Saturday, July 27, 2013

No story segment

Illness precludes a story this Saturday. I will try to post something during the week.

I am surprised with the paucity of comments concerning Amazon's clumsy yet disturbing censorship efforts. Thought that readers here would express more frustration/concern about subordinating their reading tastes to pimply faced nerds and illiterate geeks with clever software.

Censoring what we so furtively enjoy is so politically correct after all. Who is to object?

Keep in mind the famous quote of Martin Niemoller, German clergyman and early backer of Hitler. He was later jailed for not being enthusiastic enough about the Nazi movement...

    First they came for the communists,
    and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a communist.

    Then they came for the socialists,
    and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a socialist.

    Then they came for the trade unionists,
    and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a trade unionist.

    Then they came for the Jews,
    and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a Jew.

    Then they came for the Catholics,
    and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a Catholic.

    Then they came for me,
    and there was no one left to speak for me.


Saturday, July 20, 2013


Since you readers presumably enjoy smut... quality smut... you should be aware that one of the most respected companies in the U.S. (according to various business publications), engages in censorship.


Amazing to think that what made Amazon (yes, I will name them) so unique and spurred incredibly rapid growth, with the click of the mouse offering the consumer anything and everything quickly and at reasonable cost, will be their undoing (in my opinion).

They now offer anything and everything as long as it conforms to what they think you should be reading. 

So, as Fiona suggests in the referenced blog, don't let Amazon be your only source for quality smut. There are other outlets. And I have never yet been contacted by Lulu or Smashwords concerning my stuff published there, which as you are well aware often encroaches on the taboo genres of erotica (underage, incest, bestiality).  

Comments anyone?

Midnight - Segment XXVII


I have Midnight mounted on the cleansing table, ankles secured, yoke attached to the stanchions.

She rests, buttocks ablaze, the huge globes so tender to the touch that I cannot yet apply unguent without bringing further agony. I count twelve stripes on each hillock, evenly spaced, precisely parallel. Victoria caned with the exacting rigor of a surgeon.

I believe it was stroke eight when Midnight’s ability to control her filled bladder ceded, excretions splattering, soaking the plank and eventually gushing to the bucket... most of it. Victoria chided. I was impressed, Midnight otherwise maintaining her position... legs, buttocks and lower back able to keep tension off the nose loop and protect her pink vaginal opening from the gruff grains of the plank.

This brought a pause, Victoria letting the psyche absorb the ignominy of having uncontrollably urinated like a toddler. Then she resumed of course, even more enthused in forcing such humiliation on our well tethered pony girl.

Buttocks completely adorned, Victoria has retreated to the house. For her, a post caning brew seems to be part of the ritual. This leaves me to offer care... and catharsis, our huge, well muscled pony girl reduced to blubbering into her penis gag. 

I lower a cord from above, hooking Midnight’s nose loop... not tight but certainly not loose. Mercy has never been a significant aspect of our relationship. Midnight is owned... to be used... to be enjoyed. She serves. And the care I offer is akin to maintaining a car, antique rifle or some other valuable device. So I clean, ensure everything functions, and in Midnight’s case exercise daily to demand top performance.

I slip out the penis gag... so long... so cruelly aggravating.

Midnight coughs, clearing a well stuffed throat.

“You wife is a bitch. Master,” her words bringing a wane smile.

“But she did not break the skin. Your buttocks remain comely,” I offer in reflection.

I have Midnight kneeling in the standard cleansing position, thighs well parted but yoke and head not lowered. I let her rest, stepping to her rear. A proximate hand dares not touch the well excoriated flesh yet senses the intense radiating heat. A lusty male mind suggests that I take her anally. The thought of feeling the welts of her torrid flesh greet my pubes with every deep penetrating thrust brings arousal. And with the searing pain, she would be sure to resist, perhaps delightfully clenching to challenge, enhancing the male’s need to conquer.   

“You cane well,” my words a compliment.

And Midnight accepts as such.

“Thank you, sir. But I would rather serve you. Run for you. Feel your crop hand. Taste you.”

“Yes, of course you would. It is ingrained in your psyche. But you will entertain and perform for Victoria as well. And Douglas. Have you tasted him?” knowing that at some point in time, my hormone laden son will indulge.  

“His trousers bulge, when he handles me. But in silence, I cannot encourage.”

Ah, a dilemma. I so often recall Midnight’s simple beseeching words in those halcyon days... when Mother trained her... and me as a groom. ‘May I suck your penis, sir?’ The words still both thrill and comfort. But in mandating silence, the ears of young Douglas shall not be so treated.  

I must give consideration.

I hear a car, the annoying roar of a modified exhaust system, young Douglas, as with most teens, deciding the neighbors should be aware of his comings and goings.

“I’m going to milk your cunt, Midnight. You’ll feel better.”

“Please masturbate me, Master, to completion.”

“No. No climax. But we’ll stimulate enough endorphins so that you’ll feel better.”


“Yes, Douglas has arrived.”

“Please not before him!”

“Before whomever I decide, Midnight. It’s time he learned, reviewed his lesson in female anatomy... put such to good use. And the humiliation will make you feel even better. You know that.”

