Manties in a Twist (The Subs Club Book 3) (33 page)

Ryan got out our bag.

It occurred to me that I really didn’t want the others to watch me getting ready. But they didn’t seem the least bit shy.

“What sort of accoutrements do you have?” Miles tried to peer into our bag as Ryan unzipped it.

Ryan pulled out our pieces of tack one by one and set them on the bench. “Harness. Bridle. Fuck-ton of ribbon. Just in case we need to get fancy.”

“That’s a nice plume,” Gould said, nodding at the bridle.

Ryan didn’t put me in cross ties, because I was the kind of awesome horse that could be trusted untethered. He started wiping me down with a rag. I felt a little embarrassed to be doing this in front of my friends, but whatever. I let Ryan put my harness on. Then the bridle, which we had covered with red pom balls and fitted with a large red plume on the browband. We left the bit off for now.

Miles nodded. “You look formidable.”

Ryan tapped my left leg. “Up.”

I kicked off my sandals and watched him as he put my furry boots on. “Do you have any snacks? Like a carrot or anything? Or J-Ranchers?”

He straightened. “I will get you food in a minute.”

I rested my chin on his shoulder. “I love you. Really a lot.”

“Awww.” Dave made a face. “You guys are nauseating, but it’s nice.”

I smiled at him, my chin still on Ryan’s shoulder. Ryan rubbed my head. Kissed my jaw. “You’re gonna be amazing.”

He put my hooves on. Then he gave me five Jolly Ranchers. I ate them all at the same time to create a rainbow of flavor in my mouth.

“You guys should probably leave for the tail,” I told the others. “Unless you want to see me pop a huge boner.”

“Oh
shit
.” Ryan had reached into the bag and frozen.

“What?” I demanded.

“Ummm . . .” He slowly pulled out my tail.

Or what was left of it.

The butt plug was covered in tooth marks, and the tail was a tangled, wet blob of synthetic horsehair. I gaped. “What the . . .?”

“The dog must have chewed it.”

“Collingsworth! How did you not notice it was messed up?”

“I don’t know! I was in a hurry this morning because
someone
was taking forever in the shower. I threw it in the bag without looking.”

“The dog butler has ruined my tail!”

Dave was trying not to laugh. “Dude, Kamen, that is
nasty
.”

I started to panic. “I can’t compete!”

Ryan gave me a
come on
look. “It’s not the end of the world.”

“The whole purpose of a Friesian is the tail!”

D stepped forward. Gazed at me with those sharp, serious blue eyes, and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Son, the purpose of a Friesian is
war
. Now put on your mane and prepare for battle.” He grabbed the Slash wig from the bag and handed it to me.

I took it. Tipped it forward so the mess of black hair spilled toward the ground, then flung it back over my head. Ryan had to fish the plume out from under the hair.

My friends all nodded.

“You look like a stallion,” Gould said.

“Wait,” Ryan said. “We could maybe take a section of the wig and fasten it to a different butt plug?” He turned to Dave. “Can it be done? Can we make a tail without ruining the mane?”

Dave hissed. “It’s risky. But it just might work.”

One of the grooms stopped by our stall. “Everything okay?”

“My tail’s ruined,” I told her. “Now I don’t feel like a Friesian.”

Ryan held it up.

“Oh dear!” the groom said cheerfully. “Well, you’re still a very handsome pony. Do you need any water or anything?”

We shook our heads, and the groom moved on.

“Quick!” Dave took my mane off. “We don’t have much time.”

We actually still had like forty-five minutes.

Dave took a deep breath. Handed the mane to Ryan. “Hold on to this. I need to go to the car and get my emergency hairspray and shears.”

“I’ll come all over your hairspray and shears!” I called as he walked away. The pony in the next stall looked over at me.

“What the hell?” Ryan asked.

“It’s our come-on-two-objects game,” I explained. He just shook his head.

The others went off to get pretzels. Once they were gone, Ryan gave it to me straight. “All we have with us is a prostate plug.”

“Use it. Use the prostate thing.”

“You sure? I know you’re really, uh . . . sensitive.”

