The Freedom to be Weird

 

A story inspired by these frisky fellows:

‘Inside a pony fetish festival’

 

1.

 

After a fifty hour week of purchase ledger, there was nothing he liked better than getting into his rubber and spandex pony outfit and being whipped and kicked by his mistress. But first sudoku...

 

“I’ll start with the 1s... oh thank you, dear.”

 

Eileen - his wife, mistress and fellow equestrian fetishist - carefully put the cup of tea and freshly baked vanilla cookie (on a small floral patterned plate) on the table beside her husband’s sudoku book.

 

“You’re welcome, Keith. Would you like help with your puzzles this morning?”

 

“Not with the sudoku, thank you, my angel. But perhaps with the crossword?”

 

“Okay, dearest. But first let me polish your bit and bridle.”

 

“Okay, my precious.”

 

With the morning puzzles concluded, Eileen prepared Keith’s pony outfit and her own kinky medieval mistress costume, then they adorned their attire, hopped into their Morris Minor and pootled off to the Pony Fetish Convention. Which was basically a field near Drotwich. Only today it was just a field. An empty field.

 

“Neigh!,” said Keith. “But I have been practising my canter and ballotade!”

 

“I am also unhappy about this,” said Eileen. “I have a whip which needs to be cracked.”

 

Eileen cracked her whip in the air. Keith shuddered.

 

A man in a grey suit, with a clipboard, approached them (seemingly out of nowhere).

 

“Pony fetish?,” said the man.

 

Eileen and Keith let their attire speak for them.

 

“Alrighty,” said the man, consulting his clipboard. “Next field, please.”

 

“But this is an outrage!,” said Eileen. “It’s been in this field since Keith was a foal.”

 

“Technically I was never a foal,” said Keith.

 

“Who gave you permission to speak?,” said Eileen, as she gave him a little whip.

 

Keith whinnied and started trotting around in circles.

 

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience,” said the grey suited man, as he started to amble back to where he had come from (wherever that was).

 

“Stop right there, you snivelling little whelp!,” said Eileen.

 

Mr Grey Suit stopped and turned round. “I’ll have you know, I’m not one of your submissive fillies you can just-...”

 

Eileen whipped Mr Grey Suit on the buttocks.

 

“Ow!,” said Mr Grey Suit. Then, “Ooh” - and he seemed to consider asking her to do it again.

 

“Why are we in the next field?,” asked Eileen.

 

“I’m sorry, that’s confidential.”

 

Crack!

 

“Okay, stop whipping me! It’s because of the Vintage Gaming Festival.”

 

“Those weirdos!,” said Eileen. “Come on, Keith, we’ve got a strongly worded email to write.”

 

“Can I go now?,” said Mr Grey Suit.

 

“Lick my boots clean first,” said Eileen.

 

“But I don’t want-”

 

Crack!

 

Mr Grey Suit got down on all fours and licked Eileen’s boots until he could see his pathetic little whiny face in them.

 

 

 

2.

 

Speaking of ‘all fours,’ Keith got on his, whilst Eileen sat on his back, occasionally letting him nibble on a carrot, and fired up her iPad.

 

Dear Sir/Madam,

 

- she wrote to the representative from the local council.

 

My husband and I are somewhat piqued to find...

 

- and on it went.

 

Then Pac-Man came walking towards them. Well not really Pac-Man, a dude in a ridiculous Pac-Man costume. Pac-Man Dude was looking at his phone and would have tripped over Keith, if Eileen hadn’t coughed.

 

“Oh sorry,” said Pac-Man Dude. He eyed up Eileen and Keith. “What game are you guys from, then?,” he asked them.

 

“We are not from some silly, childish game,” said Eileen.

 

“Then why are you in the Vintage Gaming Festival field?”

 

“Because you digital freaks have usurped the location of our most resplendent and respectable equestrian gathering.”

 

“Not sure you can usurp a location.”

 

“Do you want to feel the tip of my riding crop?”

 

“Sorry, lady, not my bag.”

 

Inky, Pinky, Blinky and Clyde (the ghosts from the arcade classic of which Pac-Man was the star) then arrived.

 

“Hey dudes,” said Pac-Man Dude.

 

“Hey dude,” said Inky, Pinky, Blinky and Clyde.

 

“Looks like we’re early,” said Pac-Man Dude.

 

“Multiplayer Pac-Man mashup until the others get here?,” said Pinky.

 

“Cool,” said Pac-Man Dude.

 

They all got out their phones, sat in a circle on the grass and the air was filled with a symphony of blips and bleeps.

 

“Come on, Keith, I can’t concentrate here,” said Eileen, as she jabbed her spurs into Keith’s side.