With that I step to the barn door and signal Douglas, exiting the noisy ten year old Honda. Then I move to the chest of drawers. The speculum rests atop. I rummage about within. It’s poignant to find Midnight’s milking bowl. How many times have I labored to coat its surface with viscous feminine essence?

I also discover the slim probe with the small bulbous tip which formerly penetrated Midnight’s quim, slipping into her anterior fornix to delicately palpate. I find myself somewhat chagrined that in my younger days I reveled in making her squirt, ejaculating in mind numbing climax, over developed muscling turning to jello, her naked form seeming to melt on the cleansing table, head slumping in ecstatic joy.

I do believe Midnight’s vaginal walls will begin to oscillate just looking at the wickedly pleasurable length of smooth stainless steel. Alas, those times are gone. Frustrating chastity is best for those obligated to be tethered and run. It makes them eager to perform. So I return the probe, casting aside adolescent thoughts of indiscriminately anointing a girl with unnecessary pleasure. 

Lastly a feather, so tantalizingly soft and pliable, perfect to tease, yet never to bring utmost fulfillment.

Douglas enters. We both approach the kneeling coal black naked form of Midnight.

“More lessons, Douglas, if you have a few moments.”

I inwardly smile knowing the priapic lad will find a lifetime of moments when tending to Midnight.

“Midnight has been disciplined, something a girl with her propensities requires from time to time.”

I move to Midnight’s head. Douglas of course immediately positions himself to view the buttocks, well spread thighs and genitalia so audaciously exposed under the bright barn ceiling lights.

My son visually examines as I release the nose loop, lowering the stanchions to bring Midnight’s head and face down to the marble surface of the cleansing table. She has this pleading look, knowing not to speak, but also in spying the milking bowl, well aware of the forthcoming slow torment of unending yet incomplete pleasure.

I reconnect the nose loop, noting that with buttocks high, back arched and knees well spread, the evidence of Victoria’s long slow afternoon of torture cannot be veiled.

“Wow Dad, that looks painful!” Douglas noting the 24 evenly spaced horizontal welts.

“It is. That is the intent. Now the problem is applying unguent. Her punishment has ended, so we don’t want to induce more pain. Therefor we’re going to milk her cunt which will promote the flow of endorphins.”

I move to the rear, Douglas at my side. The speculum slips inward with ease, the moist vagina once again evidencing Midnight’s proclivity. I turn the adjusting knob, parting the prongs, splaying her open, the display of bright pink expanding with every twist of my fingers. Midnight moans... in delight?.. in protest?.. it matters not.    

The musky sent of femininity undouched fills the barn, so nicely augmenting the intensity of Midnight’s embarrassment. I push the bowl between her knees, the strips of labial flesh dangling just above, seeming to point the way for juices which will soon be flowing in abundance.

“Now, Douglas,” handing the feather to my energetic hormone laden son, “let’s review the female anatomy. I’ll name some of the most sensitive parts and regions, you point and toy with  the feather. We’ll soon have her purring like cat, her cunny flowing like a dairy cow.”

Midnight so much detests, yet so much craves the attention. With Mother’s training and my many years of experience, I’ll show Douglas how to bring her to the very brink of orgasm... again... and again... and again.

“Show me the urethral opening, Douglas. Just a little feathering there to start....”

Saturday, July 13, 2013

Midnight - Segment XXVI

Midnight Suffers Divinely

I have rarely watched wife Victoria work a girl. For her, D/s mode involves being immersed, all focus on torture. Therefor during our courting days, we parted ways while visiting Club Le Femme... me to the bar... Victoria to the bad girls ballroom to have a girl dance for her. 

I am thus amazed at the sound, not only the swish, but the sharp crack as firm bamboo strikes more pliant flesh with noted velocity. As Midnight screams into the deep penis gag, the right buttock flesh ripples downward, the blow applied to the top, precisely horizontal to Midnight’s form. The shimmering black body stirs spastically, an uncontrollable reaction which Midnight must strive to counter, nipples restrained, motion between the thighs bringing the threat of the scabrous plank.

Victoria pauses, good floggings seeming timeless to the flagellant, letting the synaptic message of acute pain crash into the cerebral cortex. Meanwhile I watch in awe as the skin reacts... in protest?.. in surrender?.. by rising in the form of a welt.

To Victoria, it’s the beginning of a fine piece of artwork, the first stroke of a master’s brush on a canvass which feels. She turns to me and smiles.

“One can feel the muscling attempt to reject the stroke, Oliver. It’s like no other caning. No soft splat. Instead there is challenge. Yet it will succumb, I will decorate as I see fit, but my hand will need to be heavy.”  

With that, Victoria raises her hand higher, the arm drops, the wrist snaps and the amazing sound increases in pitch. Her eye, her aim, are nonpareil. As Midnight’s muffled yet curdling scream reflects from the barn’s walls, a second welt, a second invitation of truce, flag of surrender, rises. A ridge of black forms, perfectly parallel, not more than a centimeter below the first.

An analytic mind quickly projects, the large well muscled globe will easily accommodate some dozen or more strokes of the master’s brush, the lines never to cross. Victoria knows to avoid subjecting any wounded flesh to a second application of agony. Such can break the skin and bring scarring, as noted.

Pony buttocks need to be pretty. Welts are temporary and attractive to those of our ilk. Disfigurement is not.