“I can handle it. Plus it makes me prance.”

“Can you promise me you won’t come?” He looked at my Pegasus Sheath. “Do we need to, like, use a dick ring? Do you want to jerk off first? What?”

“Ry,” I said gently. “I told you, I can handle it. Trust Thunder Canyon.”

“I do trust you.”

I nuzzled his forehead. “This is some serious Black Stallion shit right here.”

“I know. We have a bond that can never be broken.”

Just then, there was a clanking outside our stall. I turned to see Cinnamon prancing by, being long reined by Stan, her handler. Her bridle fucking
gleamed
; her plume was real sparkly; and her reins were studded with red jewels. She lifted each leg high and went along at a perfect, unhurried gait, her wrists crossed behind her back. Her brown boots were so shiny they looked liquid, and her long chestnut tail flowed almost to the ground.

She gave me a head toss as she passed.

I turned to Ryan, panicking again. “Her harness is made of rubies.”

“Those are rhinestones. That’s all she is—a plastic jewel. You’re the real thing.”

I wished I could believe him.

He took some scissors out of our bag.

I gasped. “You’re going to cut without Dave?”

He nodded. “You told me how long Dave takes to style hair. We don’t have that kind of time.”

“Why does everyone keep saying we don’t have any time? We seriously have almost an hour.”

“Shh.” He cut a section off the wig, then tossed the wig aside. Wound one end of the rope of black hair around the base of the plug, tying it tightly and securing it with rubber bands. He used ribbon to hide the rubber bands and the knot, then he braided what was left of the tail.

“You ready?” he asked as he lubed the curved plug.

I nodded and spread my legs. A second later, the prostate plug touched my hole. I groaned as Ryan pushed it inside me. I could feel the scraggly tail brush the back of my leather pants.

“That okay?” Ryan asked.

I tried to take a step forward. Stopped when the plug rubbed that magic spot. “Oh,
fuck
.”

“Kamen . . .”

“I’m fine,” I managed. “How’s it look?”

“Um . . . a little . . . weird. But it’ll work.”

I tried to take a step. “Oh. Oh, it’s very stimulating.”

“Scale of one to ten, how likely are you to come if you walk around with that in?”

“Eight point five.”

“I can live with that.”

I shifted. “My balls are a little cold.”

“You just had to wear the Pegasus Sheath. Your junk could be all tucked away right now . . .”

“I’m a stallion. I have no regrets.”

He laughed and put on my wig. Brushed it out. “Come on, you. Let’s go meet and greet.”

For the meet ’n’ greet, everyone gathered in the main room of the lodge—dogs, cats, ponies, and even a ferret. Several of the dogs were straining to get at the cats and ferret.

There were snacks for the handlers, and paper bowls handlers could fill with dry cereal, pretzels, fruit, and vegetables for the pets.

Cindy Thompson, director of PetPlayFest, stood at the front of the room and introduced herself and her pup Francie. She looked around. “We’re still a couple of participants short, but we’ll go ahead and get started.” She went around the room and had everyone introduce themselves. Pets had the option of giving their own introductions or having their handlers do it for them.

Ryan glanced at me. “You wanna talk?”

I shook my head.

“I’m Ryan,” he said when it was our turn. “This is my horse, Thunder Canyon. He’s a seven-year-old Friesian stallion. I’ve only been his handler for about a month. He’s pretty much a genius.”

There was a chorus of general approval and nice-to-meet-yous. And a lot of staring at my sheath.

The handler with the two ponies went next. The ponies were named Taylor and Bridget, and even though both of them were quiet while they were introduced, Taylor looked anxious and awkward, but Bridget stood proud and confident, shaking her mane on occasion or pawing with one hoof. Her harness was decorated with jingle bells.

After Cindy went over the agenda and general safety guidelines for the day, she led the animals to a paddock outside for supervised playtime, while handlers, owners, and trainers stayed in the lodge to chat. Cindy went over the playtime rules in detail, and also made it clear that while critters could choose to remain in animal mode, this was a good opportunity for us to break character and talk to one another. Pets new to the scene could get advice from more experienced players, and everyone had a safe place to talk about the day’s events—hopes, expectations, and fears. There were smaller enclosures for pets who needed to be kept with their own species—pups who didn’t get along with cats, for instance. I went into the main paddock.

