Becoming a Bedcolt


                                            >Be Star Tracker.

                                            >When you first heard the word “bedmare” your stomach had twisted in horror at the thought of ponies being forced into sex against their will. But after a couple of months of being in the auction pens and talking with other ponies about it; it didn’t sound all that awful after all.

                                            >Especially when you found out what being a bedmare really entails!

                                            >It’s less like the scenes you had imagined of ponies being tied up in barren stables crying while being rutted raw and more like ponies doing light housework and sleeping with their owners in soft beds at night.

                                            >Plus you know… Bedroom duties.

                                            >But that isn’t so bad! In fact, it sounded like a pretty comfortable existence.

                                            >The way one of the other stallions described how his old master treated his mares made it seem like a fairly luxurious lifestyle.

                                            >You may not be a mare, but you knew that you’d rather be someone’s prissy bedroom stallion than be made to do back-breaking work in the fields or manual labor in a sweaty warehouse.

                                            >The thought of being a spoiled rotten toy one day kept you going for the next two months in the auction pen, the fantasy feeling fairly in reach and not impossible. Your future Master could be anyone - you didn’t care - as long as they treated you well and let you sleep in their bed.

                                            >And weren’t too rough on you when it came time to perform your “duties.”

                                            >But a huge mattress and a down comforter, plus someone to snuggle with every single night? That would be paradise compared to the chilly stables you have now!

                                            >Although the idea of someone getting violent with you was scary, it also added a little bit of a thrill to process. The uncertainty of the future made it all that more interesting to try and seduce a good Master for yourself.

                                            >Having made up your mind about what kind of slave you’d like to be, you became far more docile in the auction pens, much better behaved when people came to look at you.

                                            >You kept your eyes peeled for somebody who looked like they could be a good Master; men in dirty work clothes and middle-aged women in fancy suits were right out because you knew they weren’t looking for a bedcolt. But anyone normal who came alone and only wanted to buy one pony was usually a pretty safe bet.

                                            >Especially if they were a man.

                                            >You took cues from some of the mares who were kept in a different pen across the path, noticing what behaviors made people buy them up first.

                                            >The tail flagging - the hottest and most obvious gesture - seemed a sure way to get picked up for mares, but was not at all successful for you and rather quickly you abandoned that tactic, especially after the seller told you it was scaring off potential buyers.

                                            >Some of the subtler gestures though, like making your eyes very wide and slowly blinking up at humans or pressing your side against the pen so that people would pet you were far more successful in garnering attention.

                                            >It took awhile for you to be able to perform these types of actions in a way that seemed like totally normal behavior, but once you had mastered them, they were highly successful.

                                            >You had certainly captured the attention of a few folks, but unfortunately for you nobody ever seemed to be in the business of buying a bedcolt.

                                            >The single men who came by the auction pens usually made a beeline for the mares and didn’t look twice at the stallions on the opposite side of the field.

                                            >On the other hoof, the single women who came by were always looking for the bigger and flashier stallions, especially the pegasi.

                                            >You just couldn’t win.

                                            >Today, however, you’re feeling fairly confident that somepony will decide to bring you home; it’s early spring, the sun is shining, and a slightly nippy breeze has most everyone in high spirits. A perfect day to walk through the auction fields and check out all the ponies just waiting to be brought home!

                                            >You’ve been prancing back and forth along the fenceline, on the lookout for your perfect master who could be anywhere amongst the crowd.

                                            >There have been several mothers with children passing by and as soon as you see them coming your way you hide behind the bigger stallions, trying to remain unseen.

                                            >Children - you’d prefer to avoid them at all costs.

                                            >From what you’ve observed they are full of gross fluids and very loud. Plus they don’t necessarily treat their ponies nicely.

                                            >Certainly not the right place for you.

                                            >It’s mid afternoon and by now you’re starting to lose hope as the number of stallions around you begins to dwindle, your chances of finding a home slowly dissipating through the day like smoke.

                                            >In frustration you kick a pebble, huffing softly from your nose.