Another pause, letting resolve return, allowing the cortex recuperate to best welcome the next searing stroke. Meanwhile the divine muscling, struggling on toes, buttocks and lower back relieving tension for the nose leash yet caring not to tug at the tight nipple cord, starts to quake, the stress already beginning to overwhelm.

With Midnight’s bladder full, I know there to be another element of concern, a need for bodily control. As Victoria’s hand rises again, I conclude something will give way. I thus stroll for a bucket. Barn floors are never pristine with cleanliness, but outright messiness is best avoided lest odors accumulate.

A third sharp crack, then I lean to position the bucket. Urinating while riding the wooden pony is not impossible, but it is sloppy.  Still I suspect most excretions can be captured.

While Midnight struggles to calm herself, the slightest motion enhancing the pain and aggravation, Victoria steps close. The fingers of her free left hand toy with the long right labia, profiled against the fibers of the plank.

“She’s amazingly wet, Oliver. The board is soaked. She’s enjoying.”

Oddly, I know she is. And I know as well that there is moisture forming within Victoria’s sex. Such a charming scene, sadist and masochist striving to so fervently to please each other. 

Victoria steps forward to where Midnight’s face is held in place near the wall hook. The left hand extends and smooths over the hairless cranium, slick with oil. She snickers, a womanly expression of haughtiness, Victoria’s coiffure stylish, Midnight’s follicles long ago vanquished to project her bestial prominence.                

I step to the opposite side, surveying Midnight’s look. There is hate, there is awe that a woman can mete such viciousness, but there is respect. She is mastered... despite her size... the years of physical development... possessing the strength of two men... she must ride the wooden pony and absorb... take whatever is offered... a sponge for the dispensed wickedness of her superiors.

A tear forms, with her nose so tightly bound she cannot shake to hasten its travels. I cannot help wonder whether it is prompted by physical duress or emotional... remorse for so humbly having to offer what her sadist master desires.    

“A tear of happiness, no doubt. They all so much want to succumb,” Victoria’s index finger grazing her cheek to capture moisture, the source given to conjecture.

She leans, pressing her smiling, mocking face to Midnight’s, the nose binding mandating our pony girl absorb the sarcastic look.

“All naked and bound... and you cannot make an intelligible sound. It must be so frustrating. So why don’t I vent that frustration from you? Just a dozen or so brisk strokes of rattan should do it, don’t you think?”  

Victoria steps back, returning to position herself for more wickedness. I know to also step away, Midnight’s bladder sure to symbolically vent at some point...

Friday, July 12, 2013

New Book - 'The Blacksmith's Daughter'

Again, counter to thoughts that my fingers are idol, the Erotic Book Network has just released a new effort... 'The Blacksmith's Daughter'.

Male Dominant, female submissive with some Female Dominant interaction. One of my favorite characters returns, the kindly sadist Dr. Winthrop Samuels, from the 'Suspension Bondage' story. This is not a sequel, the story stands on its own. Dr. Samuels once again condescends to assist a forlorn masochist better understand her needs.

From the Erotic Book Network (though I may have written this, can't recall)...

Dr. Samuels plies his craft with zeal, determined to assuage the needs of the Blacksmith’s Daughter, her deep inner quest for the gothic bondage of iron... black and crude... found to be unending. 

Not a sequel, but for the readers who enjoyed the erudite Dr. Winthrop Samuels, aloof and exacting in his ‘care’ of Sunny Sudenskaya, this second tale is sure to enthuse. 

Bondage, sodomy, caning, incredibly bizarre restraints, will the Blacksmith’s Daughter ever be freed? Aficionados of Chris Bellows think not.

Sorry, no snippets or teasers to be offered, the likes of Apple and Amazon do not permit, and such are the 500 pound gorillas of the publishing world. So you will just have to take my word, it's a good effort, and if you enjoyed 'Suspension Bondage', 'The Blacksmith's Daughter' will bring equivalent joy.

Saturday, July 6, 2013

Midnight - Segment XXV

Meeting Victoria

Probably better titled, ‘home for mousey, lonely, little understood, masochistic girls,’ the secretive ‘Club Le Femme’ is run by an imposing woman with a whip, her nom de guerre ‘Miss Deville’. For the enjoyment of the members, she welcomes young girls with special needs. On a given Friday or Saturday night some half dozen or more will enter by a special door, strip naked and offer themselves, oddly attempting to douse cold water on the fiery lustful deviant desires, their proclivities bizarre but well embraced by paying members.

No one, especially the members, knows their names, identities completely anonymous. They are bound, examined, whipped, clamped, ‘forced’ into debauchery, in general degraded and humiliated. Yes, the members bring satiation... a narcotic for the addicted.

Thus, so many came back week after week...
As stated, my attendance, my needs, were relatively subtle... a simple blow job from some nameless strumpet kneeling at the club bar with wrists well cuffed. Being fellated to the tuneful sounds of swishing leather on naked skin, such as that emanating from the ‘bad girl’s ballroom’, added a certain aberrant appeal. We guys always speculated about the antics of the lesbian and bisexual members who would disappear for hours at a time and return worn and sweaty. Then finally came that Friday night, the conversation while Victoria quaffed her brew.

“You look tired,” my words axiomatic in striking up a conversation.

This white robed beautiful woman with disheveled hair smiled, finally returning her glass to the bar, having half emptied it in one continuous gulp.

