down her clamoring clock radio. The day was only dawning but a rich morning light poured golden through her window. At first, she was annoyed that she had awakened so early on a morning when she might well have slept. Saturday was not a school day. Then she remembered why she had set her alarm so early and leaped out of bed with a sudden exuberance. She dressed in her riding attire, a short black coat over a starched white blouse with white jodhpurs and pulled on her polished riding boots. She grabbed her spurs and her helmet and headed out the door. First, she had her chores to attend to.

She found the joeys up already and playing noisily in their pen. Mature males were termed jacks, while immature males were termed joeys. This new batch had arrived only last week, but they seemed to be adjusting to their new home quite nicely. Naked, they ran in circles and climbed on their jungle gym. They swung on their swing and wrestled boisterously. She watched one joey demonstrate that he, at least, had figured out the squatter toilets lined up in a row at the back of the enclosure. The toilets flushed automatically when he stepped off the footrest.

 

Males had long been the "Lords of Creation." They had ruled the world for millennia but they had betrayed their trust and nearly destroyed humankind with their genius for destruction. In the aftermath of the Revolution, women had discovered that a simple reduction in male numbers had finally ended war and markedly diminished violent crime. The vaunted male economic contribution was more than erased by disproportionate male consumption. The challenge for the new order was to restrain male numbers in the face of an increasing male birth fraction and women's vast sentimentality. Unchecked, males might recover their lost numbers in a generation and violently reclaim their lost privileges. However, allies were readily found among the women who had picked up the reins of power, long held by men, and had quickly come to enjoy their new prerogatives.

Mass executions in the now under-utilized penitentiaries were one answer. The Hunt was another, more sporting solution.

Both controlled male numbers but left a problem with disposal of the remains. Before the Revolution, the population of the United States had been 280 million. The population now was 140 million girls and women and 50 million boys and adults males. The annual cull ran about 2 million jacks. Disposal two million rotting carcasses was a threat to public health and a major environmental burden. Returning bodies to their individual families for traditional funerals would have been extraordinarily complicated, extremely expensive, and poorly received. Even mass incineration was had costs and posed a substantial environmental burden of hothouse gasses and fossil fuel consumption.

Women being inventive beings predictably sought the unusual and exclusive as outward symbols of their cleverness and sophistication. Some argued the quintessence of human civilization itself was women's response to male strength and eagerness for violence. Women had held their own through millennia of oppression and now the tide had turned. A victory had been won and might be celebrated.

Hunters took trophies from the very start, but at first much was wasted. Jacks like rabbits, raccoons, or coyotes, might be skinned. Women had long celebrated furs and leathers. They had long been aware of the glorious sensuality of a soft leather boot on a well-turned leg. The erotic feel of tight leather pants embracing firm, youthful thighs and buttocks or even once firm, youthful thighs and buttocks was elevated to new heights for some by the knowledge that the leather had been processed from the skins stripped from the carcasses of former "Lords of Creation." Procedures were quickly put in place to salvage the skins of males killed in the penitentiaries.

Women, who would never themselves have anything themselves to do with the grisly business of killing and flaying males, ardently sought exclusive goods of jack leather with fervent enthusiasm. Those with adequate means treasured their expensive brief cases, purses, wallets, shoes, boots, skirts, pants, belts, vests, and jackets, and coats of genuine, certified jack leather, its very scarcity adding to its price which paradoxically to its popularity. Women of more modest means dreamed of the day when they might indulge themselves similarly and no longer need settle for synthetic imitations.

Some women even proved vulnerable to the outré urge to shock their more quotidian friends with their culinary daring. It began crudely enough in the camps as a private ritual among those most deeply committed to the Hunt and the New Order and spread to gourmet diners around the world. Now, at the finest, more exclusive restaurants such as Androphones, Frere Jacques and Les Guerillieres, a very trendy avant-garde elite impress their more conventional friends and discuss the proper selection of wine to accompany an appetizer or entree featuring jacques. A red Bordeaux is still preferred by those who know when a well-manicured hand gracefully impales a lean sliver of fillet of jacques on the prongs of a finely made sterling silver fork and neatly maneuvers it between brilliantly colored lips, past gleaming white teeth, and into the warm embrace of a moist tongue. At home, any cabernet will do at festive times with a beautifully presented saddle or haunch of jacques. On more routine evenings a zinfandel goes well with jacques stew. On college campuses, apple ale is more in order after the rally, when a trussed jack is boiled until tender, seared quickly on a spit over an aromatic mesquite fire, and then drenched in whatever barbecue sauce comes to hand just before serving. At home, soda goes well with sliced homme and cheese on rye, jacqueburgers, and sausages.