                                            >You guess you’ll just find a sunny patch to lay in and spend the rest of your day sunbathing so that you can at least get something good from today’s time in the pens. The stables you stay in at night are rather cramped and drafty after all.

                                            >Settling down into a warm, sun-filled spot on the grass, you’re just about to close your eyes for a quick snooze when you see him.

                                            >Tall with lean muscle, and kind eyes - and a clean shirt! He’s ambling through the slow crowd of other buyers, alone, lazily glancing over the mares before heading straight for the stallion pen.

                                            >With a jolt you’re up on your hooves, shaking off any grass that’s stuck to your coat and trotting quickly over to the front of the pen, shouldering your way through the remaining stallions.

                                            >You don’t rear up to see over the fence like you want to, but you press your side against the fence for pets, blinking your big blue eyes up at the approaching customer in what you hope is an endearing way. You have to really force yourself to keep your already-short tail from lifting when he stops in front of you, fighting back the flicker of excitement burning in your stomach just in case he’s here for work ponies.

                                            >With a grin that practically melts your heart, the man lowers his hand to your face and scratches the bridge of your nose, making you close your eyes in pleasure.

                                            >He laughs - a warm laugh - before turning to the seller and jerking his head back towards you.

                                            >“Eager little fella, huh?”

                                            >You can’t help the flush from spreading across your cheeks and you rub a hoof to your foreleg in embarrassment, suddenly bashful.

                                            >The seller smiles.

                                            >“That’s Star Tracker, one of our gentlest stallions - he’ll make a great companion pony for someone someday.”

                                            >The man turns back to face you and leans forward so that his elbows rest on the white fence between you two as he talks.

                                            >“Well I didn’t come here today for a companion. Y’have any other earth pony stallions who could pull a plow? Or have some sorta farming cutie mark?”

                                            >Funny how just a couple of words could crush you in an instant; your ears slowly lower and you back away from the fence, preparing to go nurse your hurt somewhere near the back of the pens.

                                            >You slink back into the mess of stallions who are left and drop yourself to the ground away from the front of the pen with a deep sigh.

                                            >Are you really doomed to be in hard labor for the rest of your life and not pampered as a beloved pet?

                                            >You wish you could write about it in your journal, but you haven’t had one since Equestria.

                                            >Oh well… You’ll allow yourself a big dramatic sulk tonight in the stables and maybe somepony will pity you enough to slip you a carrot or something. That might help you get over this guy and move on to reimagine your future master.

                                            >With your head resting on your crossed forelegs, you watch as the other stallions are assessed and sent on their way to their new home, presumably where they will work until their backs break and then be put down without a second thought.

                                            >‘Hey there, no need to get nasty,’ you remind yourself, but the negative thoughts keep coming anyways as the pen is drained of fellow ponies.

                                            >So it’s a surprise when the vendor approaches you from inside the fence.

                                            “Is it time to go in already?”

                                            >You yawn, standing up and stretching out your legs, shaking off your coat.

                                            >The vendor rolls his eyes and reaches down to affectionately muss up your blond mane, which you quickly stroke back into place with mild annoyance. He knows you like your mane a certain way.

                                            >“Come on, Tracker, the young man over there says he wants to buy you as well! Time to go.”

                                            >Oh Celestia, NO.

                                            >Y-you weren’t meant for farm work! You can’t pull a plow like some of the other guys here! Why does he want you too?

                                            >Your instinct is to dig in and refuse to move, but you know that isn’t how this all works.

                                            >With effort, you lift your hooves and force yourself into motion, slowly trotting towards the pen gate hoping maybe this was some sort of misunderstanding.

                                            >Unlike some ponies, you don’t need a rope around your neck to be led out of the pen and the vendor opens the gate wide for you with your new master waiting outside.

                                            >“He doesn’t get a rope?”

                                            >“Doesn’t need one. He’s tame as they come, I promise; he’ll listen.”

                                            >The man gives you a skeptical once over, but shrugs, uncrossing his arms to plant his signature on the final sale papers the vendor holds.

                                            >You stand close behind him, head churning with all kinds of anxieties about your new life.

