Miranda was on her way to Blaisdell Farms for her second breeding session. This one would be different, as Pruett had explained.
"Think of this as your society debut. I know you can handle the shows, Larry tells me your club, performances went well, and I've seen you charm VIPs like Carlton Willoughby. Now that we know you can handle the actual job, it's time we introduced you to some more of the IHBA members. With so much in common, these people socialize quite a bit. Especially those in this part of the state. Seems like every event is worthy of a party."
"And I'm the entertainment?"
"You're the reason."
"It's OK. I'm fine with being the entertainment. I just hope they aren't expecting a show. I can't do both at once. The breeding part is too overwhelming for me to make it flashy."
"No, you do what you're there to do, which is to inseminate their horse. Don't worry about theatrics. I saw how ... focused you got last time."
"Biological compulsion. Meaning my dick took control and the rest of me was dragged along. I've felt that from both sides now. It happened the first time Barry and I ... got together. This was before, of course. I couldn't stop myself then either. I just had to have it. I was so desperate I let him take me bareback. That was stupid, but I was so..."
Pruett cleared his throat to interrupt her. "I promise that when the time comes, I'll make sure nothing gets in your way."
"Thanks. I think we can blame my breeding-frenzy on the hormones working the way they're supposed to. But the other stuff ... either I have poor impulse-control or I'm just naturally highly-sexed."
"Hmph!" Pruett snorted. It was just short of a laugh.
"This needing to masturbate all the time isn't really the burden I thought it might be. I always enjoy doing it. It's just that it can be ... inconvenient, you know?"
Pruett didn't reply. Miranda saw him press his lips together into a thin line and interpreted that to mean he wasn't comfortable with the conversation and didn't want it to continue.
"Anyway," Miranda went on, "I wanted to thank you for agreeing to buy me the Extractor. That's going to help a lot."
"You're welcome," Pruett told her, glad that she'd finally arrived at the point. "Fletcher's estimate wasn't quite as astronomical as it might have been."
"Uh, that may have been Vince's doing. He seemed quite enthusiastic about handling the project. He thinks he has what he needs on the shelf and he can make the rest himself. His uncle is probably just glad to have something to keep him busy and out of his hair. Vince may be borderline OCD. I think most geniuses are. Of course, not everyone who is compulsive is a genius."
Pruett had his own suspicions about what Vincent Danvers had been enthusiastic about handling. Miranda had already told him about how Acme's Chief Designer had been very thorough with his measurements. He suspected that was less about getting accurate data and more about getting touchy-feelie with her. Larry Richard's reports on sales of Miranda's first video showed a level of interest that clearly went beyond the niche trans-gender community and even the gay market. Straights had to be ordering it as well. More proof that Larry had been right and he had been wrong about the appeal of a real-live Stallion Girl. As if any more were needed. He'd already eaten that helping of crow. Miranda was well on her way to becoming a minor celebrity in a niche market. But the world was a big place. Even niches could be populated with a large-enough number of people to be very profitable. While the videos and live appearances weren't a fraction of what they would make from her stud-fees, money was, after all, money. You never knew when that extra dollar might make a difference. That was a point he'd made more than once in meetings, so he couldn't object if Larry had repeated it back.
Driving the fence-lined two-lane roads through the rolling hills in his over-sized pickup truck, Pruett seemed in his element. Much of the other traffic they passed was split between trucks pulling trailers, imported SUVs, and even fancier sedans. Half of the vehicles they saw had logos on them belonging to some farm, ranch, or stable.
"What's a farrier?" Miranda asked, after they passed one truck.
"Someone who shoes horses. Why?"
"I thought that's what it meant. The sign on the back of that last truck said 'Grace Miller, Farrier'".
"Grace has been shoeing horses since I was a teenager. She's never going to retire. Why? Don't tell me you're surprized that a woman does that kind of work."
"I guess I sound sexist, don't I?"
