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“Not Me, but for Eric, why not!”

Eric, age 19, a high school graduate that summer, he asked his parents to allow him to do the dare his father did when he graduated high school, and let him hike the back roads. They reminded Jeff that times had changed since the 1960 era when his father graduated and did his fling of fun times. A determined youth finally won the argument and a few days later, he with backpack and hiking boots set off on his trek.

Mister athlete in school, Eric tried and succeeded at every sport type the school offered, making him of body as one strong enough to weather the elements. Yet, it was not the elements of nature his mother felt worry for her son, as he was not always wise to the wily ways of people. She told him to be wary of anything freely offered, and of him doing what his father boasted of so often, as on his hike across the Midwest he met many a fair maiden.

I know of what happened with Eric as he and I planned to walk together, friends out for fun and finding what the world had to offer two young men. That June was the hottest on record, daytime temperatures reaching into the high nineties, and at night, the dampness getting into socks and underwear making us stink. Our stink made us targets for insects, as they swarmed about, landing on necks, arms, faces and flying into ears and our eyes until after six days we had both had enough of the great out-of-doors!

Some cool times bathing in roadside streams helped with coping the high temperatures, but the bugs drove us insane!

As for at night, we had with us our sleeping bags but the nighttime temperature and humidity had us sleeping on them rather than inside them. The practice of sleeping outside a building made us as targets for the bloodsucking types of insects, waking in the mornings to swallow lumps, itchy, and nothing along with us to cope as medicating, other than smearing on soap.

Day nine, and as we walked and scratched, I need take the blame for seeing a true back-road off the side-road we had walked along for two days of seeing nothing interesting.

“Old Pony Road,” the road sign read!

Actually, the road looked more like a logging trail. It being but two narrow dirt furrows surrounded by tall weeds, yet, it offered a change of menu as it looked interesting. We turned to the left and began walking along side the gravel, but more traveled back road. The trail slid away slowly into the trees, then up a long rise to top a hill where we stopped and stood gawking, seeing the winding trail go down hill and begin following around a lake.

A quiet blue lake with just a very few old cottages built near the shoreline. We walked the trail, which never got better or worse, but remained a twin furrowed and sandy road to somewhere. Eric made note of occasional dried lumps of horse manure, but not a sign ever did we see a tire track. I checked the cottages as we walked the road, and found them as little more than abandoned shacks. Although the shack doors stood as all locked tightly shut, and the windows in their sashes, I found none as broken. However, some of the window glass had the look as if recently repaired, but nary a sign of life. As we traversed onward, it was Eric who made verbal note the insects had evaded us, going elsewhere to bother others.

Bug-free, we regained some of our original exuberance, though tired feet and weary our backs from the packs, the walk then along the lake offered us a time of cooler air. Walking around the lake, we came to seeing pastures and fences, inside the fences the grasses were as grazed to nub blades of green. A mile more and we came to see a small white house, a white barn, one aged silo, and a live looking woman sitting in a rocking chair on her front porch.

We haled her greetings and turned off the trail road to start walking the sandy drive toward the house, when the woman stood up out of her chair and beckoned we come no closer.

“State your business,” the woman yelled, “Or leave here and walk on, I want no peddlers, bums, or tramps that steal!”

Eric yelled back at the woman, he telling her we were but recent high school graduates on a fun hike along the back roads to gain more education.

His words and reasoning sounded good to me, if but a bit far from anything educating, out trekking cost us for food, as we knew nothing about living off the land. The woman and her barn offered us a night inside and away from the biting bugs. We stood and watched, as the woman watched us, as minutes passed we all were waiting for the other to suggest something.

Then the woman broke the silence and she waving her hand for us to come closer, she said, “You must speak the truth, no bums would have stayed or stood waiting, they get the same attitude wherever they go.”

As walked toward her the woman spun around and entered her house, was still inside when we walked up to and stepped on the front porch.

Moments later the woman exited the house, coming to visit with us she had a tray carrying a glass pitcher full of lemonade, and three glasses. The dense shade of a large Maple tree growing to one side the house and porch aided us a cooler lake breeze. A refreshing time then of conversing, she asking us questions, and we like young fools telling her all about what we were and of our being far from home.

The “Far from Home,” statement made the woman light up with a smile. She then told of her husband, he deceased some years hence, was a lover of ponies, hence the name of the road we had walked. She said they came there and built the farm in 1939. They made a go of the farm, as breeding and selling their champion ponies at county and state fairs.

“Those are days and times which are but a memory of what was, as what is, is of different, more austere times. What I have a need of a horse to pull my carriage, my old stud died during the winter months. I have seven pony mares! The mares are in estrus having need of a stud to quell their urges. The farm, the barn mostly is in need of some repairs, if you wanted to help me, I would offer payment for work done!”

