Del saw her in the ring, tall, slender, narrow hipped. Her mane of blonde hair was thick and long — he had never seen hair so thick, so blonde. Blonde eyebrows he knew, he couldn't see them from this distance. A profile like no other.

Benjamin was directing her gait. Benjamin's crop helped her keep her spine straight, shoulders back, just a touch of the crop, not a stroke to remind her. At least not now.

He heard a sniffle behind him, turned and went to his charge, hobbled, a damn paint. He wondered why the Colonel always gave him goddamn paints. More trouble than they were worth.

Penny's front hooves were in the hobble, an iron shackle with a center ring. Her collar was held in the ring, chin an inch from her thumbs.

He turned, watched the one in the pen, Benjamin's charge, Misty. The blonde one. He shook his head. Not a goddamned paint.

He prodded Penny with his boot. "Think you can do it now?"

She whinnied. Her tail swished, stroking the back of her thighs.

Why couldn't she be blonde?

He knelt and unlocked the shackle from her wrists, leaving it attached to her neck.

Spontaneous. For some reason the word spontaneous popped in his mind. So he did spontaneous.

"Stand." He rose, stepped back.

Penny as almost as tall as him. Not slender like Misty. Not a blonde dream like Misty.

She tottered back on her heels, the iron shackle jangled from her neck. She faced straight ahead, didn't look at him.

"Step," he said.

She moved her right foot forward.

"Step."

Her left foot came even with her right foot.

"Step." She was doing it all wrong. Bad conformation. Sliding her feet instead of stepping. She leaned forward.

"Step."

Her skin was red where it wasn't covered by the geometric cross hatches of thick black paint. Across her face.

"Step."

Across her body, breasts, tummy, at least that was flat, ass, legs, fingers.

"Step."

All wrong.

"You're doing it all wrong. Look over there. Watch the blonde."

Aw come on, for chrissakes. He took her arms and swiveled her upper body until her legs moved. Her arms were surprisingly slender. He let go. "Watch her, dammit, and learn something."

A tear slowly dripped down her cheek. She squeezed her eyes shut, opened them.

He watched Misty. Benjamin was always quick with the bridle. Misty looked good but he wondered if Benjamin wasn't making a mistake being so quick. Looking good was not important in the long run. He wanted more than looking good which was maybe why the Colonel gave him the paints.

The triangle rang out in from the bunkhouse. Cookie had lunch ready. The noise in the yard changed as the hands got their charges ready. Benjamin led Misty back to the stable. He saw Misty butt Benjamin's back playfully, didn't bother looking around to see if the Colonel saw.

He had more important concerns right now. He took a shackle and led Penny to the corral, told her to stay and went to his kit, the painted wood box by the stable door. He could hear the hands and their charges inside. He rummaged, found the bottle of sunblock and carried it back.

She swayed stiffly as he covered her with the lotion. He didn't say a word; she didn't whinny, fine by him, damn paint. He set the bottle in the dust by his feet, led her by the shackle to the post.

"Kneel," he said.

She'd done this so many times, he didn't need to adjust her position. She'd worn two depressions in the ground where her knees went. He pressed her forward so her chest touched the post, chin on top. He wrapped her arms around the post and the crosspiece and shackled them, left hoof by her right breast, right hoof by her left breast.

He flexed her fingers out so he could check them. Her hooves needed to be painted; they were cracking in the dry dust. He didn't know which was worse, mud or dust.

He gave her shoulder a pat and left her. He was hungry, he couldn't wait to get out of the hot sun, sit down and eat.

He never looked out the bunkhouse window to check on his paints at lunchtime. What happened to them wasn't his concern. Sometimes he heard one of his paints cry out. That's what happened to paints.

He used his biscuit to sop gravy on the plate while he organized his mind. He flipped open the memo book and set down the biscuit. He wasn't sure how many rings he wanted when he set up a place of his own. Next year maybe. He might have enough money then. He wasn't planning on hiring extra help; he didn't know anyone who'd do a proper job.

Two rings maybe. A corral. A stable. Close to the house. He might have enough to only be able to build the stable first, that and the corral. He could live in the stable. Two stalls, tack room, place for feed and the carts. Maybe a second floor for an office and apartment.

He had a piece of land already picked out, not near here. Not near the city. The Colonel had them coming from all over. England, Argentina. All over. Maybe he should learn Spanish, enough for him to get by.

Marge never truly understood his dream. A place of their own. When he finished a job it would be he, not the Colonel, who got the check, the bonus, and the appreciation.

He closed his memo book. He remembered how happy the customer was last year after that particularly long and drawn out job. That was Loosa. He couldn't believe it when they called him over, showed him his new charge when she first came in. Loosa had paint written all over her. Six months later a complete change had taken place. He hadn't broken her in; he'd transformed her. The tip for that one went straight to the bank and he was a step closer to his dream.