"A little. She doesn't do the smith-work. The shoes are all lightweight alloys now, not hammered iron bar-stock. Still, it isn't light work. Gracie still swings a mean hammer. And not just for a woman her age. She's got to be in her seventies now."
Miranda fell silent. She was wondering what she'd be doing at that age. Her present career could only last so long. Age wouldn't be the limiting factor. She thought it was far more likely that Dr. McKay, or someone like him, would create a new-and-improved Stallion Girl and she'd be put out to pasture – a more-than-normally appropriate metaphor in her case.
"Better make hay while the sun shines," she thought. "If I do the best I can now, I won't have to worry about having a job down the road. I'll be independently wealthy and able to do anything I like. According to Daddy, my club appearance fees and tips have already put me well ahead of what I could have expected to make doing lingerie catalogs."
When they arrived, a buff young man in white slacks and a poorly-fitting bright-green jacket over a snug white t-shirt came over to open her door. Miranda recognized the colors from the signs they had passed on the way. They were the same colors that the jockeys would wear when riding horses raised there. The fact that the jacket fit so poorly had to mean that the young man was a temp who'd been hired to open doors and park cars for the day.
"Welcome to Blaisdell Farms," he said as he swung the door open for her. Miranda suspected that the enthusiasm of his greeting had more to do with her appearance than his pay scale. Although if she had to guess, based on the muscles she could see straining the seams of his too-small coat, she'd say he was a sports-jock of some kind who had lucked-into a simple job with a chance to make some extra money. Perhaps more than usual for parking cars, considering the kind of people who would likely be there today.
Since she'd be attending a party before getting down to work, Miranda had dressed accordingly. She wore her hair pulled back from her face to show-off her expertly-applied makeup. After a debate with herself over the obviousness of it, she'd decided to wear it in a pony-tail. To offset the naivete that projected, she wore her black, ankle-length dress made of sheer stretch nylon. The effect was very much like she'd pulled on a full-body black nylon stocking. The dress was club-wear, meant to be seen under low or poor lighting, where it would obscure much and show little. Pulled tight over her chest, flanks, and rump in the direct rays of the afternoon sun, it was quite transparent, much like a tinted car window. It had sleeves that came to her elbows and a 'V' neckline dropped low enough between her breasts to offer unnecessary proof that she wasn't wearing a bra.
Miranda had anticipated one potential problem area. As she turned to get down out of the truck, she held her small purse in front of her groin so that it covered the bulge made by the base of her cock. She was unaware of two other spots until the gaze of the valet brought them to her attention.
"Thank you," Miranda said, taking the offered hand as she maneuvered down from the cab. The dress wasn't designed to allow her legs much freedom. Other than jumping, the only way she could get down was to extend one foot below the other and hope nothing would flop out and dangle free while she was in mid-step.
As luck would have it, something did drop into view for a second, but the attention of the valet was so glued to her bust, that he completely missed seeing the end of her cock fall into view before Miranda could get her feet together again.
"This is not a club appearance," Miranda reminded herself once again. "I won't be stripping. At least I don't expect them to ask me to. My appearance today will have a purpose other than just entertaining people by showing-off. Like Mr. Pruett says, this is my real job. I need to keep it classy and business-like."
Pruett handed his key to the young man and gave his arm to Miranda. Wearing sky-high heels was almost second-nature for her now, but these were new and more stylish than practical, making her less steady on her feet than usual. Combined with the restriction of her tight dress, having his support seemed an excellent idea.
The valet started the truck, but paused to look through the windshield at Pruett leading Miranda to the front door. As she walked away, he admired the way things moved under her clingy dress. Too many things, he realized. With a puzzled frown, he stared after her, wondering how it was that she seemed to have four ass-cheeks and three legs moving around under her dress.
"I shouldn't have let the stable-hands talk me into smoking that doobie with them before the party," he thought, blinking firmly to try to erase the illusion. "Their weed is stronger than the shit I'm used to."
