Peter’s just finishing up feeding the ponies when he hears the stable doors roll open. Jinx whickers anxiously and twists his head away from the trough. Peter rubs a soothing hand over his head. Jinx is highly strung, something his owner apparently thinks is charming but Peter finds a little concerning. He’s prone to stamp and bite when he doesn’t get his way. It’s taken two weeks so far to even begin training his bad habits out of him, something that Peter suspects will be for nothing the moment his owner has him back in her care and begins to coddle him again.
“Shh,” he says, making sure Jinx is eating again before he turns his attention to the stable doors.
There are three figures standing there, framed in the late afternoon sunlight. Peter recognizes two of them easily: Isaac and Scott, his recalcitrant stable boys.
Peter doesn’t waste time on pleasantries. “Where the hell have you two been?”
He wipes his hands on his jeans and steps away from Jinx’s stall as the boys move into the stable. Without the sun in his eyes, Peter sees that the third boy is about their age. He’s tall and lean, with artfully messy dark hair and a smattering of moles across his pale skin. His mouth is full, his nose a little upturned, and his eyes are wide and dark.
“Peter, this is Stiles,” Scott says, throwing a friendly arm around the boy’s shoulders. “We went to school together. Stiles, this is Peter Hale. He’s the head trainer.”
Stiles shows Peter a nervous grin.
Isaac hooks his fingers in the loops of his jeans. “Deaton said we could show him around.”
“Did he?” Peter’s not impressed. Deaton might sign his paychecks, but Peter’s in charge in the stables. And losing both his stableboys so they can play impromptu tour guide? That shit will not fly. “Well maybe you can show your friend how to muck out a stall, hmm?”
Neither of the boys is quite dumb enough to mistake it as an actual question.
They scramble to get to work, leaving Stiles shuffling his feet nervously.
Peter turns his back on him and returns to Jinx’s stall. He’s not even aware that the boy is beside him until he hears his sharp intake of breath, and a startled “Holy shit!”
Jinx backs away from his trough, snorting.
Peter glares at the boy, and Stiles looks shamefaced. A red flush rises from his neck, pinking up his cheeks.
Peter steps inside the stall, closing the door behind him.
“Jinx startles easily,” he says in a low voice, holding out his hand toward the pony. “He’s here for retraining. He has some behavioural issues.”
“Oh,” Stiles says. “I’m sorry.”
Peter lets Jinx butt his hand affectionately. He strokes his head with his free hand. “Easy, Jinx, easy.”
He glances back at Stiles, and sees his eyes widen as he takes in the tail swishing against the backs of Jinx’s legs as he moves. Jinx snorts and stamps the straw.
“What do you think?” Peter asks, actually curious to hear the boy’s opinion.
“Um.” Stiles swallows. “I, um, I don’t really know? But, dude, I really need this job.”
Peter narrows his eyes.
What fucking job?
“Because,” Alan Deaton says when Peter storms up to the main office, “Isaac is almost ready to graduate to trainer, and you’ll need another stable boy.”
Peter might be Deaton’s best trainer, but he’s not the only one. There are blocks of stables all over the sprawling property. The facility can train up to twenty-five ponies at once, although it’s rarely filled to capacity.
“I do not need another stable boy!”
“Of course you do,” Deaton says calmly. “Scott’s already asked to transfer to Isaac’s stable when he gets one.”
That treacherous little rat bastard. Not that Peter’s surprised. Isaac and Scott are pretty much attached at the hip. Or the dick. He caught them fucking in an empty stall a few weeks back, and they didn’t even have the good manners to look ashamed about it.
Peter drags his fingers through his hair. “What the hell do we even know about this Stiles kid anyway?”
Deaton slaps a folder down on the desk, and Peter rolls his eyes. He shouldn’t be surprised that Deaton is thorough. He runs a good facility.
Peter leans forward and leafs through the paperwork.
Stiles Stilinski is nineteen years old, according to the paperwork he filled in with barely legible handwriting. He’s a resident of Beacon Hills. His father is listed as his next of kin. He has no criminal history. He has no real employment history either, except an apparently short-lived stint at Starbucks.
“How is this kid even remotely qualified to work here?” he demands.
“How was Isaac?” Deaton asks calmly, with that infuriating aura of smugness he always wears. “How was Scott?”
“Fine!” Peter growls. “Fine! But I’m sacking him the moment he fucks up.”
The moment Stiles fucks up happens less than an hour into his first shift.
