Minding the Mare

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Pleasured by Her Stallion

Flicking my tail, I munch from the hay bar in the back corner of the roomy stable, my head lowered to eat naturally. It's much better than my usual hay net and I approve of the decision to install a hay bar within easy reach of my shorter stature. Not that I would object to a hay net, of course, as long as it is stuffed full with fresh, sweet smelling hay. I'll have to make sure I tell my person that I would like something different, though I am far more comfortable out here, where I am, than in the house with him. He tried to invite me in, once, but I wasn't so sure that that was the place for me. It does not detract from our relationship, however, as unconventional as the other mares here tell me it is. I don't tend to listen to them very much anyway.

The stable is quiet and all annoying ones that walk on two legs (why would you have two legs when you could have four?) have left for the day. That is good. I prefer that they leave me alone to my stable and my field and my peace. A black Shetland pony doesn't need anything more than her own attentions, particularly when she is season.

Well, some attention is good but only when I want it, don't get me wrong. I like teasing the stallions and flagging my tail at them, especially when the stable door is open, secured with only a rope to stop me wandering as I please. Such a silly idea. Sometimes the stallions are led past my stall and they prance and prance, letting me swing my hind quarters around and wave my tail at them. Instinct tells me to do it yet I nevertheless feel a flicker of pleasure as they peel back their upper lips and drop for me. They're never the right studs for me though and are hauled away, regardless of who wants to breed who. But that's no problem to me, that kind of attention. It's simply irritating to be fussed over constantly. Perhaps the lanky horses - inferior to us ponies - enjoy prolonged fussings. Why, they even let two-leggers get on their backs and make them work. What lunacy is that?

The hours roll on and the last of those dragging out the day finally leaves the yard, slamming the car door loud enough for my ears to flick in its direction. So disruptive. Have they no mind for my peace and quiet? Apparently not. Some of them have little mind for anything.

There are hoof steps approaching. My ears prick and I turn my head expectantly towards the stable door as the top bolt slides back and it swings outwards. I am keen to not appear too eager, however, whoever it is. Something like that would not do.

"It's about time you showed up," I nickered, even before he'd rounded the corner, recognising Farron's scent on the air. "You're late."

Ah. I just had to let him know that I disapproved but I did so tease him too - it is the way of a mare like me, after all. It is the bringer of food: my two-legged horse stallion. I have many names for him, including 'stable pest', but this is the one I have currently given him. It is fitting as my stallion is carrying a black rubber tub of feed in both paws, those strange things with hard tips that could have been hooves a long time ago. Poor thing, not to have proper hooves. He doesn't even stand on hooves like me or some of the other horses with two legs. Peculiar things.

He smiles, shaking his head at me, a horse's head just like mine looking back at me. Maybe that's why I like him so much even though I'm careful not to show it. I don't always have to be amenable, after all.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart, I just got delayed. But I've got your favourites here. Are you sure you're warm enough out here stalled on your own?"

Farron pads into my stall, lips pulled back in that smile two-leggers are fond of. He looks ridiculous. I snort and turn away to make sure he knows this. I don't need to say anything: he already knows. Wearing his usual loose 'stable' jeans - or so I have heard them called - and a blue 'check' shirt, he drops the bucket at the stable door, pushing it to the side with a booted foot. My lips quiver and I want to lean towards the food, taste the sweet grain on my tongue. It belongs in my stomach and I need it now. I nicker and stomp, though the straw annoyingly muffles the sound. I'm proud of how many words I know but 'food' is the most important one of all.

Conceding, I swing around to the rubber bucket and drop my muzzle to feed, shoving it in deep to dig out delicious chunks of apple and carrot. I snort, the scent of food overpowering me as I chomp noisily, tail swish, swish, swishing. I feel my stallion's eyes follow it and know his attention has dropped lower to what nestles beneath my tail. He runs his paw down my back from withers to rump and I lean into his touch, if grudgingly. It does feel kind of nice, even if I will not admit it to him. He gets cocky when he thinks I need him. But my silly stallion should know that every mare can take care of herself.

Except for treats. He should always bring me treats.