Despite the precaution of taking Mr. Pruett's arm, Miranda was feeling confident in her ability to perambulate without difficulty. Before leaving home, she had applied a liberal coat of oil to her scrotum. The slickness allowed the ostrich-egg-sized testicles inside to slide easily between her thighs, reducing the chance that she would make a misstep and crush one between her legs. A few unfortunate accidents had taught Miranda that testicular pain was one of the worst things she could experience, and avoiding it should be a priority.
Despite the lubrication, walking in the tight dress still required a great deal of coordination and grace. She had to time the motion of her feet and knees with that of her cock and balls and keep everything moving along with metronomic precision. It was this somewhat hypnotic combination of movements that entranced the valet, who watched her all the way to the door before putting the truck in gear.
Once inside, it became clear that Pruett had timed their arrival so the other guests were present when Miranda arrived. She appreciated the consideration, since it gave her the chance to make a Grand Entrance. It also meant she would be introduced once, rather than over and over. The advantage to that was that anyone who wanted to talk to her would introduce themselves, making it much easier for her to keep names straight.
After Pruett's room-wide presentation of her, there was an awkward moment of near-silence, broken only by the voice of someone Miranda suspected ran her mouth so continuously that she'd learned to inhale while talking so no one would have a chance to interrupt her. As the moment dragged on, Miranda kept her smile in place and looked around at the guests.
The men ranged in age from mid-forties to seventies. They were mostly dressed in country-casual. Meaning jeans and boots, with open-collar shirts. Some wore jackets and a few of those sported string ties.
The women were mostly younger, or trying to look that way. There were some obvious trophy-wives – former models by the way they held themselves – along with women whose looks were more a matter of character than cosmetics. Young or not, they'd all taken the party as an excuse to dress-up. Miranda thought more than a few were wearing dresses not too long off the runway of one fashion-house or another. She was glad she'd managed to fit-in stylistically, even if she was well-down the scale on price.
The men were staring at her, even the one with the woman who wouldn't shut up, although her escort kept glancing her way whenever he thought he could get away with it. No fools they, Miranda suspected. They were all waiting to see how their wives were going to react before committing themselves. If the claws came out, it would be wisest for them to hang back. Still, they all seemed to be trying to summon-up their x-ray vision so they could penetrate the material of her dress. Not that much power would be required for that. Miranda had known people would want to look and she'd chosen this dress to accommodate that desire.
The women were staring too. Not as blatantly as their spouses, but still missing nothing. Miranda tried to pose without being obvious about it. A difficult task for someone who had been taught to strike a pose smartly rather than sneak-up on one carefully, but she did her best. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, turning her whole body to survey the room. As she did, she moved her feet far enough apart to allow her testicles to hang between her thighs, letting them push her long shaft forward, emphasizing her differences without being overtly blatant in showing them off.
Her patience and slight attempt at subtlety seemed to be working. The stares became less glaring and more curious. Eventually someone had to step forward.
The arm snaking around her waist took Miranda by surprize. She jerked, which added a bit more movement than she'd intended. The sudden motion of her hips twitched her long shaft like a thick bullwhip, causing the end of her cock to slap audibly and meatily against her ankle.
"Oh!" She said, startled by the sudden pain and unexpected sound. She moved her hips to let things go back to a neutral drape. Another jolt like that might trigger an erection and end the party prematurely.
With her 'official duty' coming up, she hadn't dared take any steps that would prevent an incident at the party, but reduce her effectiveness in the breeding-stall. The result was a slight ache in her balls coupled with pressure low in her abdomen. Angus McKay had warned her more than once about the consequences of letting that go on too long, since depriving herself of release too often and for too long would result in an increased sex-drive – something that was already a major factor in her life. The possibility of turning into an oblivious sex-fiend who spent every moment stroking her dick to one more climax was not a pretty future to contemplate. When it did seem attractive to her, she knew she needed to take immediate action.
"Love your dress," a voice said into her ear as lips brushed her cheek. "It shows you off perfectly."
"Hi, Mrs. deVries!"
