Chapter 2

The drive to Denton the next day took us about an hour. It was a warm October day, the temperature well up in the seventies. My appointment with the breeder was at ten o'clock, and we had allowed for plenty of time.

Helen had taken my suggestion and not worn a bra. As I watched her at the wheel, I could see how the material of the jersey she was wearing hugged the firm shape of her breasts. The least little rocking motion of the car caused them to bob deliciously.

I had worn a skirt and blouse, and had taken a cardigan sweater to look a little bit more dressed up than for any other reason. I was bare-legged with only loafers on my feet.

Helen looked much more casual, and could have been mistaken for my younger sister than what was actually the case. She hummed a tune whenever there was a long pause in our conversation.

The farm was located a few miles outside of Denton and was known as the Ho-Ho-Pony Estates. A big sign bearing the name was positioned near the long dirt driveway leading to the main buildings, and we could see some horses and conventional sized ponies grazing in the pasture on either side.

A tall, lean Texan greeted us when we pulled into the compound. He was wearing a battered hat which shaded a rather weather-worn face. I noticed though he was clean shaven. He wore levis and didn't tuck them inside his boots.

"Mornin' ladies," he hailed us. Noticing the camera hanging from my shoulder as I got out, he said, "You must be the lady from New York, be you?" he asked.

I nodded. "I'm Beatrice Starr," I said, "and this is my sister, Mrs. Smallwood."

He tipped his hat. "Pleased to meet you. I be Hack Raver, the foreman here. The owner, Mr. Cunningham, is tied up at the moment but'll be here presently," he said, looking us over with undisguised interest. "What you can do, if you want, is walk around the place for yourselves. Or I can take you."

He waited to see what we might choose to do.

"I imagine," I said, looking around, "we could do that, just walk around by ourselves until Mr. Cunningham is free."

"Whatever you ladies want, I'm at your service," he said, tipping his hat again. "Them new ponies is over in that barn, there." He pointed to a low, one story building that was probably the newest structure in the compound.

Helen nudged me as we walked toward the new barn. "Why didn't you want him to show us around?" she. asked. "Did you see that bulge in his pants?"

I hadn't noticed, but Helen was always alert to such things. "He's too eager," I said. "I'd rather wait for Cunningham." We looked back. The Texan was standing there watching us. He took the little-finger side of his hand and made a move at the "bulge" Helen had noticed as if to adjust it.

We walked into the barn. The ponies were tied in small stalls on either side. They were quite small for ponies as I had, of course, anticipated. I judged them to be roughly the size of a St. Bernard or Newfoundland dog. They were amazingly sleek and clean looking.

I walked down along the stalls slowly, thinking there wasn't much in the way of an interesting picture to be taken there with nothing but rear ends facing the camera.

One mare was in heat. She had thrown her tail straight up, and the hole was opening and closing rhythmically. Each time it opened rather violently, and I could see into the pink vastness of what was beyond.

I looked into some of the other stalls, wondering if the stallions had been gelded. It appeared that many of them had been.

One chestnut-colored male pony obviously had not been touched. He was straining at the ropes securing his neck, tugging backward, and pawing at the floor with one front hoof.

Glancing down, I noticed his thing was out stiff and hard. I gulped. It almost touched the floor. He underwent some kind of reflexive action with it, bringing it up from the floor and whacking it resoundingly against his belly. It seemed then to slowly shrink except for the head, collapsing accordion-like.

In my experience looking at animals it occurred to me that of all animals only the members of the horse family seemed to have things that anywhere resembled a man's. I looked around to see if Helen had been watching and was surprised to see that she was not even in the barn.

"Helen?" I called instinctively.

Walking out into the compound, I saw that Helen was nowhere to be seen. A few chickens lazily picked their way here and there a step at a time, but not much else was happening. Were there no stable boys around, I wondered? Whatever activity was pursued on the place, I decided, must happen somewhere other than where I could see it.

"Yo, Helen!" I yelled.

A likely place to begin looking for her seemed to be an old fashioned gambrel-roofed barn directly across from the pony stables. I had to walk up an incline to enter this barn. The massive sliding door had a much smaller conventional type door in it which I opened easily.

Inside it took me a few moments to adjust to the semidarkness but I could hear voices and the sound of laughter immediately. The voices seemed to be coming from directly overhead. I strained to look above me but saw no apparent stairway or opening in the ceiling.

I walked back farther into the barn, past some heavy farm machinery that appeared to have been parked there a long time. There wasn't much space to squeeze past, and a lot of the equipment had protruding parts that caught at my sweater.

About two-thirds of the way back, I noticed a ladder propped up against an open trap door in the ceiling. Carefully stepping up each rung, I stopped when my eyes reached the level of the floor above. It appeared to be a hayloft.