He heard the crunch of tires outside the bunkhouse. The Colonel and his little zip buggy. Goddamn thing was electric so you couldn't hear it until the Colonel was right on top of you.

If he were the Colonel he'd use a cart. Get them started right away. Use them for godsakes. They needed to be doing more than just running circles in the rings.

He checked his watch. Almost time. The Colonel didn't come in here which meant the Colonel got distracted. He heard Penny scream.

Oh well. She wouldn't be good for much until later.

He left the bunkhouse and sure as shooting there was the Colonel and a couple of the hands trying out the paint. He kept in the shade, leaned against the wall and waited. What he wanted to see was Misty, not a goddamned paint getting her ass reamed. He could see Penny's tail in the dust by their feet.

He'd do things differently. Not that the Colonel ran a slack operation. It was tight. But . . . He dug in his jeans pocket for a packet of gum. When he got home sometimes all he wanted to do was open a six pack, put his feet up in front of the TV and be mindless like nothing mattered, not Marge's chattering in the kitchen, not goddamned paints.

That's right Benjamin. Misty's not enough for you; you have to fuck the paint's face.

He couldn't watch any more. He walked over to the washhouse, checked to make sure everything he needed was there. It wasn't of course. He went to the stable and found the spreader bar tossed on a pile of hay. He picked it up, stood by Misty's stall and looked in. Just for a minute.

She lay on her side, still in her bridle. He shook his head. He knew she needed to get used to it but . . . She looked like she was sleeping.

Some came to them shaven, some not. Misty was shaved all over, except for her mane. His paint was shaggy. He liked them that way at first. The shaggier the better. So many knots in the mane the only thing he could do was shave them all over.

It was a process. Not all the hands knew that. There wasn't a book you went by. When it was time for the next step you went there.

He wondered what it would be like if he kept one for a couple of years. He was just getting started when they left, even the ones who'd been his charges for six months or more. A long time. Misty had been here three weeks and look at her. It was a waste in a way. Not so most of the owners would ever know it. They wanted show ponies. He was after the real thing. Six months and Penny and he would just be started.

He carried the spreader bar out the big doors of the stable, past the post. The Colonel was telling war stories to the new hand.

A shame. He carried the spreader bar to the washhouse, set it against the wall near the sink. He spit out his gum into the trashcan. Checked his watch. Fifteen minutes more and then he'd get her for her bath whether they were done with her or not.

Once he caught two kids who'd snuck onto the property. They were scared as hell he'd do something to them. He just led them back to the road, opened the gate and showed them through. "Don't come back," he told them. He smiled then. "Unless you're serious."

Cute little fillies. Such big brown eyes. He wasn't sure how old they were. Thirteen. Fifteen. Twenty-two. Once he reached a certain age they all looked alike. Damned young.

They scampered off. He almost wished he'd catch them sneaking on the property again. Almost.

He wondered if he couldn't take a few free ones, ones like the fillies, and spend some time on them. It'd be a big chance. All that work and no money coming in.

He wondered if the Colonel got offers from girls. Not just approached by owners but by the girls themselves. He wondered once he was set up on his own if he couldn't take one or two on for speculation. Maybe three or four stalls in the stable. Two paying, one or two for speculation. Could he handle it all on his own?

He checked his watch. Time's up.

He left the washhouse. Only one was with Penny. The Colonel had left. The Colonel. It helped him to remember the Colonel was a light colonel, not a full bird. And nothing really serious. Supplies, logistics, something like that. Well away from any front line.

John finished in Penny's throat, holding her head close to him as she bucked, fought for air. John winked at him then let her head go and stood back. She choked as drool and stuff poured out of her open mouth.

He watched Misty in the ring as Penny composed herself. Benjamin didn't really challenge Misty. Just let her run herself dizzy. Still, she looked beautiful. She really did.

He looked down at Penny. Her eyes were averted. The post top was wet with her drool, her cheeks were flushed, her mouth red.

"Good girl," he said.

She exhaled and her eyes watched him as he unlocked the shackle. She didn't face him, just her eyes. He thought he saw the beginnings of a grin on her face. Damn paint.

He drew her up by the shackle connected to her collar. He dropped the iron shackle, hot from the sun, bent, picked up her tail and swished it against his leg to get as much dust out of it as possible.

"Open," he said.

She opened her mouth. Her lips trembled, her whole body trembled slightly. He held the tail plug so she could grip it with her teeth.

He heard a whoosh and turned. Misty stumbled then regained her gait, leaning slightly to the side that had been whipped. Benjamin liked to mark them.

Penny followed him to the washhouse while he wondered if he could arrange with Benjamin . . . just ten minutes. He held the door open for his paint whose eyes watched him as she passed.

He stood her in the spot over the drain. He left the shackles connected to her collar, they needed a wash too, and the tail in her mouth. He turned on the spigot, aimed the hose at her and pulled the trigger.

She fell back a step then returned to her position as the water hit her. He sprayed her all over, watched the paint peel in places from her skin leaving white patches against the open red areas.