"I think we're on a first-name basis now," she said, hugging Miranda affectionately. "Call me Maria."
The full-frontal contact caught Miranda by surprize. She felt Mrs. de Vries press herself firmly against the top of her cock. Miranda heard her inhale sharply. Then she pushed away and held Miranda at arms-length. Miranda couldn't be sure if the contact was intentional or not, but Maria's reaction certainly seemed genuine.
The warm greeting by one of their own broke the tension in the room. Other women then came over to introduce themselves, followed by their husbands. In no time at all, Miranda found herself at the center of a group that slowly rotated around her as each guest introduced him or herself, offered some pleasantry about nice she looked or being happy to meet her and then moved along to give someone else a chance to do the same. Miranda thought much of it had all the sincerity of the farewell she'd heard from the flight attendants on her last plane-trip, but she smiled and thanked them all just the same.
With the ice broken, Pruett felt comfortable enough to step away for a moment. When he returned, he brought Miranda a glass of white wine.
"Thanks," she said as he handed it to her. She saw he was holding a bottle of beer in his other hand. She had to look twice to see that it was an imported brand she'd never heard of.
"You going to be OK?" He asked in a low voice. "I need to go talk business with some people."
Miranda nodded and turned back to the women who had stayed to chat with her. She had anticipated some of the questions they might have. She hoped they wouldn't be argumentative or too personal. The very first question proved her wrong on both counts.
"What on Earth could possess such an attractive girl that she would let someone do something like this to her?"
The bluntness of the question told Miranda that the woman asking had to have an emotional connection with the question. She knew someone might ask something like that, but she was shocked to hear it put so forcefully, almost accusingly.
"Take a chill-pill, Janet," one of the other women cautioned. "I bet your grandmother said the same thing to you when you got your ears pierced."
"It's not the same thing at all!"
Miranda thought she noticed a slight slurring of the words. She thought it was possible that the glass of wine in the woman's hand wasn't the first of the day for her.
"Maybe not, but it's her body and her life and she's entitled to do whatever she wants with both."
The woman turned to Miranda and said, "I'm Patty Richardson. Please excuse Janet. Her daughter went off to school in Europe and came back with implants. And I don't mean she had her boobs done. No, she had things put under the skin of her face. It's quite ... startling."
"It's grotesque, is what it is!" Janet retorted. "At least she didn't have herself turned into one of those Futas!" She then turned away and marched off in the direction of the bar in the far corner of the room.
"Janet didn't take it well," Patty said. "As you can see. She didn't mean to offend."
Miranda wasn't sure what she should be offended about. Even though this should be the last place any confusion would exist about her, there might be some lingering misunderstanding here, so she decided to clear the air.
"I'm not offended. I'm also not a Futa. Either kind. The real ones are born with working male and female genitals. Then there are those who have it done cosmetically." She was going to go on with that, but she realized that some of those present had probably had cosmetic treatments, only something other than one to enlarge her clitoris to the point that it could pass for a penis. Miranda shut her mouth to keep from putting her foot in any deeper than she had. The fad was for the result not just to pass, but to be obviously larger than any normal penis, although none of them that Miranda had seen were anywhere close to being in her league. But then, who would choose to have something hanging from her groin that she would be in constant danger of tripping over? The current fashion was for faux-Futa hemlines to match the length of their outsized shafts. The idea being to allow it to flash occasionally when slack. An obvious game was for their dates to try to make them aroused, rendering it impossible to hide their erections.
Patty noticed her embarrassment and tried to reassure her. "Relax, hon. Most of us have had some kind of work done. Chin here, lips there, eyes, tummies ... Whatever it takes, you know? You just went farther than any of us. That took real courage, to change your sex, and to do it so ... completely."
"Thanks, but changing sex was the least of it. I came to terms with that fairly quickly. No, it was changing species that was the hard part."
"You look human enough." another woman put in. Miranda remembered that she had introduced herself as Lola Walcott.
"You haven't looked low enough. The parts that got changed are between my legs. That's all horse now. Don't you get the magazine?"