                                            >There’s nothing to be done about it now, but that doesn’t stop you from worrying about it incessantly. You feel like your head is practically on fire.

                                            >Your new master almost bumps into you as he turns to leave and you leap back apologetically with an awkward type of bow.

                                            “S-sorry.”

                                            >“Come on boy, let’s head out.”

                                            >You look each way, confused.

                                            “Where are the other stallions?”

                                            >“Hm? Oh, they’re in the trailer. You don’t need to worry about them, they’ll be fine.”

                                            >He’s already walking away and you leap forward to keep up with his purposeful strides, trying to prevent yourself from asking more probably annoying questions.

                                            >But you can’t stop them all from coming out your muzzle.

                                            “Sooo why am I coming with you and not with the others?”

                                            >He smiles, but continues looking forward as you start to exit the tent where the auction pens are.

                                            >“You won’t be working with the others, so I thought you could ride in the truck with me.”

                                            >Oh?

                                            >Hope once again rises in your stomach and you perk your ears up, mood quickly improving.

                                            >He doesn’t… Seem like he’d be the kind of guy who’s into stallions, but you suppose you really can’t judge a book by its cover.

                                            >You trot beside him, close enough so that your side occasionally brushes against his moving leg and you drink in his scent, mentally preparing yourself to be devoted to him in the way he wants.

                                            >He smells like dirt, fresh pine shavings, and fresh leafy greens; overall, not a terrible way to smell.

                                            >You could get used to it.

                                            >After navigating the parking lot - goodness there were so many cars parked here that you never knew about! - the young man stops at a beat up looking truck with mud-splattered sides.

                                            >Noticing that you’re not able to open the door with your hooves, he quickly leans over and pulls the truck door open for you.

                                            >“Hop on in.”

                                            >You seem to have found yourself a gentleman and you smile, very pleased with yourself.

                                            >You scramble into the seat beside where your new master gets in as he puts the key in and adjusts the mirror.

                                            >“Strap in.”

                                            >Your tilt your head in question and he wordlessly points to the belt above your shoulder.

                                            >You try to grab it in your mouth, but fumble with it a bit; he leans over, his warm, strong arm reaches across your chest to grab the buckle and draw it across you.

                                            >A shiver runs down your spine at his touch, the thought of future nights spent together flying through your head.

                                            >The truck roars to life and you two are quickly on your way, pulling out of the lot and onto a country road.

                                            >“We’re not far,” he assures you, eyes on the road in front of him, “Just about 20 minutes away.”

                                            >The drive there is simultaneously eventful and uneventful.

                                            >The countryside you pass by is green as can be, the fields dotted with cattle and wild growing flowers. It smells heavenly and you cautiously poke your head out the half open window in order to take it all in.

                                            >The sun on your face, the wind in your mane, the smell of fresh grass - it’s pure delight for you and you can’t help but let out a whinny of excitement.

                                            >For the first time since he bought you the man steals a glance your way, a smile spread across his face.

                                            >You blush and bring your head back in the truck, stroking your mane back into place.

                                            >“You like that?”

                                            “Yes, Master! It smells amazing… So fresh!”

                                            >Another smile.

                                            >“I think you’re gonna settle in well at Heart and Soil, Star Tracker. Just don’t call me Master, okay? I think Sir is just fine.”

                                            “Sure thing, Sir.”

                                            >“I’m excited for you to meet Maggie - she’s gonna love you.”

                                            “Who’s Maggie?”

                                            >“That’ll be Miss Maggie to you, and she’s my little sister. The man that sold you said you were a real sweetheart and I know my sister will be so happy to finally have a pony of her own.”

                                            >Wait, what?

                                            >WHAT?

                                            “S-so I’m going to be her pony?”

                                            >“Mmhm. Better treat her right or I’ll tan your hide red. But we shouldn’t have any problems like that, right?”

                                            “Right,” you practically whisper, swallowing hard.

                                            >This is NOT what you had expected.


                                            >Be Star Tracker.

                                            >Your apprehension over meeting Maggie - err, Miss Maggie - dissolves as soon as you see her.

