Old blankets covered the hay that lined the stall. The hands on my body eased me down to my knees, then unhobbled my wrists. With relief, I shook out my arms and turned to get a look at the man beside me. The moment I saw him, I forgot who or where I was, how I got there, why I was dressed as a stupid pony in the first place, as everything inside me skid to a halt against the sudden pounding of blood through my body, a roar of desire and lust that mingled in my veins, warming my arms, my chest, my groin. Here was the type of man Sean had promised me. Here was the man I came looking for. Here, now, with me ... "I'm Drew," I tried to say, but the bit in my mouth turned the introduction into garble.

He was my age, maybe older, with thick blond hair that fell across his brow with a wanton carelessness. A practiced shake of his head flipped the bangs from his piercing blue eyes. He had high cheekbones and smooth skin and full, pouty lips that hovered at the edge of a smile. If pre-Raphaelite artists had had someone like this to paint, they would have never bothered with women in the first place.

A grin finally broke through one corner of those perfect lips. "I'm Phillip," he told me, holding out a hand. When I didn't take it, he grabbed one of my hoof-shaped gloves and shook it. "Phillip Ross. Listen, I'm really sorry about what happened back there. This is your first time, right? We're not all like that."

I watched him stand, leaning back to keep him in sight, turning when he step out of the stall so that I wouldn't lose him. He wore leather breeches and a supple, sleeveless shirt -- black, of course, the color of the day. The breeches were tight enough to show off sculpted buttocks. Entranced, I watched their movement as he crossed the stable to take a first aid kit from the wall. Then he grabbed a handful of supplies from a table before coming back to me. When he knelt beside me again, his motions were as fluid as water poured into a glass. He dumped the supplies in front of us. A towel, a bottle of something marked Hoof Lotion, a soft-bristled brush, the first aid kit. Opening the kit, he took out a small tube of ointment and squeezed a little of the clear gel onto his fingertips. "You've got a few cuts," he told me, touching the cool gel to my shoulder. The ointment burned. When I pulled away, his other hand instantly found my face to stroke my cheek. "Shhhh, it's okay. Let me take care of you. It's okay."

His fingers rubbed along my cheek, my chin, below. I found myself leaning into his touch, letting my head slip back like a pampered pet so he could stroke my neck and chest. Between my legs, my cock began to stir for the first time all day as those fingers danced over the straps of my tack and massaged my nipples, lower, my abdomen, lower. They brushed over the fabric of my jock that now strained across the beginnings of an erection and moved down one thigh to the knee, over to the other leg and back up again. The second time they found my crotch, all pretense disappeared, and Phillip closed his fist around my now aching dick as he concentrated on the cuts and bruises on my back.

"You like that?" he murmured into my ear. I nodded, eyes closed against his ministrations. He worked me hard, his fingers sliding over the jock as they followed the shape of my shaft, easing a few times between my thighs to rub at my sheathed balls. "How could someone be so cruel to you?" he wanted to know. "You're just a skittish little colt."

My eyes flew open. So we were still playing that game. But if it kept him touching me, I'd be a pony. I'd be anything he wanted, anything at all, if it meant his hands on my body, his breath on my cheek.