"All fours," he said pointing the hose to the floor.

She knelt and fell forward as he walked around her directing the blast of water at stubbornly dirty spots. He released the trigger and dropped the hose to the cement floor.

It was cooler in here, shady. It was dark when they first walked in, now it was lighter as his eyes grew used to it. The open windows let in a breeze from the southeast. In the winter it was damn cold in here, almost ice. His charges weren't so quiet then.

He picked up a bucket filled with soapy water and a brush. He carried the bucket to her, set it on the floor by her left shoulder. Like clockwork. Left shoulder and arm. Face and head. Right shoulder and arm. Back. Right leg and ass cheek. Left leg and ass cheek. A firm scrub up the center of her universe then he made her roll onto her back and he started all over again. Like clockwork.

"Drop it," he said.

She released the tail to fall with a thud and a clatter to the floor. He tossed it to the side. He unfastened the shackles from her collar, carried them to a hook on the wall to dry. He left the key in one of the shackles for the next user. If only everyone . . . Why start on that.

He knelt by her, jeans knees on the wet floor. There was no way he'd stay dry if he did it right. He lifted the scrub brush out of the bucket and tapped the wood back against the bucket rim.

He scrubbed her shoulder and upper arm. Her body moved as he scrubbed her. Most of the paint came off as he cleaned her. He lifted her hoof and scrubbed her nails carefully, between her fingers, then up her arm.

Sometimes he wished there was music. He held her face as he scrubbed her jaw and cheek with the brush. He held her mane out of the way and did her forehead. He used his fingers to clean her ears and around her eyes and mouth. Her eyes were closed because of the soap but she managed to quickly kiss his finger before he got it out of the way.

Other arm, other hoof, then her back and right leg as he crawled around her. He paid particular attention to the center of her universe, first with the brush which made her jump. As if this were the first time and she was the first one. Then he cleaned her carefully with his fingers.

When he was back to the spot he started at he told her to turn over. She rolled onto her back and inched her way to him, spread-eagled.

He stood up, went to the sink and dumped the dirty water into it. He rinsed out the brush, filled the bucket with clean water and added soap. He could just see Misty through the window when she was at the east end of the ring. She wasn't fresh like this morning. It was hot outside; she was in the sun. She held herself properly but he could see she wasn't lifting her feet as high as she had earlier. He saw her jump as she entered his view. Benjamin must be getting cranky.

He carried the bucket over to Penny, set it down and knelt. He held her mane as he scrubbed her shoulders. He had to use his free hand to hold her skin taut over her breasts as he scrubbed each one. He could almost feel her firm erect nipples as the brush passed over them.

He couldn't allow himself to get bored. A moment's inattention and weeks worth of work would be wasted. He drew his free hand over the edge of her ribcage as he scrubbed her stomach. That she could hold firm for him, not like her breasts which had a mind of their own.

He felt her cunt; it was still slippery. Penny was just that way. Each one of them was different.

He was tired. After he'd rinsed her off he'd get a cup of coffee; a carrot for her. It always surprised him how he'd be mad as hell at them and halfway through the day he'd start liking them.

He carried the bucket to the sink, emptied it and rinsed out the brush. He set the bucket under the sink, the brush on its wood back on the sink's edge. He couldn't see Misty at all out the window even though he waited for several minutes. For some reason the image of Misty's shaved cunt popped into his mind. Long and delicate, not fat and juicy as some. The lips were rounded, not pointed, lush. They promised riches underneath ready to burst forth. He could almost feel it.

He walked back to Penny, picked up the hose. "Stand," he said.

She stood, eyes still closed, rose carefully, knees and fingers leaving the floor as she rose. She held her arms away from her body, feet spread.

He pointed the hose at her and pulled the trigger. As he rinsed her she turned slowly. Some things she knew automatically, others she had to be told and be clumsy as hell at the same time. Like walking.

He wondered when she'd stop her game, or this part of her game. She damn well knew how to walk. Maybe not like Misty but not a bum's shuffle either. He painted her body with the force of the water. It dimpled her skin where it hit. The white gridlines, the red squares. Her soft breasts, the firm flesh of her calves. He turned off the water, coiled the hose, felt her eyes on him. He dropped the hose to the floor by the spigot, tried to see Misty through the window there but couldn't. All he could see was the new one, John's charge, and someone else; he couldn't keep all their names straight.

He turned to Penny who knelt on the cement floor, hands offering her breasts, mouth open, eyes bright.

"Watch it, sweet cakes." He muttered, "I need a cup of coffee."

Her eyes followed him as he walked past. He gave her shoulder a pat, tried to prepare himself for the bright outdoors. He opened the door, winced, shut the door behind him.

He went to the bunkhouse ignoring the owner's look at his wet clothes. Didn't recognize this one; he must have brought a new girl. The Colonel was telling war stories, making that godawful laugh of his.

He didn't see Misty. Maybe a year more of this, then a place of his own.