                                            >She’s a 15 year old girl with dark hair and messy bangs that are so long she has to tilt her head up to peer at you from out under them.

                                            >It takes just a glance to tell that she’s cripplingly shy, (her stooped shoulders make her look even smaller than she already is as if she’s trying to make herself nonexistent) but her brief smile at the sight of you is genuine as can be.

                                            >You immediately feel at ease.

                                            >It’s not the kind of work you were hoping for, but at least you aren’t going to be some sniffling child’s nanny; just the thought makes you shudder.

                                            >The question is… What ARE you going to do?

                                            >“Is he for me?”

                                            >The grin from Anonymous, who finally gave you his name as you two drove up the winding dirt driveway to Heart and Soil, spreads wide across his face.

                                            >“Well I figured if I was gettin’ some work ponies, I might as well get you a pet pony at the same time. Happy belated birthday, Magpie.”

                                            >Her eyes widen in silent disbelief for just a moment before she leaps forward and throws her skinny arms around her brother’s neck, emitting a high-pitched squeal of pure delight.

                                            >“Thank you, thank you, thank you!!!”

                                            >Anonymous hugs her back awkwardly, flustered now that he’s suddenly getting more attention than he’s probably used to.

                                            >“It was nothing. I know how long you’ve been wanting a pony.”

                                            >The young girl’s gaze now turns to you and her light eyes practically glow with excitement.

                                            >She approaches shyly, kneeling down in the dust in front of you and offering a hand as if you were some kind of dumb farm animal instead of a highly intelligent pony with empathetic capability.

                                            >Does she expect you to sniff her hand like a dog??

                                            >“H-hi.”

                                            >Suddenly you’re feeling unsure of yourself and how you should proceed with the introduction - affectionate? Formal? Like you would another pony?

                                            >You hadn’t planned on not being somepony’s bedcolt.

                                            >You decide to go with your gut and act as affectionately as you would have if you had been bought for bed duties, but in a less… er, overtly “friendly” way.

                                            “H-hi Miss Maggie!”

                                            >With an easy smile you close the gap between you two and nuzzle your fuzzy cheek against her upper arm, lifting a foreleg off the ground.

                                            “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Star Tracker!”

                                            >She giggles nervously and reaches across her body with the opposite arm to scratch at your forehead, fingers searching around until she hits the spot just behind your ear.

                                            >Ohhhhh sweet Celestia, that feels good!

                                            >Without thinking, you lower your eyelids and hum contentedly, pushing gently into her hand that moves from your head to under your chin where your head meets the neck.

                                            >Subconsciously, your hind leg starts to twitch, trying to scratch the most pleasant itch being formed at the top of your throat.

                                            >Maggie stops for a moment and you blink back at her in confusion; she giggles again, louder this time, clearly thrilled by your reaction.

                                            >“Anon, he’s so cute.”

                                            >“I’m glad you like him. The vendor said he was the friendliest of the bunch and I couldn’t just leave that sweet face behind.”

                                            >He adjusts the sun-faded baseball cap atop his head and looks over towards the acres of land that make up the farm, sighing softly.

                                            >“I need to turn off the irrigation in K5 and feed the boys before I come in for supper. Wash up and take dinner out of the oven will you? Should be just about done by now. Star Tracker, you can set the table.”

                                            >Maggie rises immediately and dusts off her knees, heading towards the house with a committal

                                            >“Mmhmm.”

                                            >She seems to be used to taking orders from her brother. Maybe these are regular chores for her?

                                            >You scramble to catch up with your new master (mistress?) as she holds open the white screen door to your new home.

                                            >“Don’t worry, Star, you can eat at the table with us.”


                                            >A month has passed since your arrival at Heart and Soil and it’s been...

                                            >Well, it’s been boring.

                                            >Maggie has class at school for most of the week so the majority of your time is spent alone, trying to find something useful to do in the house.

                                            >You feel like you’ve washed, folded, sorted, rewashed, and refolded every single piece of clothing in the entire household at least five times now.

                                            >Sure, you’re glad to be inside and not sweating, pulling the plows like most of the other stallions right now, but you need more of a purpose than tidying up a house that you have already tidied to perfection.