"My husband does. He keeps it in his desk, along with the other magazines he doesn't want me to know he has. Men! They act like little boys sometimes."
"I saw the one with your photos in it," Patty said. "I had a hard time believing something that ... big, was real."
"I get that a lot. Usually they think the pictures were photo-shopped. They weren't. I really am that big down there. It has taken some getting used to. Sometimes I wish Dr. McKay hadn't been quite so successful. He could have made it a foot shorter and I would be just fine with that. But I guess you could say I've grown attached to it now."
That drew the polite laughter the obvious joke deserved. Miranda used the time to sip at her glass. The wine was very light and sweet without being cloying. She hoped it wouldn't go to her head.
"I'm curious about how someone as attractive as you are came to do this kind of work," Lola said.
Miranda had made up her mind that admitting that she'd been turned into a Stallion Girl by accident wasn't a piece of information she should share. It wouldn't reflect well on the magazine and it might cost her the job. If that happened, she'd be very short on career options, none of which would pay as much as her current rate. She'd anticipated this question, and she was prepared to dance around the truth.
"I was a model before, but not a terribly-successful one. There is a modeling aspect to this job," Miranda said. "I am the magazine's mascot. My photos will be a regular feature. When I interviewed for the position, they decided very quickly that I was their perfect candidate, mostly because of my background."
"But to undergo such a radical change!" Patty said. "Was it worth it?"
"Frankly, I get paid more doing this than I could have ever made as a model, even if I made it to the top of my profession. I'll probably be able to retire at 30, although I hope I'll be able to keep working longer than that."
"But the sacrifice!"
"What sacrifice? My sexuality? I worried about that too. But if anything, I almost get too much sex now. My boyfriend can't possibly keep up with my needs."
"You have a boyfriend?" Lola asked.
"The same one I had before, which surprized me too. Men are fascinated by me. It wasn't more more than an hour after my change when I got asked for a date by a guy I met in the Men's Room."
"In the where?"
"Of course horses usually go outside, but I'm used to indoor plumbing. My equipment is male, so I qualify for admittance to the male facilities. I've had some shocked looks, but so far no one has objected to me being there."
"That's certainly a different place to meet men," Patty agreed.
"Excuse me," a new voice said, and a woman barely older than Miranda edged into the group. "I'm Sheila Blaisdell. It's very nice to meet you, Miss Peters. Pardon me if I'm coming into the conversation a little late. I had to see to a problem with the caterer. I must apologize ... I'm afraid I may be the only person here who hasn't heard of you. My husband handles the business, you see. All he told me was they we'd be meeting someone very special who was coming to help us breed our horses. He thought that was enough explanation. Like I could read his mind for the details."
Miranda nodded and waited politely for Mrs. Blaisdell to run down and get to her question. She thought the woman might very well be right in thinking she was the only one present who didn't know the first thing about her role as a Stallion Girl and she was looking forward to seeing the woman's reaction when she found out.
"So, what exactly is it you do, Miss Peters?" Sheila said, concluding her roundabout approach to the point.
"I do the actual breeding, Mrs. Blaisdell. I have been altered through genetic manipulation. I have the genitals of a stallion and my sperm has a combination of genes tailored to make me the finest sire a thoroughbred could have."
Most of that was Miranda's stock spiel from the shows she'd attended with Pruett. It was usually followed by handing the prospective customer a brochure and directing them to her boss if they expressed interest in obtaining her services. This time, Miranda just stopped talking and waited to see what the response would be.
Sheila blinked. Then she smiled. Then she cocked her head slightly to one side as she parsed what she been told.
Miranda waited patiently with her attention fixed on Mrs. Blaisdell, which precluded anyone else from jumping into the silence as it stretched on. She understood the woman's confusion. She'd experienced the same 'I know what I heard, but I can't seem to grasp the meaning of the words' reaction herself.