 

Keith then whinnied and stood, as did his mistress, who led him by the halter to the Pony Fetish Convention field.

 

“Nutters,” murmured Keith under his breath.

 

“No talking,” said Eileen, as she gave him a clout round the back of the head with her crop.

 

 

 

3.

 

The field to which they had been relegated was far smaller and of inferior quality. Eileen and Keith normally arrived early to these things, so they could find a good spot for their picnic - due to the unexpected relocation shenanigans, however, they found that a few fellow equestrian fetishists had already arrived and found the best spots (relatively), and so the corner of the field where they ended up was less than ideal. It was lumpy, damp and unkempt, and they had to be careful where they placed their picnic blanket, so as not to be stung by nettles or find themselves munching on tuna sandwiches beside a ripe and steaming cowpat.

 

Almost literally fuming with indignation, Eileen sat on Keith again (he didn’t even get a carrot this time) and continued her email. She barely got past the second line, however, as Jacqueline and John arrived, John pulling Jacqueline on their preposterously exorbitant chariot, to say hello and gloat at the fact that they had obviously camped overnight to ensure they got a portion of the field that hadn’t been used as a bovine toilet.

 

“Greetings, Eileen,” said Jacqueline, as she pulled on John’s reins, to bring their garish equine conveyance to a halt. “Rather a blow regarding the relocation.”

 

“Something of an understatement,” said Eileen, as she tugged Keith away from John, with whom he was trying to have a bit of a nuzzle.

 

“It would be unseemly to kick up a fuss, though,” said Jacqueline, who had clearly noticed that Eileen was writing an email of complaint to the council.

 

“Indeed it would, Jacqueline,” said Eileen. “Although I feel it is fitting that the powers that be are informed of their error in allowing the vintage gaming louts to run riot over prime grazing land.”

 

“I am glad to see you are flying the flag for environmental protection,” said Jacqueline. “Well, we can’t hang around here chattering; John is literally champing at the bit for a quick trot around the field.”

 

“Keith also,” said Eileen, who quickly finished off her email, then yanked Keith to a standing position.

 

Keith snorted, which got him a slap on the rump, then he and his mistress set to trotting in the opposite direction to Jacqueline and John. They made obligatory polite greetings to fellow equestrians, who arrived in dribs and drabs, practised their pesade, their capriole, their courbette and their mezair, then upon catching a glimpse of a lifesize Tetris block through a bush, Eileen had an idea.

 

“Come on, girl, it’s time to put you to work,” she said to Keith, who responded with a raised eyebrow and a questioning snuffle.

 

“We’re going check out the competition,” said Eileen, who with a few sharp cracks on various parts of Keith’s pale, semi-exposed flesh, set him to cantering towards the superior field of the Vintage Gaming Festival.

 

 

 

4.

 

“Haven’t you heard of Pony Puzzle Mania?,” asked Eileen of Earthworm Jim.

 

“Um... no,” replied the five foot six cartoon annelid. “You heard of it?,” he asked his companion, a lady version of Dr Robotnik.

 

“Can’t say I have, Jim,” replied Dr Robotnik to Earthworm Jim (whose real name just happened to be Jim).

 

“Understandable if you’re not a specialist gamer,” said Eileen. “It was an independent release, don’t think it even came out in the U.K.”

 

“O... K...” said Earthworm Jim. “Well gotta go...”

 

“Okay, have fun,” said Eileen. Then when they were out of earshot, “Idiots.”

 

Eileen’s idea to ‘check out the competition’ was predicated on the reasonable assumption that while pony fetishists were respectful to their environment, gamers were louts, who would leave food and no doubt human waste strewn about the place, thus giving weight to her communique to the council regarding their error in evicting the Pony Fetish Convention from their longstanding site. So she had attached a discreet GoPro camera to Keith’s bridle, with the intention of leading him about the place and taking snaps of the inevitable devastation wrought upon the bigger, lovelier and more pony-appropriate field.

 

So far, however, the success of her mission had been limited, as the vintage gamers were an infuriatingly tidy bunch.

 

“Quick! Over there!,” said Eileen, as she yanked Keith in the direction of a Super Mario Brother, who had dropped a crisp packet.

 

“Never mind,” she amended, as the other Super Mario Brother picked up the crisp packet and deposited it in a nearby trash receptacle.

 

“May I speak, mistress?,” said Keith, as he put up his hoof - sorry, hand - as of a nervous schoolboy seeking the attention of a strict schoolmarm.

 

“You already have, so you must be punished,” said Eileen.

 

“Fair enough,” said Keith, in a tone balancing on the knife edge of regret and eager anticipation.

 

Keith then bent over slightly, his gluteal muscles tingling as they awaited the thrashing that was to be administered thereupon.