                                            >Not a single speck of dirt is out of place by this point.

                                            >If you were a bit more confident you might try your hoof at cooking, but you fear wasting any of the family budget on making bad food for your Master and Mistress.

                                            >Besides, Anonymous’ cooking is okay enough.

                                            >All he knows how to do is cut vegetables and throw them in a roasting pan with a hunk of meat, but at least he knows how to not overcook them to death.

                                            >The veggies at least; you don’t touch the meat, but you assume it’s suitable as well.

                                            >You flop across Maggie’s bed (you’ll remake it later, at least it will give you something to do) and blow at the flop of your mane that keeps falling into your eyes.

                                            >Surely this can’t be the rest of your life? Surely you were meant for more?

                                            >The sight of Anonymous through the weathered window pane catches your attention and you smile to yourself as he drags one of the rakes through the soft soil of the garden bed.

                                            >It strikes you as odd that he wants to be in on all the action of the farm. He apparently has enough money to buy at least 20 strong stallions to work for him and yet he’s outside with them all day, working just as hard as they are, taking care of the tasks better suited to human hands.

                                            >Maybe Anonymous even ENJOYS this kind of work.

                                            >The thought sends a shudder down your spine.

                                            >If that were you, you would be sitting on the porch chair with a tall glass of lemonade writing lists of what other ponies should do to take care of the farm.

                                            >Although you have to admit… It’s kind of attractive that your Master likes to work hard.

                                            >He’s out there right now, lifting the cap off his head to wipe away the sweat forming on his brow, resting an elbow on the bed rake while he takes a quick breather.

                                            >Your cock twitches at the sight of him like that - all dusty and damp and grinning that half grin while he shouts something to the stallions working on the next bed over - and you hold your breath, shifting your haunches uncomfortably to prevent yourself from dropping.

                                            >You wouldn’t dare let yourself think dirty thoughts about your Master while in Miss Maggie’s room, much less on her bed.

                                            >Lemonade.

                                            >Now there’s a better thought; something for you to do, plus an excuse to go outside and see Anonymous.

                                            >Maybe say hi to some of the other stallions - it’s been rare that you get to interact with them.

                                            >You wiggle off the bed and trot down the old wooden staircase before entering the large, open kitchen with its huge windows that bathe the whole room in warm sunshine.

                                            >The chipped white cupboards and coffee-stained countertops give the place a very cozy “shabby-chique” feeling and it almost reminds you of some of the Earth pony homes in Equestria.

                                            >The kitchen would probably be a chef pony’s dream come true, but with the house’s current residents it is sadly underutilized and neglected.

                                            >You almost feel bad for it.

                                            >Surely in the past somepony would have lovingly kneaded bread on the wood counter topped island or had multiple pots of boiling sauces bubbling on the old gas stove. It’s a nice mental image.

                                            >The thought once again enters your head that maybe you could be the somepony to start using the kitchen for real.

                                            >Hmm.

                                            >Maybe later you’ll ask if Miss Maggie could take you to the library in town that she’s mentioned a couple times so that you could take out a cookbook.

                                            >If your cooking is that bad you can chuck it in the compost and hopefully nopony will notice.

                                            >You open the fridge and pull out a couple hoof-fulls of lemons, carrying them over to the kitchen island before dumping them on the counter top.

                                            >A few minutes later you have a nice cold pitcher of lemonade sitting on the counter, with the droplets of condensation forming on the side starting to drip down.

                                            >You’ve already snuck a couple sips for yourself so you know it’s good - not too sweet, not too sour and definitely refreshing.

                                            >Carefully balancing a tray with the pitcher and some cups on it, you carry your treat outside, delicately stepping over the bumps and rocks in the dirt road.

                                            >Anonymous spots you leaving the house and gives a welcoming shout, abandoning the bed raking in favor of you.

                                            >He’s probably just interested in the cold lemonade on this hot day, but watching him drop everything to come to you still makes your heart beat a little faster.

                                            >“Hey Star Tracker, whatcha got there?”

                                            >You grin around the tray in your mouth and gently drop it into an open hoof now that you aren’t trotting.