When Miranda saw Sheila look down, she shifted her feet and, with a practiced movement, used one knee to press her horsecock against the material of her dress so it was outlined in relief. Under the sheer material, the pose was more effective than usual. A good bit more than just the general shape could be seen, including the ridge around the flared head.
"Oh ... my ... God! That's fucking huge! Uh, pardon my French, but isn't that fucking huge?"
A few smiles appeared on the faces of the other women, and a couple of discreet chuckles that were quickly masked or stifled. Miranda nodded her agreement with Sheila's assessment.
"Not to boast or anything," she said, preparing to do exactly that, "but even for a horse, I'm very well-hung. Although I haven't had any complaints ... from anyone. Yet."
"Anyone? Oh, you mean the horse!" Lola said. "How do you know that the mare... ?"
"Had a good time? Horses have orgasms, Mrs. Blaisdell."
This information appeared to be news to many of the other women present as well. Although Miranda noticed that Patty Richardson nodded as she sipped her drink.
"Perhaps I should say 'we' horses have orgasms, since I should probably include myself if we're talking about sex."
The silence that followed that remark made Miranda think she might pushed the 'horse thing' a bit too far. Then Sheila Blaisdell pushed things even farther.
"So you actually copulate with animals?" She asked, her tone divided between incredulity and disgust.
"I have nearly three feet of horsecock hanging between my legs." Miranda said. "What should I copulate with, if not a horse?"
"But you sounded like you actually enjoy it."
"I do. If I didn't enjoy it enough to be able to have an orgasm while doing it, the whole thing would be pointless."
"So, my husband hired you to ... service our horse," Sheila said, "does that mean we get to watch you do ... what you do?"
"That depends on the arrangement you have with my boss. But I don't have a problem with you being there while I work. Just don't be disappointed if it's all over very quickly."
"Don't tell us you have a problem with premature ejaculation!" Patty said. "Not with something like that between your legs."
"Disappointed that I don't have the stamina to match my size? It's the horse part of me. We studs don't mess around. It's wham-bang-thank you ma'am and back to the stall for us. Seriously, if you've ever watched horses mate, you know it's just that quick. In-out and on with the feedbag."
"Doesn't that make it kind of unsatisfying for you?" Patty asked.
"Don't confuse duration with intensity. That's something I learned from experiencing things from the male point of view. Fortunately ... and this is going to sound like a cliché ... there are other things I can do. Things that don't trigger that instant reaction. For instance, I masturbate ... a lot."
"That must take quite a bit of effort," Lola said. "For something that size, I mean."
"It does. I always appreciate assistance. Fortunately, there are lots of people who are willing to lend a girl a hand. Even men. I've been told that a big-enough dick can turn any man gay. I don't know about that, but guys do get into really big dicks, even if they aren't theirs. It's like after a certain point, they realize that they can't compete with it and just get behind appreciating it. I really think that's why the original cartoon was so popular and why the whole chicks-with-dicks thing took off like it did. Guys didn't feel threatened or jealous, just impressed and awestruck. A lot of men who don't consider themselves gay have no problem being with a Futa or even a Trans. He looks at the cock between her legs and automatically prefixes 'cock' with 'girl'. Then he's fine with it, even if it ends-up going someplace he's never had one go before."
"And Stallion Magazine is using you to tap into that," Lola said, sounding a bit cynical.
"Hey, business is business," Miranda answered. "Like Patty said, a girl has to use what she's got. I wouldn't have become a model if I didn't enjoy attention. Now I'm unique, which means I'm in demand for more than just inseminating horses. That photo-spread in the magazine is just part of that. They also sell videos of me and I do appearances at clubs in the off-season."
"So you do porn as well?" Sheila asked. Miranda could hear the clear tone of disgust for the word.
"Porn went mainstream some time ago," Patty said, jumping into the conversation. "In fact, I did porn in college."
"You what?" Sheila said.
"I did videos while I was a Freshman in college. It was a way to make money and have great sex. When you're nineteen and away from home for the first time, that's an irresistible combination."
