Your days now pass in untold numbers, each is as the last. No more wash days, vacations, sabbath, or anything to tell the turn of your days as a pony.
Even the charming feeling you enjoyed when first made a stallion now offer little for a thrill. The mares are a little less the passion they once made you feel. They graze or work beside you and unless one of them wishes your personal attention you generally ignor their presence. The scents of your mare friends still brings on thoughts which lock all attention of the erection below.
Four, five and more times each day the scent of mare urine sparks something deep in that instinctive run mind. Whether working, standing or even in harness your erection comes to an ultimate round of masterbation. Like exercise done before the Tv early in the morning your many rounds are like an exercize class for that big cock.
The scent of a mare starts what can not be stopped. The thrill and instincts build till all sense and reason take wing. As the preasure builds the mind locks down to one singular thought and only self pleasure and the scent of your semen can end this time of insanity.
Season too flash by without much notice. Your first season was Fall, the cool morning and warm afternoons made for reasonable amounts of fun. Then Winter came and the hair over your body thickened. A shaggy big animal the hair made you look. A delight to which added a problem to you as dirt and manure around which might be layed in or or suck in clumps. The added filth made your body reek and your mind try it's best to ignor even more of your situation.
Spring comes as an eternal blessing till as the days warm the flies and insects return in hords. Tails flicking, manes shaking, ears twitching, hide jiggles, as bugs crawl just everywhere. The worst feeling is the flies slurping up what is sticky along that wonderous shaft. When erect and not in pleasent use the flies do their best to clean away what you would rather they left alone. An itch you can't see or reach but as shown by others a short bush or sappling works well to straddle, and let drag through your itchy crotch.
Summer's heat is can not be understood unless one were a beast of the fields. Damp dew lay's wet on legs and back each morning. As the sun cooks your hide in it's eternal warmth the steam rolls off your back. Midday, and the heat on dark hair and black hide makes even the ignorant beast feel as if they are melting.
The sought after tree and shade of the afternoon is more than welcome. Ah but you as the other's were trained to pull that heavy coach and with Summer you were transfered to a Funland Park.
Half of the morning we pull the coach to bring happy sqealing brats to the Park. The noise these kids make are enough to drive you madd.
The noon time brings welcome shade as we become pony rides for kids young and heavy. Dusk and the harness with coach becomes true labor as more people than normal load the coaches for an easy ride to the parking lot.
Sun is down and the people are gone. A lucky few go to the stable for a solid night's rest. The volunteers must prove the experiment by working till midnight as beasts of burden hauling the tons of garbage out of the Park.
At last your lead to the stable almost dead of being bone tired.
The straw stinks but you don't care! The flies buzz about but you drift off to sleep. The air is hot and humid as morning dew begins to cling to body hairs but your sleep on.
Ring, Bang, Bang, rise and shine ponies another day at Funland Park!
If you could still care to tell time the man woke you and the others at 5:30am. Another day in the torrent of days which you long ago lost count. The whip, working, day and into the night! The harness works welts into the tough black hide, as the hair thins and your once beautiful pony stallion body takes the look of a worn down beast.
As you stand in harness a passing human draws your meanial attention. You jerk your head up as memory and thoughts take sudden hold of the pony you. It was the Misses, your Wife leading three, Grandchildren!
A high pitched whinnie calls from your lowly status to becon them to be near this new you. Your sound makes babies cry and mother scurry to back children away from the ensensed pony.
You watch in horror as the Misses too rushes into the crowd and away from the stinking beast. You want to be with her and talk with the Grandkids too, but woe is you as your contract signed said, Shetland, Stallion, Volunteer under contract, five years a Shetland, five years a Welsh Mountain, five years another and then another and then another till a full twenty years of life and time had passed you bye.
The crack of the whip and the Coachman calls your name! You know all too well that trouble is on it's way for trying to contact those still in the human race.