"I don't have much time tonight... But you prefer being left alone too, don't you?"

I munch, idly flicking my tail.

"I have everything I need here, friend. There's nothing more that someone like me needs, not like you. You have so many needs that I wouldn't know what to do with them."

He chuckles. I like the sound of his laugh in the air.

He picks up a brush from mare knows where - sometimes there is one hidden behind the water bucket - and grooms my coat in long, sweeping strokes, getting into the rhythm. I tell him that he should just use his lips to groom me but he has a funny way about him. Against my will, I nicker into the bucket, digging out the sweetest treats before devouring the grain mixture in great, big snatches and mouthfuls. My jaws work around the deliciousness as he grooms my body, avoiding my neck for the time being. I suppose it's because my head is thrust into the bucket but it annoys me all the same that he is missing one of the best spots. What pony wouldn't want her neck scratched and groomed? Why, it should be demanded, not forgotten by their hapless other halves.

Jerking my head up from the bucket, I feign a bite at his thigh, pulling back at the last moment. It is more a threat than anything else but it makes him stand up and take notice. I pin my ears back to my head and raise a hind hoof, playing the toe on the stone floor. Better grooming! Now! The two-legger just doesn't get it sometimes. He has to do it right.

He chuckles and scratches my withers with his rough fingertips.

"Quiet there. Just relax... Let me take care of you, sweetheart, this is all for you."

His voice is slow and melodic, a stable drawl rolling from his lips. Yet I have heard it all before and it has no effect on me. If I could have done so, I would have rolled my eyes. I can't do that though. That annoys me too. Yet there are other ways to convey my displeasure and I have no worry about that at all.

He puts the brush aside and, taking advantage of the respite, I nuzzle the bottom of the bucket, licking up the last scraps of grain. My feed is too small again. I swear he is trying to starve me, he must be. What else could that silly horse be trying to do? I look at my bucket and then up at my stallion, squealing. Surely he must know that he has underfed me?

My stallion pushes his black forelock out of his eyes and smiles again, lips pulling up. I wish he wouldn't do that. It makes me think that he has something on his mind and, frankly, even a mare in season can tire of all the stallions making eyes at her. They all have the same eyes and eager, questing lips. Sometimes it can be nice. Other times...well...what's a mare to do? It's what we do.

Dropping to one knee at my side, he runs his paw down the inside of my leg to the fetlock, lifting in a smooth motion. Obliging, for a stone has been aggravating me for some time, I lift my hoof for him and let him dig a pick into the clump of mud nestled between hoof and frog. I lick my lips. Maybe he isn't so bad after all. I could warm to him if he gave me enough good attention like this. As the stone is removed, I heave a sigh of relief, muzzle dropping lower. Leaning on my stallion, I let him continue his work without complaint or interruption.

He takes care of my other three hooves in like manner and, if I must be honest, I warm to his touch, pushing into him without resting my weight on his shoulder as I am usually apt to do. It is funny to see him grumble and step away to make me stand sensibly. I repeat the move several times while he tries to keep his balance, just for my own entertainment. Unlike picking out a taller horse's hooves, he has to kneel to sort mine in comfort as he no longer likes to crouch for longer spells of time. I sometimes wonder why.

When he is done, he scrambles to his hooves, boots scraping through straw. He puts the hoof pick aside and quickly secures a head collar around my nose and over my poll, too swiftly for me to voice an objection. And I sure have objections to that halter!

"Come on, darling, time to get going."

I huff and roll my eyes.

"Must you use the rope? I'm perfectly capable of getting myself about without it."

When he smiles, it lights up his eyes.

"Yes... But you look so cute with it on! I'll buy you another, if you like, in your favourite colour. I know that changes weekly, yes, but maybe I can even get you a couple."

"That's better. There's no sense in wearing fashion accessories if one cannot swap them when one pleases!"

He pulls the lead rope taut and walks away, expecting me to follow. Though I resist for a moment, I feel that I have no choice and walk behind him with a lowered head, mouthing at the lead rein. Stupid horse, thinking he can take me wherever he pleases. Stallions.

End preview.

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