Peter is grudgingly impressed when Stiles turns up at the stable at ten to six, yawning and blinking but not even once bitching about how it’s still dark outside. He stands back and watches carefully while Isaac and Scott take the ponies out into the stableyard to let them stretch and walk before breakfast, and listens to the instructions Peter gives him on how to muck out a stall.
Then he gets to work, and Peter makes the possibly foolish assumption that any idiot can muck out a stall without close supervision.
Peter gets to work as well.
Peter has four ponies under his care at the moment. It’s a time consuming job, actually, but one that he loves. Chestnut and Callisto are well trained; both are awaiting masters and give Peter very little trouble. Hector is here for retraining, since he snapped an ankle in his master’s care and has been wary of going through his steps. He just needs a little encouragement to get his confidence back. And Jinx is the difficult one.
Peter goes through his morning routine. He supervises Isaac and Scott as they feed and water the ponies, then watches them put the ponies through their basic steps. He’d been hoping to do some more dressage work with Jinx today, although by the way Jinx is already playing up, stamping his feet and tossing his mane, Peter doubts he’ll settle enough to be able to concentrate. Jinx is obviously itching for the crop. He might pretend to hate it, but nothing gets his dick harder than a few short, sharp swats across the ass. It’s a shame then, that he won’t be able to do anything about his resultant erection. Not when he’s hobbled in the middle of the yard with nothing but the breeze to rub his dick against.
Peter really does love his job.
A crashing sound from inside the stables jars Peter from his reverie.
Peter heads back inside. The stalls are empty. Peter strides past them and heads for the tack room. The door is open, the light is on, and Stiles is standing open-mouthed in the middle of a tangle of bridles and reins.
“I’m sorry!” he blurts as Peter strides in. “I was just looking!”
“You don’t have any business in the tack room,” Peter tells him, his temper rising. “In fact, you don’t have any business around the equipment or the ponies at all. You don’t even go near them until you prove to me you can follow some simple fucking instructions!”
“I’m sorry!” Stiles says again. He bends down to pick up a bridle, and holds it out like some pathetic offering. “I didn’t mean to knock anything down!”
Peter wrenches the bridle out of his hands. “Get the fuck out of my sight before I fire you!”
Stiles hurries away, his face burning.
Peter shakes the bridle out and hangs it back up on the hook on the wall. Then he bends down to pick up the next one. The rubbery bit is damp. Peter rubs his thumb over it, a low burn of arousal igniting low in his gut.
He can only think of one reason it’s damp.
Stiles wasn’t just looking.
Stiles was trying.
Interesting enough that Peter’s not going to fire him this time.
Peter keeps a close eye on his newest stableboy over the next few days. After getting yelled at on his first morning, Stiles is obviously trying his best not to fuck up again. On his fourth day, Peter lets him assist while he grooms Jinx. Stiles holds the bucket.
Jinx is tethered to the ring in his stall. He’s slick with sweat after a hard session going through his paces with Scott. He’s breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling. His dick’s hard, either because he earned the crop a few times, or because he knows what’s coming next.
Peter starts with the curry comb, the brush with blunted rubber teeth. He starts at the back of Jinx’s neck, moving the comb in a slow circular motion. Jinx almost melts under the gentle pressure, his eyes sliding shut.
Stiles’s eyes widen as Peter finishes with the curry comb and selects the stiff wire brush from the bucket. Peter follows the same path he did with the curry comb, flicking the wire brush against Jinx’s sensitive skin and smiling slightly when Jinx can’t hold in a moan.
Peter notes the bulge in Stiles’s jeans with an inward smirk. Stiles is also a little flushed. His teeth have left indentations on his bottom lip where they’ve bitten, and his chest is rising and falling a little more quickly than usual.
“Good boy,” Peter says to Jinx, and sees the way that Stiles swallows. “Good boy. Easy.”
Jinx melts into Peter’s touch, the rough wire bristles making his skin glow. The wire brush is Jinx’s favorite, and Peter knows just how much pressure he can use to make the pony shiver.
Stiles’s eyes are huge as he watches. He swallows again.
Peter wonders if the boy is turned on because of the specific roleplay here, or if he’s touch starved. Peter has no doubt that if he touched the boy, Stiles would open underneath him like an anemone, all his sharp edges softening in an instant. He imagines leather straps sliding over Stiles pale skin. Imagines working him into a hard sweat, then brushing him down like this. Imagines his hands learning every inch of the boy’s body, pliant under his instruction.