“Some of these naughty girls need much convincing to finally acknowledge their needs. Used one cane until it cracked tonight. The second not far behind.”

“Perhaps bastinado?” aware that slight taps to the feet and toes can be a much more efficient use of the flagellatrix’s energy.

Victoria smiles, a sort of ‘nice try’ message, but still pleasant.

“A girl’s got to walk. Miss Deville does not relish having to toss a girl into a cab. The back door entrance is to be kept quiet. Plus I normally enjoy the more physical transference. Exercise the muscles, exorcize some demons. It’s just that this girl tonight was not as hungry as most. But in the end, she ate... and ate... and ate.”

Well, of course her words ignite the fires of the eidetic male mind, blazing to know what was ingested. Why would it require excessive caning to encourage a presumably bisexual girl to partake in feminine flesh?
Victoria finishes her brew and I signal the bartender for another, on my tab.

“You trying to pick me up? I doubt we have compatible...” Victoria pausing in search.

“Tastes?” I interject. “Guess it depends on what’s on the menu.”

Victoria’s smile transforms, sheepish yet sly. She waits for the bartender to slip away. Then comes her retort.

“I’m Victoria.”


“Well Oliver, I am sure like most members, I come here to blow off some steam, leaving the vanilla world behind for a few hours. Be with those who... well... who don’t make judgements.”

“Not judging anyone... and coming here for about the same. It’s just that we’re all curious... all the guys... about the bad girl’s ballroom.”

“For me, tormenting those with demented penchants is asexual, Oliver. I’m not a lesbian. I just find it easier to convince a girl to satiate my needs. And those little girl tears flow so divinely...”

It is so noble for the sadist to condescend and accommodate, I think but speak not.

“Have you ever had a girl eat excrement for you,” Victoria bluntly inquires, noting all are out of hearing range.

I shake my head, my proclivities more conventional and conveniently fulfilled. She notes I do not blush, cower or find objection with the subject matter and thus continues.

“Well a little girl from cow country just ate some dung... or at least she thinks it was dung. Imagine after all the years she spent growing up on a dairy farm, then coming to the big city and being made to ingest what she so often had to shovel,” laughing wickedly.

I am determined not to show revulsion, desiring to learn more. Victoria leans and whispers.

“Analingus, Oliver. A favorite of mine and so many members and visitors to the bad girl’s ballroom. Convincing a girl it is best to so orally please requires some cane strokes, but once they ingest faux shit, having them lick becomes less repulsive. In fact it becomes most facile... like offering great relief. No more pain, no more dung, just press that pretty face between the cheeks and feast.”

“Faux shit?” I ask somewhat incredulously.

Victoria nods.

“A special concoction of dog food with harmless chemicals added to produce an odor most foul. It’s in the mind, Oliver. And once they’re brought to the level of degradation to eat what they think is excrement, you can make a girl do anything... and thank you for the privilege of serving. The tongue works best when performing with gratitude.”

She returned to the second brew, my turn to speak. Victoria and I thereafter bonded.

A frightening swish of rattan returns my thoughts to Midnight, the barn and the wooden pony...

Sunday, June 30, 2013

The Glass Oubliette

Just reviewed the Lulu sales report for the quarter. Three people purchased 'The Glass Oubliette' and have not yet requested the ending, which I was hesitant to publish on Lulu.

It's free. I normally respond within 24 hours, and never use or share anyone's email address. So let me know.

If you purchased the book, email me for the ending and I will forward. As indicated, you will need to provide the code at the end of the story.

And for those who enjoyed 'Interrogation', 'The Glass Oubliette may be of interest.


Saturday, June 29, 2013

Midnight - Segment XXIV

To Be Caned

There comes the thud of boots as I gleefully work Midnight’s bountiful buttocks, my oiled fingers squeezing, kneading, palpating with force, applying a grip which would bring tearful protests from the uninitiated. But the years of being handled, never a shred of covering, constant cropping, exposure to inclement temperature, has toughened, layer upon layer of smooth black perfection.

“How thoughtful of you, Oliver. She’s so presentable.”

I turn my head and smile, the value of pleasing the Dominant matriarch of the family never to be underestimated. Meanwhile my nose detects the scent of the aroused female, my touch, the perseverance required to ride the wooden pony, the labia so humiliatingly displayed abrading the rough wooden fibers, returns Midnight to a state of stimulation.  

“She’s excited,” Victoria also recognizing the odor of the masochist in heat.

She steps to the opposite side and lowers her hand. An extended finger grazes up and down a long nipple. The pink shaft instantly hardens, a trained pet responding to a Master’s command. Victoria laughs.

“So large, so well muscled, yet so sensitive to touch, even the stretched nipples. You would think these would be like leather by now...”

“I believe there’s special lotion, Dear. Some kind of herbal concoction her African ancestors developed hundreds of years ago,” somewhat veiling my knowledge but needing to introduce the protocol before Victoria discovers the vast supply Mother left behind upon her demise.  

“All for the better. Would it be appropriate to clip these udders? Add a degree of restraint so she doesn’t flop about too much while I cane her?”