She was beguiling in her ways and we agreed to stay on there and help her for a week.

My two years of shop class had me fixing the barn stalls, boards broken I replaced and nailed tightly into proper alignment.

Eric went to work doing other manual labor, he cleaning stalls before I came to work and repairing them. I watched as the nice woman showed Eric the fined points of fence repairing, of barbwire dangers, how to use a hammer to twist-wind-stretch the wire, using another hammer then to nail snug a staple into a wood fencepost.

Early and tired to bed as early to rise with sun up, we began our chores, working hard and making the barn and property there as a place of tidy beauty. The Thursday then is when she, oh our host being Misses Hazel Smyth, she told of the week following and of a carnival-fair at a nearby town, suggesting we might find it interesting or fun. As she gave me work of repairing the shelving in her root cellar, she asked Eric to go with her and help clean up the carriage harness.

I worked diligently in the dimly lit root cellar, sawing wood to nail in new shelves, thinking only of my work and leaving Eric to do his. Hours passed, and when my job looked to me as finished and done well, I came up and stood outside. I took a seat under the Maple tree and leaning back, relaxed, closed my eyes, fell asleep to awake seeing it as dark of night.

Looking around, the house usually lit, was dark, only the barn security light beamed its orange glow in ominous silence. “Eric,” I called for my friend as where he might be, but I heard no answer. I stood up, and doing so my boot touched as clanked a glass of some drink left there by a sleeping man. Thirsty, I picked up the glass and chugged the drink, it warm but wet.

I walked to the house, the front porch and tried the doorknob, finding it locked. I walked then to around behind the house and found the backdoor as locked securely. The doors to the root cellar were latch-locked from the inside, it being another entrance into the house through the basement. Bewildered and getting worried as to what was seemingly so very wrong, when I heard a cough from inside the barn I ran there.

Entering the open barn door, it left open for better venting the air for the mare in their stalls, I called out saying, “Eric, you in here?”
Another cough and a long moaning sound made me wonder if Eric had fallen or was injured, he there in the dark barn and me without even a flashlight. The house had electricity but not so the barn. As during the daytime, the barn windows lit the place well enough to work our chores. Cautiously I walked where I knew were the barn aisles and where we had moved or stored away the farm implements lying about, what would make for major injury if tripped on or fallen on.

“Eric,” I said again, this time saying his name as if a question to what I heard was he and not something else making the moans.

Walking slowly along the storage side aisle of the barn where Misses Smyth had her carriage as she called it, it being more a sulky with two bench seats, enough for four riders. In the dark I felt a sulky shaft graze along my leg, as finding and hand feeling of the tall wheel, I heard another moan, this closer to where I stood.

“Eric, are you in here?” I said, saying it softly as not to let anyone outside here me. I felt as if close to finding what I heard, not that might or could see it in the black darkness there in the barn. Just then the breeze outside the barn intensified, the wind changed directions, blowing from behind the barn, the night sky clouds shifting, and the moon then offered a dim blue luster to anything light colored or shiny.

Then, a moan and what with some imagination the slurred words said of an “Oh God!”

“Eric,” I said again, saying it softly, but louder, as me then being close to that something strange, I felt worried.

Two stride steps more and standing in the open passage to the saddle and harness storage closet stood Eric, he bound hands and feet, striped naked, having a horse halter snug fitted to his head and suspended from off the floor, hung there helpless. Bad as all that, Eric was not then the pink-skinned friend I remembered showering with at school gym class. His skin where not having a silvery sheen of grown hair looked as if much darker its hue. He seeing me did struggle to free his hands, they bound together with plastic binding straps, he suspended by a rope attached to the halter and another rope to his wrists.

He looked more muscular than I ever remembered, his face quite different, as if his nose and upper lip had swelled, seemingly growing into making a muzzle. As he hung there, a red ball stuffed into his mouth kept his speaking to moans and muddled words of greetings.

“What happened to you, how did…” I remember as said, and as from behind me came a burlap sack down over my head, followed by a harsh slap from a scoop shovel to knock me senseless. Fallen, I felt my hands as being bound, then my ankles, as the draw-strings of the sack snuggled it tight down over my head. Strong arms then dragged me from where was Eric, taking me to where I heard opened a wood door, as then maneuvered, I was kick shoved down inside a hole in the barn floor.
“Thud,” I remember that dull sound of my head striking the ground first and with a moan from me the trap door above as then slammed shut. I laid there for a long while, unable to move, not knowing truly to where I lay. I could hear Eric, his squealing cries, tortured and feeling great pain.

I never had such a long night, having to listen to Eric scream until his cries sounded like those of an injured animal. I heard the mares standing in their stalls, of nervous hoofs stomping on the upper floor. As I laid there listening my head ached and wrists hurt from the straps binding them, but I too felt sickly, nauseous my stomach from the drink I drank on an empty stomach.