Peter sets the wire brush in the bucket and reaches for the soft towel.
Jinx shudders into his touch, his skin red and warm.
“Easy,” Peter murmurs.
Stiles is staring at Jinx’s erection. It’s red and shining, almost angry-looking. It’d be a crime for Peter to leave Jinx in that state. Towel in hand, he curls his fist around Jinx’s cock, and brings him off in a few short, workmanlike strokes. Jinx comes with a moan around his bit, his body suddenly lax. Peter gentles him down into the pile of straw in the corner of the stall. The straw isn’t soft, and Jinx shudders as sharp ends jab at his abraded skin.
“That’s it,” Peter says, kneeling down in front of him. “Good pony.”
Jinx lets Peter unstrap his arms from his harness and peel it off him. His boots are next. He wriggles his toes when they’re free, and Peter massages the arches of his feet for him.
“You can wear your bit all night,” Peter tells him, “since you tried to bite Scott this morning.”
Jinx moans, his eyes rolling in his head.
“Tail,” Peter says.
Jinx plants his feet on either side of Peter, tilting his pelvis up so that Peter can grasp the tail.
Peter tugs on it gently, watching the way the plug pulls against Jinx’s hole. Peter pulls it so that Jinx’s hole is spread on the widest part. Jinx’s eyes are wet, his breathing heavy. Peter holds the plug there for a moment, then shoves it back inside roughly. Jinx keens around his bit, his abs tightening as his body trembles.
Peter tugs on the plug again.
In and out, in and out, until Jinx is shaking and moaning. His cock is hard again, but Jinx doesn’t even try and touch it even though his arms are now free. He clenches his fingers around handfuls of straw, and rides each thrust of the plug.
“Good,” Peter tells him, his voice low. “Good little pony slut.”
There’s a crash beside him. Stiles has dropped the bucket.
Jinx is making whining sounds behind his bit, more like a boy than a pony. His face is red, and he’s writhing in the straw as Peter fucks him relentlessly with the plug.
Peter hears the stall door swing shut.
“That’s it,” Peter tells Jinx. “Make yourself come like a dirty little whore.”
Jinx cries out, his muscles stiffening, and then comes again. He splatters his abdomen and chest with cum, and collapses heavily in the straw.
Peter wipes him down with the towel, and climbs to his feet again.
Jinx’s eyes are already falling closed by the time Peter collects his tack and the bucket and latches the stall door behind him.
He heads for the tack room.
The door is ajar.
The noises coming from inside it are unmistakable: skin slapping against skin. Stiles’s ragged breath. A low moan, and the sudden sharp smell of cum.
Peter leans against the wall for a moment, a smile playing around his lips.
Stiles might one day make a decent stable boy, but Peter has no doubt at all that he’d make an incredible fucking pony.
He wonders if Stiles has realized that yet.
Over the next few days, Stiles seems to get a handle on the job, although he’s suddenly lost the ability to even look Peter in the eye. He’s also nervous around the ponies when Peter finally lets him interact with them. He can’t meet them in the eye either, and his face turns bright red when he has to touch them.
“I can’t have a stable boy who won’t touch the ponies,” Peter grumbles to Isaac one morning.
They’re in Peter’s makeshift office, a former tack room, going through the ponies’ training regimes. Scott is outside putting Callisto through his paces, and Stiles is mucking out the stalls.
Isaac raises his eyebrows. “Oh, please.”
Peter narrows his eyes at him. “Excuse me?”
“We all know exactly why Stiles is nervous around the ponies,” Isaac says.
“Do we?” Peter drawls.
Isaac smirks. “That boy is gagging to be ridden hard and put away wet.”
Isaac leans back in his chair. “Don’t even front, Peter. You’d fucking love it.”
Peter can’t deny that his dick twitches at the thought of the kid working up a sweat, arms pulled behind his back, feet bent into constricting boots, and a thick plug jammed up his ass, sleek horsehair tail brushing the backs of his legs.
“That’s not what he signed up for.”
Isaac stretches his legs out, and shrugs. “Maybe because he had no idea it’s what he wants.”
“What are you now? The kink whisperer?”
Isaac’s eyes shine. “Nah. Just a twisted fucker who wants to see the look on his face when you put his tail in the first time.”
Isaac grins. “And maybe fuck Scott while we watch him get bred.”
Arousal curls in Peter’s gut, and then settles lower in his balls. “I’ve created a monster.”