“She’s yours, Sugar Buns. Keep in mind that she’s owned and thus damage to our own property should be kept in mind. Plus, good nipple sensitivity is for control... while she labors in harness.” 
I forewarn, not wishing to damper Victoria’s fun, but not wishing to have our newly acquired pony turned into a mass of welts, nipples never again to respond to the crop.

“I’ll make sure not to cross the pattern.”

Being of similar ilk, I know that in caning the flesh, crossing, or offering a repeat stroke to any area of excoriated flesh, can break the skin. This results in potential scarring and for sure extends the period of healing and recovery. I would like to run Midnight every day, assuring not my eggs benedict but that other delight which men rarely get at home.  

With that Victoria moves to Mother’s chest of deviant trinkets, finding a pair of evil nipple clamps strung together by a cord, the length to be adjusted by a middle buckle. As she approaches I note such are not serrated, Midnight’s dark pink areolas to feel pressure but not the bite of alligator clips. She readjusts the nose leash, to a lower hook, bringing Midnight’s torso closer to the plank. Then comes a squeal, muted by the deep gag as the left nipple is summarily clamped, the cord drawn under the plank and the right nipple clamped. Victoria then slowly adjusts, tightening the cord to make movement of the upper body painfully impossible.

Yes, lowering at the waist tensions the nose loop, rising tensions the nipple clamps.

Moans of protest faze not, a smiling Victoria stepping back to assess. Having completed my handiwork, the flesh of Midnight’s black buttocks gleaming under the halogen lighting, traces of oil evident, I also step away.

Midnight is the picture of servility... naked, well trussed, slowly suffering, feminine pink parts under duress. 

“You’ve watered her?” Victoria inquires, stepping to the wall rack filled with bamboo rods of many shapes and sizes.

“Two pints. Plus she’s has not been offered relief since her bath,” spoken as Victoria selects a particularly rugged length, whooshing it ominously through the air. 

As Victoria’s wicked mind enters D/s space, I am reminded of first meeting her at Club Le Femme...

Saturday, June 22, 2013

Midnight - Segment XXIII

Preparation for Caning

Despite her apprehension, Midnight slumbers in her sling, hooded, slack pulley cords allowing  her to rest prostrate with a lowered yoke. I deliberately worked her hard on the return journey to the barn, thus the need for recuperative sleep has overcome the abject fear of Victoria’s excoriating hand.

Douglas again bathed under my supervision, also noting the added wetness drooling between her thighs with the clitoral stimulation of my chains. My son seemed reluctant to rinse away the fragrance and replace such with the lavender scent of the soap.

‘But it shall return’, I counseled my hesitant son, knowing the undouched vagina will reek again.

So I sit and gaze at my kept, trained, and exercised pony girl, enjoying a mid afternoon glass of wine while Victoria shops.

The nipples dangle invitingly... inviting both the sting of the crop and a sensuous, playful tweak of the fingers. Extending some three inches from the body of mammary glands exercised to moderate size, I often wonder what level of shapely attraction Midnight’s glands would have achieved had she not been subjected to daily rigorous exercise shortly after puberty.   

Still the relative flatness is functional for a girl in forced physical servitude, conveniently making the nipples more prominent... for the crop... and offering limited top heaviness... the better to be run.

My eyes shift to the labia, gently swaying with a sleeping Midnight’s slight motion. Stretched further at some four to five inches, the epidermis there seems to take better, respond more robustly, to the herbal lotions, pulls of energetic fingers and weights.

Also to be subjected to the crop, I refrain from using such intensely painful encouragement, except on extreme occasions... the need for excessive speed... or to correct a gross lapse in pony deportment.

Victoria whimsically suggested we stretch such to her knees. It can be done, all skin able to be so modified. And with an enthusiastic son Douglas quickly learning proper care, I am sure the presentation will be accomplished.

I hear the car approach and know that an earnest Victoria, after stowing the fruits of her shopping, will find the need to express the bisexual side of her sadism. On this first occasion, we have decided to exclude Douglas, the past few days of Midnight’s introduction already deluging a young impressionable mind.

He’s at a friend’s house... perhaps a pickup game of basketball... computer games may be a better wager.

I brutishly chug down the last swallow of a fine and delicate Chardonnay, arise from my chair and head for the worn chest of drawers, Mother’s wellspring of bondage paraphernalia. Despite my counsel, I remain concerned that Midnight will speak, break down under the intensity of the searing pain and offer words to beseech. Tucked away is the penis gag... long, thick and cruel. Once buckled in place, Victoria will have no reason to remove it. And if for some reason there comes an inclination, I will remind her of the neighbors, putting aside the distant proximity and their aural limitations.

Before gagging, Midnight needs to be watered. It is important, a well hydrated flagellant better able to resist entering a state of shock... filled bladder also adding to the amusement as the intense agony challenges control of bodily functions.  

So I fill one squeeze bottle, step to our resting giantess, and slip off the hood. She blinks, Midnight’s eyes slowly acclimating, the extended morning run bringing deep sleep.

“Time to ride the pony, pretty girl,” I coo, in a paternal voice, eliciting comfort... or least attempting to bring such.

I insert the straw of the squeeze bottle and begin to hydrate. Though I know her to be well watered before suspending her, she will take one full pint to be followed by another. And I shall not have her empty her bladder.

Midnight imbibes. In spotting the gag she knows to make a last request before being silenced.

“I must go Master,” bladder filled as suspected.