Hauling myself up onto the floor, I began to crawl towards the front of the barn in the direction of the voices. I was moving closer to the sounds when I recognized the laugh as belonging to Helen. The other voice was Mr. Raver's.

The hay was piled high in front of me and seemed insurmountable. I found a low spot all the way over on one side and crawled up over it. Soon I was able to see just what the two of them were up to. A tiny window illuminated the scene.

Helen was lying down on the hay on her back with her head pointed toward my vantage point. Raver was seated at her feet and were he to have lifted his gaze one inch would have been looking right at me.

Raver evidently had been telling a few Texas jokes.

"Go on," Helen was saying. "You Texans like to brag, I think. Everything's not that big here."

"Well, now, ma'am, most everything that's real Texas is. 'Course we got a lot of foreigners in the state now, and what they bring in with them, I can't vouch for, but if it's home grown Texas, you can bet it's mighty big." He turned toward her.

She was teasing him. I could see her rolling her body slightly. She raised one knee and rocked it from side to side, and I saw him look down at what she must have been revealing at that moment.

I could see his neck reddening. "Now, ma'am," he swallowed. The bulge in his levi's began extending way to one side and then ballooned outward. He loosened his belt with one hand and got up on his knees. "I'm just gonna have to prove it to you, I guess."

He tore open the fly, and his thing bounded out. I saw Helen sit up suddenly, and was conscious of a sharp intake of my own breath. It was huge. Bigger than any man's I had ever seen. I felt a slight burning sensation in my vulva.

He moved forward on his knees closer to Helen, and I stared, transfixed by the thing as it bobbed up and down.

"Get a feel of it," he urged, reaching for her hand. "It's all Texas beef" Her hand seemed so tiny as she clasped it about midway along its length.

"Gosh!" she breathed. "I didn't think." She stammered for a second or two. "It's just so big," she finally said. Her hand moved down along it, squeezing it occasionally as a housewife might squeeze fruit at a market.

She stopped at the base and began moving her hand up it again. "It's so smooth. Jack's is bumpy and veiny," she told him. When she reached the apple-shaped head at the end of it, she gave it a particular squeeze. Raver let out a shriek of pleasure.

Spurred on by the effect of her squeeze, she leaned forward and began showering the end of it with kisses.

"Now, ma'am," he gasped, having difficulty with his breathing. "Don't you want to try this out 'fore it all goes to waste."

She was placing her tongue on the end of it now. I noticed the sac containing his testicles pull up and almost disappear into the base of his penis.

"Ma'am!" he cried out, pitching forward.

She had just placed her mouth around the swollen head when I saw his whole frame convulse abruptly. He closed his eyes and grabbed at her hair, his body apparently racked with spasms.

He was coming! I hadn't realized it because it had happened so soon.

Helen was gulping spastically. Much of the end of his tool was well inside her mouth. Poor girl. It was probably pumping into her faster than she could swallow it.

When the last of it had gone down her throat, she fell back gasping for breath. Still on his knees, Raver, too, sat back on his heels, his face turned upward, eyes closed, his chest heaving. The massive instrument had softened and somehow it seemed less formidable.

"Beggin' your pardon, ma'am," he said after a minute, "but never play with a loaded gun. No tellin' just when it'll go off."

"Oh!" Helen was still gasping. "Oh! There was so much. Do you always come so much?" she managed to ask between breaths.

"That's real Texas cock, ma'am," he said almost in a matter of fact tone.

She sat up, her breathing gradually returning to normal. Picking up the fallen piece of meat, she lifted it in a way that suggested she was testing its weight. "Gosh!" she exclaimed. "Even soft, it still must weigh a ton."

I suspected that Helen was far from satisfied. It had never gotten anywhere near the place that counted. If the throbbing in my own pussy was any indication, she must still be quite hot.

Fishing around in my bag, I looked for something I could stick between my legs and squeeze. I found a plastic roller for setting hair that for some reason had been dumped there. It was a fat one with holes along it and seemed to have some give to it.

I placed it between my thighs up against my throbbing crotch and squeezed on it, at the same time working my thighs forward and back, first one and then the other. It was better than nothing. In the meantime, I kept my eyes glued to the scene in front of me.

Helen had moved forward and though I could not clearly see, it appeared she was pushing the soft head of his penis into her vulva. Her shorts were lying on the hay to the side.

"Wup!" she snorted. "He's still oozing from the last one. At least I'm getting a little bit of it." She reached forward to where it joined his body and grasping it, pulled forward compressing her fingers at the same time.

Evidently a lot of come had remained inside because both suddenly blurted out laughing.

"Good to the last drop," Raver said.

It had begun to swell again. The couple became more agitated as it rose once more into the air. The thing seemed fatter this time, and redder. Helen lay back in a near swoon in anticipation. Raver moved forward over her placing his weight on his hands.