                                            “I thought you might like some lemonade, sir! Made it myself.”

                                            >A delighted smile brightens Anonymous whole face as he tosses the rake aside and eagerly takes the pitcher and a cup.

                                            >He gulps down two glasses so quickly that a couple droplets find their way out of the cup and roll down his throat before soaking into his dusty old shirt collar.

                                            >You try not to stare, but can’t help a blush from coloring your cheeks.

                                            >It feels lewd for some reason you can’t explain.

                                            >With a satisfied sigh, Anonymous uses the back of his hand to wipe his mouth and calls to the other stallions.

                                            >“You boys want some lemonade?”

                                            >Ears pricked, the other stallions throw quick glances at each other to see if it would be appropriate to join, but it only takes one abandoning his work to get the others to follow suit.

                                            >Suddenly the center of attention and surrounded by sweaty stallions, you’re basking in the murmured praise from your fellow… pets? Slaves? Coworkers?

                                            >You aren’t sure what to call them.

                                            >The other stallions for now.

                                            >You try not to think too hard about how they must feel about you, what with you sleeping with the humans in a bed and eating human food at the table and all that.

                                            >You’re clearly above them in hierarchy, but this situation is made less awkward by their simple desire for a cold, sweet drink during the work day.

                                            >“Mighty fine, Star Tracker. Good boy.”

                                            >Your master’s hand ruffles your mane and you lean into his touch, heart rate increasing again as his short nails scratch at your scalp.

                                            >Oh Tartarus, you really need to give up the idea that you’re someone’s bedpony.

                                            >More specifically, HIS bedpony.

                                            >It’s just not happening.

                                            >The other stallions begin to disperse and return to their work, licking their lips for any stray lemonade drips and politely depositing the used cups back on your tray before turning tail.

                                            >One, however, sticks around.

                                            >“That was pretty good. You’re Star Tracker?”

                                            >You give him a once over: cream colored coat, freckled face like you, curly green mane parted to one side. His cutie mark is a couple of peeled nuts - pistachios, you think. He’s got a slighter frame than some of the others, but there’s lean, rippling muscle underneath that neatly kept coat of his that proves he’s just as strong as the other ponies here.

                                            “Thanks! And yeah, that’s me.”

                                            >He tips his head and offers a friendly smile, jade eyes gleaming.

                                            >“I haven’t seen you around much. Guess the maid pony doesn’t like getting his hooves dirty, huh?”

                                            >Maid pony?!

                                            “H-hey, I’m not a maid!”

                                            >The other stallion snickers, wiggling his eyebrows playfully.

                                            >“Oh really? Then what do you do inside all day instead of helping us take care of the fields?”

                                            >Your cheeks burn bright red as you try to splutter a response, but in fact, you can’t dispute the fact that so far you’ve just been a companion pet and house maid.

                                            >And frankly you’d rather be called a maid than a pet.

                                            >He rests a hoof on your shoulder.

                                            >“Don’t worry, I’m just grinding your gears a little bit.”

                                            “Oh, haha, yeah...”

                                            >You shake off, dispelling some of the awkwardness before smoothing out the flop of hair you’re using to hide half of your very embarrassed face.

                                            >Anon, along with the rest of the stallions, has started heading back to work.

                                            >“C’mon now, Pistachio, leave Tracker alone and get back to hoeing those radishes.”

                                            >Pistachio - you at least know his name now - gives you a wink and quickly trots over to Anonymous’ side, getting ready to return to his task.

                                            >You’re still feeling flustered, but you take a deep breath to steady yourself before grabbing the tray, empty pitcher, and used cups so you can bring it back into the kitchen.

                                            >For the rest of the evening, your master’s praise echoes pleasantly around the inside of your head and you remember that Maggie let you have one of her old notebooks to write in since you don’t have your journal anymore.

                                            >There’s a lot you want to put on paper, so you quickly excuse yourself from dinner to rush upstairs and curl up on Maggie’s bed, pencil in hoof.

                                            >You have a lot of journaling to do.


                                            (Still updating, just slowly.)