“No. You’ll hold and ride the pony for me,” my pleasant smile turning to one of wickedness.

“It will be uncomfortable,” slurping the final ounce.

“It is best for you,” not sounding overly disingenuous.

I refill the bottle. Midnight obediently drains, seemingly the last meal of the condemned.

“How many?.. strokes.”

“As many as sadistic whim suggests. With all that muscling and skin toughened in cool climate, I suspect you’ll endure many.”

The second pint finished, I insert the penis gag, Midnight’s well trained throat offering not a scintilla of resistance as inch after inch glides inward, gag reflex long ago mastered. She attempts some final words and I believe I discern her question.

“Yes, I’ll be here to watch,” seeing Midnight nod, my reply seeming to comfort.

I buckle the gag at the back of her head. Show time.

I raise the pulley cords, bringing Midnight’s helpless hanging form upright. I return the boxes and as her feet find support, release the thigh straps. Midnight knows to draw together ankles to be hobbled. The strap is attached and I retrieve a leash.

Never ever does Midnight move without being tethered. Psychologically it is paramount.

Untying the pulley cords from the yoke, my pony girl can prance. Accordingly I raise my leash hand, up on the toes, and lead to the wooden pony.

Though Douglas oiled well, her flesh will need some touch up, and I need to assure the buttocks will be receptive. A resounding ‘thwack’ pleases the aficionado of rattan based excoriation. Wife Victoria is not to be disappointed.

The upturned plank has been returned to the perfect height, Midnight needing to go higher on toes to straddle. I secure the nose leash to a hook, forcing our flagellant to bend at the waist in a moderate pose. Victoria the perfectionist may adjust. But for now I just want her positioned so as to oil and offer one last massage of her well worn muscles.

Fingers work to assure the long labia drape right and left of a plank which parts and threatens the sensitive vaginal portal. I then move to the cleansing table where the large bottle of body oil rests from the morning bath.

Is it best to offer relaxation before the horror Midnight will endure?

The answer matters not.  

Sunday, June 16, 2013

New Novella/'Interrogation'

Just so you're aware that my fingers are not idle, I have posted a novella of some 20,000 words on Lulu.

Female Dominant/female submissive, bestiality, sodomy, oral servitude. Strong Chris Bellows stuff.

$4.00. Enjoy.

Saturday, June 15, 2013

Midnight - Segment XXII

Another Morning Ride

Normally a teen of Douglas’s age has some difficulty dragging himself/herself out of bed in the morning. But after introducing him to the inner glee of governing a naked well trussed pony girl, I find in peering out the bedroom window, Midnight is hobbled, harnessed to the light pony cart, bearing the bit with reins in waiting. I quickly don slacks and sweater, knowing that in the cool morning air, my pony girl will be eager to perform for me.  

Yes, Douglas the groom has taken to his new responsibility with aplomb, being promised, in time, that it will be he seated on the cart, reins and crop in hand. So for the first time he has removed the speculum which holds Midnight open, unhooked the labial and nipple weights and unraveled the soft strips of cloth which I use to gently enshroud the skin undergoing slow modification. Soon adorning Midnight’s body with such will also be his responsibility, but for now we take one step at a time. Assuring the stretched skin is properly anointed with the special lotion and the nipples and labia are incessantly pulled with the appropriate tension is a skill to be acquired. It will come.  

I exit the house, Midnight standing in wait, in the coolness those lengthy nipples serving as a thermometer, hardened and sticking straight out, appearing to be darts aimed at a target.

Douglas hears me approach and exits the barn. We exchange morning pleasantries, me swelling with pride, and Douglas stoops to remove the hobbling strap, then hooks it to the cart. I, of course, work Midnight’s fine chainery, tightening at the hips to remove all slack, watching intently as her ringed nubbin rises with the newly applied tension. Such a prominent display, the hormone swelled organ not to be veiled.

She stirs with the sensation and I smile in satisfaction, knowing that with every step, the motions of her thighs will jostle that most sensitive button of feminine flesh. Yes, with inner labia flopping, clitoris jostling, Midnight will run and masturbate herself to a sexual frenzy, ultimate climax denied.

I sit, utter the command ‘giddup’ and swing, the crop nipping the right nipple, bringing what I know to be searing pain. Midnight digs in, buttocks clenching, thighs rippling, her response instantaneous.

Off we go, to our idyllic clearing, no eggs benedict to be offered. Instead I will partake in that other delight never to be served at home.

With the crop I rhythmically work the buttocks, tapping away to bring not suffering but instead the comfort Midnight feels in knowing she’s totally under the control of an exacting Master. Soon, perspiration beads, and despite the early hour, adrenaline has Midnight laboring with zest.

I do believe she’s as eager as I am to reach the apex, the slim chains working their magic.

Step, step, step, a good brisk jog brings us to our destination. I pull to a halt, leaving some slack on the reins, dismount and quickly hobble. When I slip the bit from Midnight’s mouth, she knows there is an opportunity to speak and wastes not the opportunity.

“Please, Master, I need to be masturbated!”

I smile, repressing laughter, the abundance of moisture flowing down her inner thighs not entirely sweat.

“I think my wife will cool your needs,” reminding that she has an appointment on the wooden pony.

“She scares me sir,” truncating further exchange while I cradle her head and her teeth begin to work my zipper.