There were three official PetPlayFest handlers standing at the gate, keeping an eye on us. Cinnamon was at the far end of the paddock. Glazer was getting pretty real with a fence post. Scribbles, the ferret, was playing with what looked like a giant ball of rubber bands and fishing wire. I wandered around, feeling weird that I was on two legs and almost all the other pets were on four. Eventually I got down on my hands and knees and headed toward the other ponies, wishing Ryan would come and get me out of here so we could start crushing Cinnamon.

Suddenly, I heard a “Psst!”

I looked around. Glazer was waddling toward me. I took a wary step back.

“Don’t worry, I’m not here to hump you.” His voice was low. “I’m here to discuss Cinnamon.”

“Cinnamon?”

“Cinnamon,” a new voice confirmed. A floppy-eared female pup named Max appeared. “Biggest bitch ever.”

I couldn’t say I disagreed.

I followed Max’s gaze to the end of the paddock, where Cinnamon was tossing her head and stamping the ground.

“She won every fucking event she entered last year,” Glazer muttered. “And believe me, she’s not humble about it—as a human or a pony.”

“Well,” Max said. “She almost lost grooming, because there was a baby bunny in the ring—a real one—and she thought it was a rat.”

“Oh God,” Glazer said. “She
hates
rats. If only we could set one loose today . . .”

“Hold on,” Max said. “We need Scribbles here for the planning.”

She barked twice, loudly. A moment later, the ferret ran over, batting his rubber-band ball in front of him.

“We’re talking Operation Hot Tamale,” Max told him. “Put down your stress ball and listen.”

Scribbles chased the ball in a circle, then flopped over on his back and looked up at us. “What’s the plan?”

Glazer glanced at me. “You in?”

“Uh . . . in what?”

“We’re gonna make sure Cinnamon doesn’t win.”

I was intrigued. “How are you gonna do that?”

“By making sure one of us wins every event she’s entered in.” Glazer coughed. “I’m not worried about dressage. There’s a new pony, Holly, who’s way better than Cinnamon.”

“I’m also in dressage,” I said. “I could beat her there.”

They all looked me up and down, but didn’t say anything.

Max cleared her throat. “So we’ll count on Holly to take dressage. That just leaves grooming, which Cinnamon’s a shoo-in for, so we’ll cut our losses there. But the cart race and the balloon pop . . . that’s where we could really use your help.”

“Mrrriyyooouuuuu!” The high-pitched cry startled us all.

I looked up. “What the hell was that?”

“Mittens.” Max was staring in the direction of the sound.

A tiny cat was pacing the fence. She wore a white spandex suit with a white fluffy tail and little leather ears. Her face was painted white, and her nose was pink, and she had very realistic whiskers attached to her cheeks. “Mrrriiiyouuu,” she cried. “Meeeyeeeewww.”

“That cat doesn’t sound like a cat at all,” I said.

“I know.” Glazer nodded. “But this is a judgment-free zone. So whatever sound a critter makes, hey, we’re cool with it. I mean, Scribbles here—do your ferret noise.”

Scribbles made an ungodly sound.

“Mrrriiiiyouyouyouuuu,” Mittens wailed back.

Max rolled her eyes. “Fucking Mittens.”

“She was here last year,” Scribbles explained to me. “Never did anything much but roll around on the ground and make noise. She’s a delicate little flower.”

Glazer barked loudly, but Mittens ignored it. “Anyway, we’ll reconvene during the lunch break. We have some plans for making sure Cinnamon doesn’t win the balloon pop. You think you can win the cart race, Thunder?”

I nodded. “I know I can.”

“Good.”

An old pup with the muzzle of his hood painted gray limped over to us. Max yipped. “Excellent! Barkley’s here.”

“What’s up?” Barkley asked in a hoarse voice.

“Operation Hot Tamale,” Glazer said.