"Goodness, Patty! Does your husband know?"
"It's how we met. Guys fall all over themselves trying to date you once they find out you're a pornstar. Greg still likes to put on one of my old vids while we make love. They, um ... inspire him."
"I wish something would 'inspire' Roddy," Sheila said, looking over her shoulder.
"Perhaps you should buy him one of Miranda's videos," Lola suggested.
"Maybe I will," Sheila said, looking at Miranda. "If watching you work gets a rise out of him, maybe I will."
The rest of the party passed without any further probing questions or personal revelations by anyone. The chit-chat became routine and Miranda found herself getting bored. And her new shoes were killing her feet.
Pruett saw Miranda shifting from foot to foot and interpreted it as a sign that she was getting excited. Rather than risk a messy incident, he went straight to her side.
"You OK? Are you about to have a problem? Do you need to get on with things?" He asked her in a confidential whisper.
The problem to which he referred had been quiescent for some time, but Miranda seized on his offer anyway. "Yes, I think I'd better get on with it before things get out of hand, if you don't mind."
Pruett craned his neck, looking in the direction of Rod Blaisdell. He waved and pointed and Blaisdell excused himself from the conversation he'd been having and made his way over.
"Is it time?" Blaisdell asked. "You mentioned that there might be a limit to how long we could keep Miss Peters standing around."
"It's time. We should start over now. Sometimes she has a very short fuse."
"Not from where I'm standing," Blaisdell said, chuckling. He took out his phone and thumbed it. "But I'll let the stable know we're coming."
Once Miranda knew her services would be needed shortly, a certain prophetic inevitability kicked-in and her cock began to stiffen. With a fixed smile, she excused herself from the group standing with her and began moving toward the door.
Once outside, into the fresh air and away from the crowd of people, Miranda managed to get a better grip on herself. The long bulge in the front of her dress paused in its attempt to escape, but still put something of a strain on the material.
"How far is it?" She asked Pruett.
"Over there," he told her, pointing to a long low building a few hundred yards downhill. "Rod will take us over in a golf-cart."
"That's good. My feet are killing me!"
Pruett smiled crookedly and nodded. Clearly, it wasn't the first time he'd heard a woman say that.
They walked to the corner of the house and arrived just as Blaisdell pulled up behind the wheel of an electric cart sporting a bright green canvas top. With him was his wife, Sheila, who hopped out as soon as the cart came to a stop.
"Come on dear," Sheila said to Miranda, "we'll drive you over."
Miranda took one look at the clearance she'd have in the front seat and shook her head. Getting a full-on erection there would create difficulties.
"I'll ride in back, if you don't mind."
The back was open, with a low shelf intended for golf-bags, and a higher, shallower one for people or cargo to sit on when the cart was used for other things. Sitting there made the lower shelf a foot-rest. As she had when climbing down from the high cab of Pruett's absurdly-large pickup, Miranda had a problem managing the step. She chosen the long dress because it effectively hobbled her cock. Now that that appendage was trying to distance itself from her ankles, they were the more encumbered. Rather than waste time trying to maintain a high degree of decorum, Miranda reach down and yanked up on her dress until the hem was at her knees. From there, it was much easier for her to get a foot up, pivot, and plant her tush on the narrow seat. The good part of sitting in back was that the seat was narrow enough to allow her balls to ride cradled in the dress below her thighs. The downside was that the lower half of her cock was exposed and poked out between her shins.
"Wow!" Sheila exclaimed. "Roddy? Have you seen this? Oh, right. You've got the magazine."
Sheila's little black dress was on the other end of the hem-line spectrum. She had no trouble stepping onto the back of the cart, but had to do some tugging and butt-wriggling to make herself decent once seated.
Once the two women were safely in the back, Pruett got into the passenger seat and Rod drove off toward the stables at a blistering eight miles per hour. Miranda reflected that she couldn't complain about the speed, since even a turtle-slow conveyance was better than walking that distance in her heels. Once she'd thought of that, she decided to go ahead and take them off, both because stable floors can be messy and this was a new pair; and because she knew things could start to happen very quickly once she was close to a mare in estrus.