Many who cannot imagine themselves slaughtering and dressing a lamb, steer, hog, chicken, or even a fish, purchase neat and tidy packages of cellophane-wrapped butcher meat without a pause, much less a twinge of revulsion. Similarly, many who find the messy details of the Hunt distasteful, still share in its fruits with enthusiasm and look forward to their annual packages of jacques, already neatly trimmed, butchered into commercial cuts, and wrapped in white butcher paper.

A simple taste whetted a broader appetite for male skins and meat. Every other creature, wild or domestic, had its vigorous advocates. Many were all too embarrassed by the unpleasant particulars of the slaughter of trusting, peaceful domestic animals. The grace and beauty of wild creatures won them many friends and defenders. Males or jacks, as they came to be called, evoked little such sympathy. Many enjoyed the bitter irony after millennia of male terror and oppression. Many prized the novelty and the cachet. Some just relished the taste. Overnight, the problem changed from too many males to too few male carcasses to satisfy a vigorously growing demand.

These joeys hadn't a care in the world. Fortified milk was available from the plastic udders of a box-like refrigerated contraption called the mechanical "cow." Sweetened cereal filled the trough. A bubbler offered plentiful fresh water. All they need do was eat and play. They never had test or a term paper to trouble their minds.

It was so sad, if you thought about it. Either joey's were slaughtered for their flesh and skins or grew up and succumbed to testosterone poisoning and became big, stupid jacks. Their skins were so soft and supple. Their flesh, called garcon, so tender and tasty, was highly prized. Garcon was also very lean. The government set strict limits on the number of joey's sent to slaughter and carefully monitored the procedures to assure that only the most humane methods were employed. Garcon was so tasty and so diet that something just had to be wrong about it. Some people thought it simply all too cruel and simply refused to eat garcon. Cassie tried not to think about it.

When she was small, she had spent hours in the pen, playing with the joeys herself. She had even tasted their sugary sweet cereal. Cassie smiled; she had tried the squatter toilet once herself too, but only when she was much younger and didn't know any better. Now she was much older and wiser. The joeys were still cute and adorable, but she had lost her interest for such childish pursuits, but she put on her bathing suit and helped her mother wash them when called upon once a week.

Next, she opened the door to main barn, a hundred meters from the smaller barn that housed the joeys. Her mother took good care of her jacks. Sometimes, Cassie wished that her mother had taken as good care of her and her older sister. The barn was clean and airy. The thermostat was turned up so that the naked jacks wouldn't be uncomfortable in the chill night air.

Every January, her mother bought a dozen jacks who they fattened for ten months and marketed in November. Every winter vacation, Cassie and her sister helped their mother clean the barn and prepare for the next year's crop. . Her mother had her job in the city but the extra income was always welcome.

This morning, the jacks still slept soundly on their mats in their pen. A half dozen stalls lined the opposite wall. Only two were occupied. Cassie patted the training rail, a waist-high wooden horse bolted securely to the concrete floor. Each leg had a fetter to bind a jack's wrist or ankle and restrain him securely over the bar.

Jimmy was her jack for this year. He was developing nicely. She had had a jack of her own every year since she turned thirteen - Jimmy was her fourth and he was turning out very nicely. She named them to herself, Andy, Danny, Billy, and Jimmy. Her first was named Andy and he had been so sweet. He was seventeen years old and sullen when she first got him. She worked hard and took good care of him. Her kind, patient attention had captivated him thoroughly. He hadn't noticed her lack of experience. In retrospect, it was his first time too.

She had impressed even her older sister. Brittney said that Cassie had him sucking strawberries from her pussy by the time she was done. The image embarrassed her then and still made her blush. Compared to the joeys, Andy was so self conscious and awkward. He was large, compared to the joeys, larger than Cassie or her mother and his male parts were grotesquely large too, but he was cute in his own way.

Jimmy's training harness hung next to the door of his stall. This was the first year that she had been allowed to use it herself. Previous years, Brittney or her mother did the honors. The first few times, she felt rather silly. All the books insisted that a good fucking kept a male docile and obedient. She secured Jimmy's wrists to the fetters on the far side of the horse and his ankles to the fetters on the near side. His male parts hung limply between his widely spread thighs. His fine, high, tight ass was directly exposed. She gagged him so as not to be distracted by any annoying noises he might make. Only then, she strapped on the harness, opened hr fly and set the base of the dildo precisely between her labia. She lubricated it copiously. At first, she had been clumsy and awkward. The base of the dildo kept slipping off her clitoris. She could hardly find the right hole. Fucking a male in the ass was certainly an acquired skill and required practice. Even now when he opened for her like a flower and she rode him like the queen of the world, the pleasure was very different than the pleasure that she and her girl friend shared when they fooled around.

She still remembered her surprise the first time Andy's male parts grew larger still when she washed him. She told a friend in school who came back with her to the farmette and showed her how to milk him. His cock was thick and silky in her hand. Andy seemed to enjoy her attention.