Because of its length, he had to raise his butt high while she placed the end of it at the precise spot. I could see his buttocks tighten as he began to thrust it forward. As it packed in I heard Helen groan, and I felt as if I were suddenly sharing the thrill of its entry into her.

From what I could see, most of it had gone in, too. Raver had settled into a quick in and out movement and had reached up under her shoulders with his hands where he held her tightly. He seemed to be trying to stuff as much of it inside her as was possible. I had never seen a man drive so hard.

Helen had wrapped her legs around his body and was responding to his thrusts by pushing upward. She was going to find out now, I thought, that size means something after all.

With all the activity going on, they had managed to turn clockwise about a quarter of a circle so that now I commanded a view of that marvelous machine as it jammed away at her. It appeared that several inches had yet to go on in.

I was still squeezing the roller between my legs and began to feel the first tug at my innards as the pleasureful sensation began to build inside me. It was taking a hell of a lot of energy to get myself off this way.

Helen had begun making the little clipped whines she was prone to utter as her orgasm approached. When the last one trailed off into a long sigh, I knew she had come.

Raver's testicles did that same melting action up into his groin that I had noticed before. He suddenly slowed his pumping and collapsed on her, convulsing spasmodically.

As my own climax arrived, I had to place a palm tightly over my mouth to avoid giving myself away. Having worked so hard to get it, the jolt left me utterly debilitated, like an athlete out of shape, and I wanted to sink miles into the hay.

I must have slept for awhile, for when I became conscious of my surroundings again, it was very quiet in the barn. I sat up and looked over where Helen and Raver had been, and they were no longer there.

Crawling along the floor, I reached the trap and climbed down the ladder. In a moment I was outside. Hearing voices inside the pony barn, I entered it to find Helen, Raver, and a man I presumed to be Cunningham engaged in conversation.

"This must be your sister," the man said, breaking away from them and coming toward me. He was rather a pudgy man, but well- dressed, and spoke with a soft drawl.

"Good grief, Bea!" Helen exclaimed. "We thought maybe you had run off with a hired hand."

"Only hand around here I know is Hack," I said, winking at her, amused at myself for making her blush.

"Yes indeed, ma'am," Hack said, "and I'm at your service." He seemed pleased as pie with himself.

Cunningham began telling us then a little of the history of his operation. It seems he had crossed a small Icelandic stallion with an unusually small Shetland mare he discovered at a carnival. He then bred the progeny with other Icelandics breeding back only those ponies that held their small size.

"That Shetland is the true prototype," he said. "Bought her for only twenty-five bucks from the carny guys, too. Been selling these for forty times that," he said proudly.

I was busily taking down everything in a little notebook I carried as we strolled past the stalls.

"The Icelandic gives them that clean look. Don't smell as much, either," he informed us. "You take a Shetland into a house, it'll smell like a barn right off. A Shetland'll bite, too. Can be mean. These ponies," he said, extending his arm in an arc, "are as gentle as a lamb."

I asked him about pictures, and he went into one of the stalls and untied the pony occupying it. With just a hand on its neck he guided the pony out. He walked back towards the open barn door to the sunlight.

"See that?" he asked. "Don't need a halter.

Kids can ride without a saddle, too. Just grab hold of the mane." He clutched a bunch of the beautiful white hairs then let them go.

"They're just adorable," Helen said, stroking the pony's flank.

"Here," Hack said, lifting Helen by the waist and placing her on the pony's back. I noticed his hands run up over her breasts as he released her.

"Won't she be too heavy for him?" I wondered.

"Oh, I don't guess she weighs that much," Cunningham said. "I wouldn't ride him regular," he added.

We had come outside, and I took a few pictures of the pony with Helen seated on him. I took some more of her leaning over feeding him some sugar. Cunningham and Hack seemed to enjoy that pose as Helen was quite generous in revealing her charms. I took some head and shoulder shots of Cunningham alone.

"Tell you what," Cunningham said. "Why don't you take a pony home with you for a few days. Then you can get some good pictures of the animal around the house."

It seemed a good idea. Readers would want to see pictures of ponies in a domestic setting since he was advertising them as house pets. I looked to see Helen's reaction.

"Could we?" she asked, evidently pleased at the idea. She leaned down, throwing her arms around the pony's neck. "Would you like to come and stay with me for awhile?" she cooed.

"I didn't have this particular pony in mind for that," he said rather sheepishly, "but I suppose it'll be all right."

"What's wrong with this pony?" I asked, curious.

"He's not gelded, is what." Seeing the confusion in our faces, he went on. "He's not cut."

"Well, Mr. Cunningham," Helen said almost with indignation in her tone, "I know what gelded means. What difference does that make?"