Isaac’s grin grows.
Later in the day, Stiles comes to see him.
“Do you ever...”
Peter looks across at Stiles. The boy is flushing as he stands in the doorway. Peter sets his paperwork aside. “Do I ever what?”
Stiles can’t meet his gaze. “Do you ever fuck the ponies?”
Peter’s dick twitches, and he’s glad he’s sitting behind his desk. He curls his mouth into a slight smile. “No.”
“No?” Stiles’s expression is caught somewhere between surprised and dismayed.
“They’re not mine to fuck,” Peter says simply. “I’m a trainer, not an owner.”
“Oh.” Stiles shifts from foot to foot. “But you, um, you jerk them off?”
“To make them more comfortable,” Peter says. “To reward their good behavior.”
Stiles nods jerkily, not quite meeting Peter’s gaze. “What if... what if...”
He can’t bring himself to finish the question, but Peter hears it anyway.
Peter lowers his voice. “If I had a pony of my own, Stiles, I’d strap him over a breeding bench, shove a bit in his mouth to keep him from crying, and fuck him senseless.”
Stiles almost trips over his own feet in his haste to get away.
Peter tries his hardest not to laugh.
When Peter brushes up against Stiles one afternoon as they’re currying Callisto, Stiles moans.
That’s when Peter knows beyond a doubt that they can’t keep working like this.
Stiles needs some fucking relief.
So does Peter.
The fifth stall has been empty since Stiles arrived. Peter leans on the door and watches Stiles ready it for what he thinks is a new arrival. The boy has proven himself a decent worker in the week he’s been here.
Stiles is chatty today. Peter knows that won’t last.
“So, this isn’t for a refresher?” he asks as he lays fresh straw down.
“No,” Peter says. “This is for a new pony.”
“Oh.” Stiles turns his attention to the troughs, scrubbing them out so they’re clean.
He’s been here long enough that he knows their charges fall into two categories: ponies that need retraining, or new ponies.
“Who pays for all of this?” he asks suddenly. “I mean, it can’t be cheap.”
“It isn’t,” Peter agrees. “The boys who come to us fresh are either paid for by their masters or mistresses or, if they don’t have one, they sign an agreement saying the costs of their training will come out of their future purchase price.”
Stiles throws him a confused look over his shoulder. “But you can’t sell people.”
“Ponies,” Peter corrects automatically. “And it’s not selling, exactly. It’s more like a matchmaking service. People pay Deaton a lot of money to be matched with a suitable pony, if they don’t have one of their own. In return, the ponies know that they’re in good hands, and that Deaton monitors them closely once they’ve been placed. If there is even a hint that they are being mistreated, the sale is null and void.”
“Oh.” Stiles nods to himself. “That makes sense, I guess.”
Peter smiles. “What? This whole time you thought we were running some sort of slavery ring?”
Stiles flashes him a quick smile. “Uh... not exactly? I was just fuzzy on the details.”
“Boys come here because they want to be here,” Peter tells him, lowering his voice. “Because they want to be ponies.”
Stiles keeps his back turned, but Peter can see the flush rising on the back of his neck.
Stiles is wide-eyed when he turns around again.
“Make sure the straw’s thick enough. We don’t want our new pony to be cold.”
Stiles nods. “Yeah. Of course. Um, so when does he get here?”
“Well, that’s the thing,” Peter says. “If he wants, he’s standing right here now.”
Stiles’s jaw drops, and the color floods from his face.
“If he wants,” Peter repeats. He straightens up. “And if he’s still here when I get back, I’ll start his training today.”
He leaves Stiles gaping as he walks back to his office.
There is a camera feed in the office. Peter watches it for a moment. Stiles is still standing in the stall. If it wasn’t for the fact Peter can see his chest rising and falling rapidly, he’d think he was staring at a still, not a live feed.
The minutes tick by, and finally Stiles sinks down to the floor of the stall and sits. Clothed and hunched over, it’s impossible to think of Stiles as anything other than a boy. The transformation won’t begin until he’s got his tack on.
Peter flicks through some papers a few times before he finally sets them aside and leaves the office.
Outside he can hear the clop of hooves on the hard-packed dirt of the stableyard; Isaac and Scott are putting the ponies through their paces.
Peter collects what he needs from the tack room: a harness, a bridle with a bit attachment, boots and a tail. Just the basics to begin with. He considers the posture collar for a moment, but decides to wait and see if it’s necessary or not, despite how good it would look on him.