The task was only made slightly harder than usual by being in a moving cart. It would have been much more difficult if she had been trying to put them on under the same circumstances. Even so, it seemed to make a fascinating show for Sheila Blaisdell.
"It's like having a third leg, isn't it? You really have learned to accommodate it."
"I wish I could control it like a leg. Mostly my problem is that is has a mind of it's own and when it's hard I have very little control over it. My dick wants what my dick wants."
"That sounds like something a man would say."
"I get that a lot. I live in a very blurry world, gender-wise. Am I male or female? You could argue that either way. A DNA test wouldn't decide it. Too many extra chromosomes. I'm like the elephant in the story about the blind men trying to describe one. What I am depends on what part each man is touching."
"What do you feel like you are?"
"I started out female, so I tend to think of myself as female. That works until my dick starts telling me it needs some attention. When that happens, it kind of takes control until I can satisfy its demands. At that point, I'm just a horny guy looking to get my dick wet and I talk and act like it. Later, once things have calmed-down again, I get my femininity back. It sounds weird, but it feels perfectly normal while it's happening. We are all at the mercy of our hormones. I just have a wider variety and a bigger supply than most people."
"Has it been a difficult adjustment for you?"
"It's really hard to find clothes that fit and are OK to wear in public. I really miss short skirts, short-anything, actually. Even men's clothes aren't designed for someone with equipment like mine."
"I meant emotionally."
"Not terribly. I won't pretend it didn't take some getting used-to at first. Or that it feels totally normal to me now. But I've never had that 'I'm in the wrong body' feeling that seems to be common to transgenders. I'm in my body. It's just got some mods that aren't factory-original equipment."
"Now you're really sounding like a guy!" Sheila laughed.
"That's because the male part of me is in total charge right now. I'm getting a monster boner and I need to fuck something really badly."
"Well, try to hang on. It won't be long now. We're almost there."
When the cart arrived at the stable entrance, Blaisdell drove right through the doorway, took a sharp left into a long passageway and slowed to a speed closer to a fast walk. As they whirred along, curious horses stuck their heads out of the stalls to watch them drive past. It seemed to Miranda as if some of them did a double-take when they saw her ride past with her growing erection. She suspected that was simply her imagination, but, in a perverse surge of exhibitionism, she tugged the hem of her dress higher to expose more of her nearly-horizontal shaft. The horses may not have noticed, but Sheila Blaisdell did.
"I was right," she said. "Before, when I said that was fucking huge? I was right. It is fucking huge. Does it get any bigger?"
"Not really. I think I'd pass out from the drop in blood-pressure if it did. It just gets harder and stiffer and tries to rise-up."
Sheila looked like she wanted to ask something else, but decided against it. A few seconds later, the cart came out of the door at the end of the long stable and stopped next to a small corral. On the far side stood a man holding a haltered mare. In the middle was an obviously temporary platform made of a sheet of plywood laid over a couple of saw-horses. Next to it was a wooden crate that was apparently to be used as a step to get up onto the platform.
"I guess I can't expect everyone to have a nice mounting step for me to use," Miranda thought. Then, nearly giggling - "Maybe I should look into some stilts?"
Everyone got out of the cart. Sheila reached out a hand to Miranda, who took it gratefully as she tried to get down while still keeping her balance. Once she had both feet on the ground, she pulled her dress up and peeled it off over her head before holding it out to Sheila.
"You didn't think I did this while dressed for a party?" She asked, when Mrs. Blaisdell hesitated taking the dress.
"No. I guess you wouldn't."
Miranda took a deep breath, savoring the fresh outdoor air after the sour smell of the stable.
"That wasn't a good idea," she thought. She'd caught the scent of a mare in heat and it was having a predictable effect. Her cock strained to become as hard as it could and she was forced to lean back to counterbalance its weight.