“She should. A relentless flagellatrix. Though you should be accustomed to being disciplined.”

“When I needed correction. Now I am obedient... and work hard to please.”

“Well this afternoon you will work hard to please while riding the pony and having your buttocks striped,” I offer with a snort.

Midnight has no immediate response, instead knowing to engulf my penis. She likes my taste. And I offer her a feast, relieving myself, her throat opening to take all. It’s exhilarating power. I hear not a single gulp, and I press to empty myself before pending tumescence impedes the flow.

In finishing, tongue and lips assure neatness, her oral training sublime.

“I will do anything for her to avoid being caned,” she pleads.

“You will do everything for her and be caned. Know your place.”

Her lips return to what it is now a semi firm penis. Fellatio begins, no invitation required. I slowly step back and lower to sit on the large rock we’ve worn to smoothness over the years, my hands continuing to cradle Midnight’s baldness. She follows, continuing to suck, hobbled feet managing two short steps, cart following. Mouth continuously engaged, Midnight knows to also lower herself, lips sucking, tongue swishing.


Whether or not to take her anally is always a random choice. For some reason on this morning I choose not to expend the energy. I let her suck and suck, enjoying the vista, early Spring spurring the flora, photosynthesis transforming the surrounding hills to green.

Sensing growing excitement, her head bobs with vigor, challenging my grip to orally fuck herself. The sensation overwhelms. I explode copiously, deeply, again hearing not a gulp or suggestion that Midnight cannot accommodate and ingest all I offer, her skills extensive.

Lips purse to again assure neatness. Then Midnight knows to pause, letting me revel in the afterglow. After several moments she lifts her head, adoring a male appendage returning to flaccidity.

“I can orally please her, Master. My last owner was a woman. Perhaps that will quiet her hand,” the condemned returning to discussion of her pending execution.

I smile.

“You’re to be caned. Remember to remain wordlessly silent, though I am sure you will scream. Afterwards I will milk you in reward.”

“Full climax, Master?”

“Of course not.”

“Before Douglas? Please no...”

I laugh wickedly knowing that the intense humiliation of being so spread open and slowly purged of feminine essence is the ultimate narcotic for the masochist... and to have such expunged before a young male... nirvana. Midnight, as with most girls of her ilk, remains confused concerning her proclivity. She objects... but she is in so much need...   

“Yes, before Douglas. I may even have him feather you.”

A stunned Midnight obediently works her lips and teeth to right my zipper. She protests, she objects, but deep within she will enjoy.

Saturday, June 8, 2013

Midnight - Segment XXI

A Visit

Watching Midnight sweat... watching Midnight struggle... watching Midnight suffer... mesmerizes... son Douglas as a curious and impressionable teen... me as I relive the halcyon days of attaining and enjoying complete sexual control over a human beast.

So we step back and with quiet serenity let time and gravity challenge the dynamism of a pony girl honed, exercised, trained, sculpted, fed and medicated to physical perfection.   

In riding the wooden pony, there is never triumph, only slow surrender. All succumb... and such is the case with Midnight as leg muscles begin to quiver, the strain on buttocks and lower back bring slow but moderate tension to the leash holding up Midnight’s nose loop.

Yet I note the plank darkens, the wood fibers absorbing the attestation of the masochist, traces of feminine arousal streaming from her vaginal opening, her elongated lips becoming conduits of odoriferous wet which stains.

“She’s leaking,” a naive Douglas exclaims.                       

I snicker.

“No son, she’s enjoying,” wondering how long Midnight can maintain her silence before the agony of tensioned nose loop and abraded pink flesh spurs a beseeching cry for mercy.

“Well, you boys enjoying yourselves?” the haughty words those of wife Victoria.

We both turn, wondering how long she has been observing from the barn door. Aware of Victoria’s proclivities, I know the basis for her huffy interruption is not one of disapproval but one of objection for being excluded from the entertainment. She steps forth, boots thudding, head erect, arms akimbo, establishing her governing presence.

I can only imagine the impression to be made upon the vanilla wife of a rancher, a naked, well trussed, human equine being tormented, perspiration mixing with abundant massage oil to make her expanse of black blemishless flesh scream for the attention of wanton eyes.

But this is Victoria.

“Is there not a quicker method of offering discipline? You boys must be quite bored by now.”

Douglas is perplexed. I laugh.

“Exercise, Victoria. Time consuming but effective. I am sure you’ve focused on her buttocks. They didn’t get that large and firm sitting about eating cupcakes.”

Victoria’s regal march continues, bringing her to stand most proximate. Both hands extend and brusquely clasp the referenced saturated globes with notable force, causing Midnight to lurch and jerk her nose loop.

The well worn pony girl cries out, eliciting what I know to be feigned sympathy from wife Victoria.

“You’ve hurt yourself, tsk, tsk,” stepping back, swinging her arm to offer a thunderous slap to hillocks which cannot avoid assault.

This brings another lurch, another cry of anguish as Victoria steps further back, becoming more pensive with assessment.

“Rather simple bondage, Oliver,” she offers after a long pause. “But I’m willing to wager a girl can be well caned when so presented.”

Well, if there were any reservations about introducing son Douglas to our eccentric lifestyle, such have more than adequately been cast aside. And I begin to fear for the continuation of my subterfuge, Midnight not bearing her gag.