He heads back toward Stiles’s stall, and slings the harness and bridle over the door. Stiles flails slightly at the sudden noise--metal clinking against the wooden door--but schools his features quickly. Peter unlatches the door and pushes it open. He sets the boots down, then shakes the tail out. Dark brown horsehair, shining and lustrous, attached to a solid metal plug. Peter slaps the plug against his palm, inwardly smirking at the way Stiles’s eyes go impossibly large.
“Stand up,” Peter says. “Clothes off.”
He keeps his tone soft.
“What?” Stiles asks as he climbs to his feet, swallowing. “We’re seriously doing this? We’re not even going to talk about it?”
“You’re still here,” Peter says. “And in a minute you’ll be a pony. I won’t be training you with pep talks, sweetheart.”
“What will you be training me with?” Stiles asks.
Peter taps the riding crop in his belt.
“Right.” Stiles wrenches his shirt over his head. “Of course.”
He undresses quickly, almost angrily, baring his pale body to Peter’s narrow gaze. He’s in good shape. Lean without being too skinny. Strong without being too muscular. Peter doubts he’ll ever pull a carriage on his own, not without seriously bulking up first, but that’s fine. Peter has always preferred show ponies to workhorses.
Peter steps toward him with the harness. It’s a fairly basic affair, with a strap that hugs his chest just above his nipples, and one that hugs his waist. There are secondary straps attached that Peter helps Stiles slip his arms into. Then he tugs his arms back and fastens them to the harness, behind his back. Stiles’s breathing becomes heavy. He’s nervous. Peter cups his warm hand over the back of his neck, gentling him a little, and Stiles swallows and huffs out a breath.
“That’s it,” Peter says, and lifts the bridle up off the door, in the same soothing tone he uses with the other ponies.
Stiles flinches as Peter settles the bridle over his head, and clamps his mouth shut.
“Open,” Peter tells him.
Stiles swallows nervously. “Look, I--”
Peter shoves the bit in his mouth and secures it tightly. He watches Stiles work his mouth around the unfamiliar rubber bit. The boy mumbles something unintelligible. Choosing a bit with a tongue port is always a good idea for a new pony. It will force Stiles into silence, which will in turn force him to listen. Peter slips a finger under the leather strap of the bridle, sliding it against Stiles’s cold cheek. If enforced silence isn’t enough to encourage the boy to concentrate, he’ll attach some blinkers to the bridle later on.
“Boots,” Peter says.
He kneels in front of the boy, watching his chest heave, and readies the first boot. The boots will force the boy to walk on the balls of his feet, his hooves. Stiles blinks down at him as Peter slides his foot into the boot. His eyes are wet with unshed tears. He’s already overwhelmed.
Peter zips the boot up slowly, and reaches for the second one.
Stiles almost stumbles when he shifts his weight onto the boot, sucking in a sharp breath.
“Easy,” Peter says, sliding his other foot into the second boot. “Easy.”
When he stands up again, Stiles is taller than he is. Taller, and wobbly as a newborn colt. The soles of his boots make clopping sounds as he does an anxious shuffle in an attempt to keep his balance. He’s tugging against the harness as well, trying to get his arms free.
“Easy,” Peter says again, and holds him by the hips. “You’re not going to fall.”
He’s shaking, eyes wide with panic. He mumbles something.
Peter rubs his thumbs over his protruding hipbones. “I won’t let you fall, Stiles.”
Stiles’s breathing is loud in the enclosed stall.
Peter takes a lead rope and attaches it to the front of Stiles’s harness. They’ll work on reins later. Then, taking the tail in his other hand, he carefully leads Stiles out of the stall. At first Stiles is too busy concentrating on not falling to take in their surroundings. Then, when the sunlight of the yard hits him, he pulls up short.
Isaac and Scott are working with the other ponies. Jinx is walking around Scott, lifting his legs high and basking in Scott’s praise. Isaac has Chesnut and Callisto walking in formation. Hector is waiting his turn, holding himself as beautifully and proudly as he’s been taught.
Stiles, of course, panics, pulling back on the lead rope and forcing Peter to wrench back on it in turn. Stiles stumbles, crying out, and Peter catches him by the shoulders to prevent him from falling.
The commotion causes Jinx to lose concentration and make a misstep, earning him a gentle swat from Scott’s crop.
Peter tugs Stiles forward.