It was hard to believe that this curious appendage was the symbol of patriarchal oppression. Males had forced it into unwilling people in a violent act called "rape." Cassie had trouble even imagining it. A solitary male might terrorize a dozen healthy, sane, adult women simply by threatening to expose his male apparatus. It strained credulity!

Once her mother found her milking Andy and laughed. She cautioned Cassie to milk him thoroughly or not at all. Should she leave Andy aroused but not drained, she might injure his delicate balls - the dread condition was called "blue balls." She should try not to get the boy-juice on her clothes and be sure to wash her hands before she came back to the house.

She had cried so when they marketed him, just a few days after his eighteenth birthday. She still cringed at her enormous naiveté that her family still found a source of amusement. Her mother had reminded her calmly just how much she enjoyed the jacques that they bought in the store or that she and Cassie's aunt, Catherine, brought back from the Hunt. She treasured her man-skin garments. Her mother comforted her that jacks may fuss and carry-on, but they don't actually feel pain like real people. Cassie had learned the same lesson in school since, and now had to admit that history thoroughly demonstrated a male alacrity for brutality that made it impossible to believe that males felt pain like real people whatever the jack-hugging Save-the-Male types insisted. Her mother wasn't cruel. Her farmette was regularly inspected and certified by PET'M, People for the Ethical Treatment of Males.

Cassie had grown up on a farm and was more familiar than most with life's realities. She saw cuts of meat neatly trimmed and hygienically wrapped in cellophane and she knew where the meat had come from. She thought about the joey her mother had picked out for dinner who panicked when he saw the knife, twisted free, and fled from the kitchen. He led them on a wild chase around the yard until Cassie tackled him and Aunt Catherine finally bound him securely - something that should have been done before they brought him into the house in the first place.

Cassie remembered the day when her mother drove off with Andy. She returned with Cassie's bankbook and showed her the substantial deposit in her college fund. Hand raised jacks always sold at a premium. Several days later, she returned with sirloin steaks and Cassie could only agree that her very special Andy was really very special.

Cassie finished hr chores. She led Jimmy back to his stall and readjusted her clothes. Now was the time for fun.

Lucky was in the last stall. After literally years of pleading, she had finally gotten a Pony of her own - thanks to her Aunt and only because that classy High Gate Stables no longer wanted a sturdy Work Pony. Lucky was twice the size of any male on the farmette and her mother - like all mothers - always worried about her daughters' safety.

Lucky lay on his side, hobbled by his ankle-bands. Cassie squatted down and freed his ankles. She roused him, careful to secure his wrist-bands behind his back before she freed the lead on his nose ring from its hook on the wall. Groggy still, he rose unsteadily to his feet with her good-natured help. Cassie was only too aware of their difference in size. She stood no taller than his chest and he outweighed her three-fold. Yet none could be mistaken who was the master and who the subject.

Lucky squatted as he had been trained for saddling and bridling. He did not flinch when Cassie inserted the reining rods and secured them. He bore the saddle with no sign of anxiety. He seemed as eager as she when he swung up into the saddle.

She clicked twice and he walked briskly toward the gate. Cassie clicked her key ring and the inner gate opened. She clicked again when they had passed through and the inner gate closed. She had to wait until the inner gate closed completely before she could open the outer gate. Lucky's impatience was apparent. Cassie shook her head at her indulgence. The inner gate closed and Cassie opened the outer gate.

Cassie just touched him with her rounded spurs. Lucky surged forward powerfully at an exhilarating pace. He bore her weight effortlessly. His powerful thighs rose and fell and his harness creaked rhythmically. His callused feet pounded the dirt with each distance-devouring stride. Cassie clicked her key ring again to close the outer gate but did not even look back. She inhaled the spicy aroma of the prairie grass and wild flowers and the faint musk of her Pony's perspiration. The day was glorious.

After a half an hour she brought him to a stop. She poured him a small drink from her canteen, not wanting to bloat him, and drank more deeply himself. Cassie was so thankful that her mother had finally relented and allowed Aunt Catherine to buy him for her. She had been so concerned about Cassie's ability to control such a large, strong male with his innate alacrity for violence. Her one non-negotiable condition had been no particular problem.

Lucky was grateful for the rest and the water. He took the opportunity to relieve himself. In all the excitement of the morning ride he hadn't pee'd since awakening. Cassie wrinkled up her nose in mock disgust and watched amused as his seemingly endless torrent of urine cascaded onto the grass. Some people still say that they're fully human, she marveled to herself. Before remounting, she lifted his sex with her crop to shake off the last remaining drops and revealed the well-healed scar on his scrotum. "You really didn't need those fat things anyway," she re-assured him as if he really had been listening. Lucky had recovered completely and showed no ill-effects of his minor operation. She touched his knee and he squatted to be mounted.