 

“But as we are not in our usual locale,” said Eileen, “your punishment, on this occasion, will be to not receive the chastisement you are hoping for.”

 

“Mistress!”

 

“And more not-receiving, for your insolence!”

 

Keith sighed and slumped and contented himself with mentally visualising the pain his resplendent mistress would hopefully be delivering to him later.

 

“Okay, what did you want to say?,” asked Eileen.

 

“What? Oh!” - Keith shook himself out of his reverie - “I think we need to step up our game, mistress.”

 

“In what sense, Keith?”

 

“Do you remember that time when you gave me some equine Viagra?”

 

“How could I forget? Let’s just say, I’m glad we were insured for the damage you caused to the Ascot stables.”

 

“Yes, I do apologise for causing us to be barred from that most prestigious of racing venues.”

 

“No matter. Why do you bring this painful memory to the fore?”

 

“Do you have any of that equine Viagra with you now?”

 

“You know I always keep some to hand in case of emergencies. But why would I-? Oh...”

 

Eileen surveyed the pristine field, full of ill-mannered but immaculate vintage gamers; chatting, playing games and picking up after themselves. As she was almost psychically attuned to her darling colt, she knew exactly what he hand in mind.

 

 

 

5.

 

Within minutes of swallowing the rather large blue pill, Keith began to forget that he was human. He was awash with horseyness, which travelled from his extremities to his core, culminating at a final extremity, which became most upstanding and symbolised the determinative stage of his equine metamorphosis. Just in case you don’t know what I’m talking about, by ‘final extremity,’ I mean his willy.

 

“Neigh!,” said Keith. And, “Neigh!,” said Keith again. Only not in a submissive gelding way, but in the manner of a proud and confident stallion.

 

“Are you ready, my darling?,” said Eileen.

 

Keith didn’t say, “Neigh!,” again, because he didn’t want to confuse his mistress. Instead he whinnied, nodded his head and pawed the ground with his hooves in anticipation. I say ‘hooves,’ because there was no doubting that they were hooves, such was the completeness of his transformation.

 

“Then go, my magnificent mustang,” said Eileen. “Go do what you were born to do!”

 

And off Keith went.

 

Specifically, he ran about the place, knocking over bins, bumping into people and leaving behind a trail of debris, disorder and discord in his wake. All whilst making a variety of horsey noises and coming across like a tremendous trotting twit. And recording the whole thing on his GoPro.

 

“Hey, horsey dude! Chill!,” came a familiar voice, as Keith upturned a plastic recycling station.

 

At first, in his coltish mind, there was no recognition of the words, nor the manner of creature that had conveyed them. Then, as Keith caught a peripheral glimpse of the big yellow blob that had, apparently, just spoken, he momentarily paused in his rampage and diverted the tiny portion of his attention that was still human towards it.

 

“What’s the deal, man?,” said Pac-Man Dude (for ’twas he). “I mean if you wanted to join us, all you had to do was say.”

 

“I… I…” said Keith, as he struggled to fathom the meaning behind the big yellow blob’s pronouncement.

 

“I could see you and your lady weren’t happy when we started the multiplayer Pac-Man mashup.”

 

“Well… um…”

 

“Why don’t you bring your gf over here and we can all play Pac-Man together?”

 

Keith’s horsey brain and his human brain reached a tipping point of bewilderment. Then they seemed to combine and transform into an amorphous mush and, with one final impotent, “Neigh…,” Keith collapsed, unconscious, to the ground.

 

 

 

6.

 

“So what was your actual plan then?,” said Clyde (who was actually a lady), as all their devices started to sync.

 

“Keith was to gallop around, mess up your field and blame it all on you chaps,” said Eileen.

 

“But didn’t you think that, since everyone here has a smartphone, there would be enough evidence to prove that it wasn’t our fault?”

 

“No, we didn’t think of that.”

 

“Oh well, no harm no foul.”

 

“Or no harm no foal,” said Blinky.

 

“No harm no foal!,” said Keith. “That’s a good one!”

 

“Who said you could talk?,” said Eileen.

 

“I don’t want to be a pony anymore,” said Keith.

 

“Did I ever say you had any choice in the matter?,” said Eileen, as she repeatedly tapped her palm with her riding crop.

 

“No, mistress.”

 

The devices started to bong, as synchronisation reached completion.

 

“Okay, dudes,” said Pac-Man Dude to all present; “are you ready for ultimate pleasure?”

 

“Ultimate pleasure is my middle name,” said Eileen, as she cracked her whip.

 

“Is it really?,” said Pac-Man Dude.

 

“No, it’s Katherine.”

 

The multiplayer Pac-Man mashup began.

 

[ game over ]