The stable yard is fenced in. Peter leads Stiles over toward the wooden rails, and fastens the lead rope around one. Then he takes his crop from his belt and taps it against Stiles’s ankles until he gets the message and shuffles his feet apart.
Peter taps the crop against the back of his neck, and Stiles moans and shakes his head.
“Bend over,” Peter says in a low voice. Peter’s known plenty of boys who baulked at this step, of course. He’s neither surprised nor dismayed.
Stiles shakes his head again.
Peter nods at Scott.
Scott walks over to them, a wide smile on his face. “Hey, Stiles.” He lifts a hand to rub Stiles’s cheek, and Stiles flinches away. “Oh, you’re a nervous one, aren’t you?” He tugs Stiles’s hair gently. “It’s okay. I know everything is new and scary, but nobody here is going to hurt you.”
Stiles drops his gaze to the crop in Scott’s belt.
Scott’s smile widens. He scratches Stiles’s scalp. “That’s just a little sting when you need it, to remind you to focus.” Scott climbs through the fence rails so he’s standing outside the yard. He tugs gently on Stiles's lead rope and pulls him closer to the fence. “Come on, Stiles. Come here.”
Peter might make fun of Scott for being an easy touch, but Scott is very good at what he does. It’s the work of moments for him to have Stiles leaning through the fence, his chest supported on the rail, his legs parted for balance. Scott rubs Stiles’s cheek, his hair, his neck. Keeps his focus on those soothing touches, instead of what’s about to happen.
Peter takes the tube of lube from his pocket. It’s no hardship at all to slick up his fingers and run them down the cleft of Stiles’s ass. It elicits a full-bodied shiver and a distressed moan from the boy. Scott shushes him.
Peter slides a thumb to the boy’s hole, and presses it there gently for a moment before pushing the tip inside. It swallows him like a willing little mouth. Beautiful. It will look incredible stretched around the base of the heavy plug.
“You look so good, Stiles,” Scott says, smiling down at him. “So good like this.”
Stiles blinks and tears roll down his cheeks.
“Shh,” Scott soothes. “It’s okay. Peter’s going to be so good for you. Gonna make you such a pretty pony.”
Stiles sucks in a hitching breath.
Peter replaces the tip of his thumb with a finger, sliding it into the hot, tight heat of Stiles’s body. He’s aware that Isaac has joined them, and is standing close. Peter circles his finger, tugging that tight muscle open. He removes his finger long enough to slather more lube on his hand, then slides two fingers inside Stiles.
Stiles is rocking back and forth against his fingers now, his body shifting restlessly as though he doesn’t know whether he’s trying to get away or trying to impale himself deeper on Peter’s fingers. Peter puts his free hand on his spine, rubs it up and down while he scissors the fingers of his other hand. He can feel Stiles opening around him, shivering as Peter brushes his prostate.
When he has the boy’s hole open and slick with lube, he removes his fingers and readies the plug. He wonders if Stiles has ever had something this large inside him before, or anything at all.
“Easy,” he murmurs as he presses the head of the plug against Stiles’s hole. Stiles shudders and moans. Peter applies pressure to the base of the plug, and watches as it’s slowly swallowed by Stiles’s body. At first it’s slow going, then Stiles’s hole stretches around the widest part, and the rest is abruptly sucked inside.
Stiles shudders and the tail shimmies.
“Beautiful,” Peter says. He draws Stiles back slowly through the rails, and eases him upright. His pale skin is flushed pink. His face is red and his cheeks are wet. His dick is hard, jutting out from his body. Peter refrains from touching it straight away. Stiles has to earn that.
Stiles’s eyes are half closed. His chest is heaving.
“Beautiful,” Peter says again. “Let’s teach you how to walk, sweetheart.”
Stiles cries that night when Peter takes his boots off.
“Shh,” Peter says. “I know, sweetheart.”
He takes Stiles’s foot in his hand and massages the cramps away. Then he settles Stiles in his bed of straw and reaches out to take his harness and bridle off. The moment he’s free Stiles scrambles on his hands and knees for the trough, scooping up handfuls of water. He’s still wearing his tail. It sweeps across the floor of the stall behind him.
“Let’s take this out, hmm?” Peter tugs on it gently, and Stiles moans and tightens his fingers on the edge of the trough as the tail eases free. “Better?”
Stiles’s hole is gaping.
“Talk to me, sweetheart.”
Stiles cuts a narrow glance at him. “Ponies don’t talk.”
His voice is already rough from disuse.