My head bagged, I began top yell, as saying then “Eric,” I yelling his name from below got me a strange reprimand. I heard the trap door open, and from above came pouring down on me a bucket worth of warm liquid that stank bad!

Then I heard Misses Smyth say to me, “Enjoy it!” As she said and slammed shut the trap door, she left me to wallowing, soaking in the stinking warmth. Whatever it was my eyes burned, nose tweaked, and hands felt oily. I struggled using the greasiness of the liquid to free my hands and them when loose; I unbound my ankles to stand up. Able to move but in total darkness, I groped about not knowing if there was another way out of where I felt trapped.

Fumbling with the burlap sack tie-strings, I found the knot tied as excellently done, making the sack as something permanently blocking my seeing. Staggering about in the dark had me tripping and falling, as what doused me caused continued discomfort to the nose, mouth, and my skin.

Then I heard a horrid cry come from Eric, his scream from pain changing, as was he, the sound becoming a whinnied cry as for help. “Eric,” I yelled, and he answered as best he could or knew how, did whinny, snorting, and continued to whinny several times more.

That stopped and all became as silence. I awoke from where I sat with my head bagged, as Misses Smyth kicked me awake, asking me to stand up, and let her lead me upstairs.

She took a rope and noosed it about my neck, leading me to as up a stairs, I stomping up each step, was worried for Eric, but scared more for me.

When we topped the stair and I felt the cool lake breeze blowing through the barn, I made a dash to run, but ran face and head into the barn wall. Slammed and knocked to sitting on the barn floor, Misses Smyth came to my aid and helped me to standing upright. She worked quickly to re-strap binding my wrists together. As I stood there feeling helpless I began to feel humiliated when she started to undress me of my soiled clothing.

“No,” I said as I tried to struggle, but she was not knew to keeping men captive and with a few quick moves she had me pinned to the barn floor and waiting for me to say “Uncle!”
A snort and whinny bade me stop struggling, as she helped me up, was strong, stronger than I would have expected of a woman her age. A snip then of a scissors to the sack ties and I was able to see what she wanted me to see.

I staggered away from where were piled my clothing, hands bound, the noosed rope on my neck, she lead me to see Eric. As I stood naked, looked at what became of Eric, he in a kneeling on all fours, his head that of a silvery horse, his shoulders human but covered over with that same glistening pelt. As he stood on all fours, his fingers and toes changed to hoofs, he swished his horsetail, and turned his head to look at me.

The head halter by then set smartly on his head and face, he having blinders added to direct his attention to where he would be going. A carriage harness hung loosely on and over him, he not grown or changed enough to help it to find a proper fitting.

Oddly, his manners suggested my friend was of liking his new self and the likely lifestyle he would have as when a horse. Still his hind parts were not those of a horse. It was then Misses Smyth said, “Your friend Eric, he did his work well and as payment, I plan to let him be my carriage horse, the farm stud to the mares. When after he has mated them all, I shall allow the return of his memories, letting him use his knowledge to govern him as a reminder of what was!”

“What are you?” I asked of Misses Smyth, she standing there, holding a rope rein on naked me, and I seeing Eric felt an aroused urge.

As my breathing became rapid, I gawk then to look at Eric who too, was feeling the same urge, he sporting a massive penis, an equine cock if ever I saw one.

Misses Smyth tugged on the noosed rope as she with her other gloved hand took a firm grasp to my extended as erect penis, holding me as she towed me away from being near Eric. “Come…,” She said as I had to follow, leading me to a stall with a door, she pushed me inside and slid shut the strong wooden door.

“There, you stay in there until tonight. Come midnight, like then as what happened to Eric, it is with a full moon the spirits come and heed my desired will. I have payments for the both of you!” She said, as stood there almost expecting me to ask her a question, but my looking at my self, my penis, its length, morbid shaped head, where it protruded from a sheath attached to my belly, told me all I needed.

Smug, Misses Smyth stood there expecting, as when I failed to ask, she had to tell me what she planned as my payment. As she said, “You did so well, your woodworking, you fixed the house and barn well enough. You did good work and for this, I thought to give you a lifetime of ease and fun a male usually likes. I have a man friend who owns a farm, he is need of a good bull to keep the milk there flowing, you I think after tonight would make an excellent Jersey bull!”

Stunned at the thought and not sure what Jersey bull looked like, my mind felt unsure whether I would learn to appreciate cows rather than women as mates.

“You awoke and feeling warm, did well to drink the potion I set next to you as you slept.