“It’s your first day,” Peter tells him. “The others don’t talk much because they like the headspace, even when they’re not wearing their tack. But you look like you could use some conversation.”
Stiles scrambles back into his bed of straw, and draws his legs up to cover his nakedness. He shrugs, and ducks his head.
Peter reaches down and tousles his hair. “Don’t be ashamed of what you like, Stiles. Don’t be ashamed of needing this.”
“But why do I?” Stiles mumbles into his kneecaps.
“I don’t know, sweetheart,” Peter tells him. “But I’m glad you do.”
Stiles is a joy to train. Peter loves him for every single misstep he makes. He’s clumsy, some of the time, and distracted most of the time, but after those first few days when he really starts to discover the right headspace, he’s beautiful. He responds so well to praise, and he leans into Peter’s touch like a good pony should. His body is constantly humming with arousal, and Peter takes great delight in grooming him at the end of each day, letting him rut into the towel and bring himself off with with shuddering gasps.
He learns to walk, and to trot, and learns very quickly that he doesn’t like the sting of the crop as much as Jinx does. Peter uses it sparingly with Stiles. Soft touches and words of encouragement work better for Stiles than any other form of correction.
Sugar cubes are his favorite.
Whenever Peter pulls the treats from his pocket and put them in his palm, Stiles’s eyes light up. He waits for Peter to remove his bit, and then he nuzzles close, his warm mouth sliding over Peter’s palm, lips and tongue working to capture each little trace of sweet sugar on Peter’s skin. Hot, hard dick digging into Peter’s hip as he presses himself as close as he can.
“You like this?” Peter usually caves and gives him another sugar cube. “All sticky sweet like you, Stiles.”
Stiles likes to lick Peter’s fingers clean, and close his mouth around his knuckles.
His mouth is a fucking sin.
Peter wants to wreck it.
He settles for rubbing his thumb around it, and listening to Stiles’s small, happy moans.
“Good pony. That’s my good, sweet pony.”
Stiles’s dark eyes light up with pleasure.
Sometimes at night, Peter sits in his office and watches the feed from Stiles’s stall. At first he slept restlessly on the straw, tossing and turning to try and get comfortable. Now he sleeps soundly, long legs akimbo, one hand coming down to stroke his dick even when he’s asleep.
His other hand curled around one of the straps of his bridle.
Peter lets him sleep with it.
He likes it.
They both do.
Stiles has been a pony for three weeks when Peter decides it’s time to breed him.
He’s ready for it.
Stiles is wide-eyed and nervous when Scott leads him toward the breeding bench, but he doesn’t resist when Scott ties him there. He twists his head a little when Scott fastens the spreader bar in place, but doesn’t protest.
Peter moves behind him and eases his tail out gently. “Ready to be bred like a mare, Stiles?”
Stiles moans sweetly, and tilts his ass up.
Peter smiles and runs a warm hand down his flank. Stiles’s eyes close, only to flash open again when he hears the clop-clop-clop of Jinx’s boots on the floor.
Peter has never seen a swifter transformation.
Stiles is suddenly tugging against the restraints, and yelling behind his bit.
Jinx, startled, shies back and Isaac has to pull hard on his reins to stop him from pulling free.
Stiles is still yelling unintelligibly, and Peter is startled to see that he’s crying as well. He hurries forward and pulls the bit from Stiles’s mouth.
“No! No, Peter, no!” Stiles shakes his head. “Nooo!”
“Hey.” Peter cards a hand through his hair. “What’s wrong? You’re ready for this, sweetheart.”
He ignores the laden glance that passes between Scott and Isaac.
“No!” Stiles manages through his tears. He gulps for breath. “Not him, please! You, Peter. You.”
And Peter suddenly remembers what he told Stiles all those weeks ago. “If I had a pony of my own, Stiles, I’d strap him over a breeding bench, shove a bit in his mouth to keep him from crying, and fuck him senseless.”
Peter can’t believe he’s been so blind.
He hears the clop-clop-clop of Jinx’s boots as Isaac leads him out of the room again. The door is closed behind him. When Peter glances up he realizes Scott has gone as well.
So apparently his stable boys aren’t as stupid as him when it comes to Stiles, and what this thing is between them.
Stiles wants to belong to Peter.
And Peter might be a little slow on the uptake, but he’s here now. He wants Stiles to be his as well. His, and only his.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he says. “You want me?”
Stiles nods. “Please, Peter. Just you.”
Peter moves around behind him and unfastens the spreader bar. Then he unties the reins, and helps Stiles to his feet again. Stiles looks almost frightened as Peter begins to unstrap his harness.
“Shh,” Peter says, and leans forward and catches Stiles’s mouth in a kiss.
Stiles freezes for a second, and then his freed arms are circling Peter, and he’s leaning into the kiss. He’s hot and frantic, and he smells of straw and sweat. He’s still wearing his boots, making him a head taller than Peter, and suddenly Peter wants them off him. This time, the first time, he wants to fuck his boy.
He kneels down in front of Stiles and helps him out of the boots. Then pulls Stiles down onto the floor with him.
“Ride me,” he says, and Stiles looks surprised for a moment, and then a grin lights up his face. He’s impatient. He pushes Peter onto the floor and straddles his thighs. Quick, clever fingers fumble with Peter’s fly, and then he’s peeling Peter’s jeans open and exposing his aching cock. It’s the work of seconds for the boy to position himself, and then he’s sinking down on Peter’s cock, his mouth hanging open and his head thrown back.
He’s hot and tight.
He rides Peter fast and hard, squeezing his muscles and rocking back and forth on Peter’s cock as Peter thrusts into him.
“Peter.” His mouth is slack and shiny with spit. “Peter, fuck! Peter!”
Peter’s not sure how long he can last. “Come on, Stiles,” he grunts, thrusting up hard enough to make Stiles keen. “Come for me, sweetheart.”
Stiles arches his back, and shudders, cum spurting from his cock and staining Peter’s shirt.
Peter grips his hips tightly and comes as well, hips stuttering as he comes deep inside his boy.
Stiles slumps forward, breathing heavily, his head against Peter’s shoulder. He’s shivering, and Peter rubs his hands up and down his back until his tremors subside. Then he rolls Stiles off him, onto his back, and holds himself up on his elbow while he fingers the boy’s hole and watches his cum slide out of him again.
Stiles blinks at him lazily, fingers twitching on the stable floor.
He’s beautiful like this, all fucked out and ruined.
Peter reaches over for his bridle.
Stiles opens his mouth for the bit, sighing and closing his eyes as he sucks the rubber tongue port into his mouth.
Peter looks up sharply as he hears the stable doors roll open.
“Shh,” he says, running his fingers through Stiles hair. Stiles whickers and pushes back, his boots clattering on the floor.
There are three figures standing there, framed in the late afternoon sunlight. Isaac, Scott, and some new kid. The new kid stands there, mouth hanging open, as Peter fucks into Stiles.
“This is Liam,” Scott says. “Your new stable boy.”
Peter wraps Stiles’s reins around his wrist and tugs on them. Stiles’s head is pulled back, and he groans. His dick is hard and angry, and Peter’s not going to touch it. Not for hours. Not until Stiles can manage a collected gait without messing it up. Each time he’s stumbled, Peter has brought him back inside and fucked him. Stiles knows he’s not allowed to come until he gets it right, but, if Peter’s honest with himself, this stopped being a punishment a while ago. They’re both enjoying it too much.
Peter pulls out of Stiles reluctantly. “Can’t you bastards learn to knock?”
Scott holds up his palms.
Isaac smirks. “New training technique, boss?”
Peter slaps Stiles on the flank.
Liam looks anxiously between Scott and Isaac. “I don’t have to do that, do I?”
Scott slings an arm around the kid’s shoulders. “Nah. Stiles is Peter’s pony.”
Peter hides a smile as he catches Stiles’s gaze.
His pony in the daytime, and his boy at night. If Liam can’t figure out how to interact with Stiles as a pony in the stables, and as Peter’s boyfriend outside them, well, he won’t last very long at all.
He reaches into his pocket for a sugar cube.
“It’s a sweet job,” Isaac tells Liam as they lead him toward the tack room to continue the tour. “As long as you don’t fuck up, you’ll be fine. Peter’s cool, but he can be kind of a hardass to his stable boys. The last one only lasted a few weeks.”
Stiles snorts behind his bit.
“Oh.” Liam sounds worried. “So, um, what happened to the last stable boy?”
Peter smirks, and strains his ears to hear, but whatever Isaac says in return is lost on him. He figures either Liam will run screaming, or he’ll stick around for a while and maybe actually not be a total waste of space.
He holds out the sugar cube to Stiles.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” he says, as Stiles licks his palm clean. “That’s my good pony.”