You I doused with a mixture of cow urine and potion while in the slurry hole. That tainted your skin, beginning its changing of hue, and spurring the growth of bull hairs. As you begin to change, note your maleness, the testicles, as they swell, gaining and giving waves of testosterone the volume to drive you sexually insane. When midnight and then come the morning, when you are as is a bull, after a few days of rut and mating, your idea of females should like cows as the better.”

She walked out from the barn, she whistling a merry tune, seemed happy top have two young men doomed soon to living their lives, as would male animals. I milled about in the stall until I felt sure she was not watching. I made use of toes stiffening, soon to become as cloven hooves of my bull self. I saw as skin changed color, and bull fur grew out the changed skin, feeling of it made me swoon, get an erection and feel lust like does a beast.

Bestiality, the lust to want relation with animals, but I knew I was different, becoming an animal as well. The want to feel the rich sexual sensations of a bull mating a cow began urging me to like what she wanted be to become. I tried hard to fight the onslaught of dire urges, masturbating my bullish male member until I shot streams of semen across the stall, it splattering on the wall, running in trailing streams to the straw covered floor.

Seven, no nine time I shot loads, feeling my balls swelling, the semen refilling faster, and the return of the undeniable feelings of lust, I knew it all would make me an animal sooner than at midnight. I might have succumb to the being a beast, a bull, liking the being an animal, if not for a pickup truck arriving there by the house, it captured my attention.

A man climbed out from the truck, he then met by Misses Smith, they kissed and hugged, he giving a quick gaze look toward the barn before she escorted him inside her house.

I knew the man was to be then my owner, me his bull sex slave to mate with his cows and keep the calves falling and teats full of milk.

My nose sniffed and the scent of cow fluttered up my nostrils.

My erection jutted out the by then furry sheath, the pointed end to my penis being bovine its shape, the circumcision from birth a thing gone. My furry hands gripped the extending as expanding bull cock, about to start stroking of it, I stopped, thought, and let go of the cock flesh.

“Eric,” I yelled, well slurring the word did try to yell. He failed to answer, but I knew if by smell he was there, nearby, his urine scent something then that turned me on, thinking his smelled as sweet compared to mine.

With hardened toes, I did climb the wood plank wall, boosting me to fall over the top plank to the barn floor with a horrendous thud.

Sauntering my manner of walking, my feet tending to have me walk on toes with heels held high, legs in a crouch, waiting for when the demon spirits arrived and made me walk on all fours as my natural mode of locomotion.

Coming to where by then she had him in a stall closest to the barn door, what I saw was nothing to remind me of him, as there stood a silvery gray and dappled black his rump a plow-horse. He stood calm and not looking at me, the harness on him as by then fitting him well enough for him to haul the sulky to the fair.

As I struggled to form his name through thickening lips and a tongue gaining of size to be that of a bull, I sauntered toward him with plans to pet his strong neck.

My friend reacted, as might a horse feeling its personal territory as violated by an unwanted animal. He swung his massive rump toward me and lashed a hind leg kick to move me to a distance from him. “Eric,” I thought I said, but he failed to acknowledge what I said, he his mind gone, memories confused. As what she said of Eric, he after mating the mares would get by her powers his memories back, knowing of whom he was and of what he became as had done, the humility of it keeping him willing and doing what comes naturally for a stallion.

As I backed away from my lost friend, I saw such the sight of his cock head. The thought of Eric as a stallion draft horse and mating with those pony mares, though they were as Welsh ponies, his size penis in them, it had to hurt!

Something in me said run, run the way you came, head toward home, and I did just that. A scurried run of partially changed and changing feet, I ran staggered, fell, got up and ran more. I was away, and the air though hot held no essence of cow or horse, I breathed freely.

We had walked away from home some many days, and I felt lost, it took me a month before I arrived home and without Eric. My story was we split after an argument, he going his way and happily so!

That month of time away and of self allowed the potion to wear thin as well its affects. I came home clothed but different, a mother knows her son, and she seeing me she asked me to go see the family doctor. When I did get an appointment and he checking me thoroughly, had me standing mostly naked, my body furrier than most people. He measured my then uncircumcised penis, as from the pointy-head to where it entered my sheath. His eyes asked the questions as of how this happened.

Checking, the Doc found my horn buds decreasing their size. My ears regained human form, though my head hair had the dark brown color of Jersey bull fur, the Doctor making a note. My tail had grown and fallen off the same day while walking homeward. My toes remained as they became being cloven hooves, feet long as narrow, heels more like hocks, and the disgusting anus, mine was that like would a Jersey bull have to use to crap. I stood there changed and a thousand questions, few of any could I answer, or give believable answers as why or how.

Although I never did return to that farm, I wanted to visit Eric, but feared the scents reminding would trap me there as is a bull and licking of as smelling cow rumps to mate with is not my preferred fare!

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