After an hour or more of riding the wooden pony, most fortitude has waned. Can Midnight’s concentration withstand both the slow torment of the plank and the quick vicious searing strokes of Victoria’s bamboo laden hand? 

“She needs feeding, Victoria. Perhaps later. Plus she’s not gagged... we do have neighbors...”

Yes, but some two miles down the road, aged and hard of hearing. Will Victoria fall for another ruse? Forestall that which most enthuses?

The latter concern does not faze.

“I’ll need her watered. And I’ll want her at full strength. So much more fun breaking a girl that way... bladder opening to capitulate in complete surrender...”

Midnight is thus offered a reprieve for now, for her strength has finally dissipated. Despite the agony to be offered her most sensitive feminine charms, the knees slowly buckle and the wet entrance to her vagina greets the scabrous edge of the plank. She whines like a wounded puppy, but her muscling responds not to the dire need for elevation. It required nearly two hours, but Midnight’s energy is depleted, her fortitude vanquished.

Still I must let her suffer, assuring that the slow dip is not a deception to curry sympathy. So when the buttock muscles likewise surrender and the leash tightens to tension the nose loop, I know it is time. Our wet, well worn, well exercised pony girl is to be returned to her sling.

I step forth and release the adjustable clamps which hold in place the plank, lowering to provide instant relief. Lips of a most humble Midnight begin to move, to thank me, and I quickly press closed with my finger.

“No more moans,” I rebuke, reminding her of the stoic silence I mandate.

So a nearly comatose Midnight is put away wet, returned to her thigh slings with needed assistance, to be later watered and fed after a nap.

“Tomorrow. I have a free afternoon. I’ll want her riding the pony,” wife Victoria speaks, inspecting a wall rack lined with various lengths of bamboo, not seeming to be overly disappointed in having to wait.

Saturday, June 1, 2013

Midnight - Segment XX

More conditioning

I have ordered a new treadmill. But until it arrives, we’ll need to somewhat improvise. I therefor clear away a little used portion of the barn, little used since Mother passed on and her timid estate lawyers quickly disposed of Midnight, deemed an asset not to be listed in the estate accounting.

Since wife Victoria has taken such interest in the enormous yet well shaped buttocks of our pony girl, particular attention needs to be expended in ensuring such continue to be suitable targets for the cane. Such a thoughtful husband am I.

So I have Douglas join me, pushing aside some old furniture and storage boxes to clear a space at the right wall.

“Gee, Dad, I never noticed this plank before.”

Yes, as stated, we’ve sheltered young Douglas from our more debaucherous penchants. Therefore the horizontal one inch thick upturned plank of some four to five feet in length has deliberately been tucked away for years.

“It’s a wooden pony, Douglas.”

My son stares in assessing, not able to ascertain its function. Perhaps we have been overly cautious in keeping it somewhat concealed.

The plank is connected to the wall, protruding at a right angle, currently some two and a half to three feet above the floor. It’s height is adjustable, a clever feature that assured slow torment even as a youthful Midnight grew after acquisition. On the wall are a vertical series of hooks where Midnight’s nose loop was so often secured. It was quite facile to condition those calves, thighs and buttocks by having Midnight straddle the plank, the scabrous edge abrading her pink genitalia, the height adjusted to force her to her toes. I recall Mother lecturing when Midnight was first introduced to the slow unending torment, hour after hour of straining to protect her precious pink parts from more painfully greeting the dreaded plank...

‘Depending on what muscles you wish to work, Oliver, you tie off the nose loop high or low. High forces her to work the calves, low the buttocks... feel.’

A timorous young hand was invited to knead the buttocks of a stooped Midnight, clenched and straining to hold her head and torso high enough so as not to stress her secured nose loop. Yet the leg muscles also labored, the edge of the plank quite rough.           

“A Wooden pony?” Douglas’s imagination finally conceding, the purpose of the plank not to be conjured.

“For riding. Keeps a girl in good shape.”

I lead and we return to a suspended Midnight, remaining in the slings of the thigh straps.

“Release her, Douglas,” I softly command, offering my son practice in handling a kept human equine.

He’s learning, pushing the boxes under her feet, unhooking the thighs straps, hobbling with diligence as Midnight knows to bring together her ankles. I hand him the leash, almost forgotten, and Midnight’s nose once again becomes a lever for control.

“Over to the pony, have her straddle it facing the wall and those hooks. You’ll need to release the hobbling strap.”

Midnight of course knows precisely of the protocol, having so often ridden, in her adolescence practically every day. It is therefore with little resistance that she shuffles forth on toes, Douglas offering a challenging high grip on the leash. Our pony girl steps to the plank, Douglas stoops to remove the hobbling strap, and with two more very short steps she moves forward, high on toes, the plank slipping between her thighs.

“Tie off the leash to a ring in the middle, Douglas, have her bend a little at the waist. Yes, that’s it.”

Midnight becomes the picture of tormented subjugation as yoked, naked and tethered her feet work to remain high on toes, her buttocks labor to hold up the weight of her chest and torso, and even the lower back muscles somewhat strain.

“Gee Dad, the height of the plank is perfect,” Douglas notes with enthusiasm, my ruse to veil prior ownership in peril.

“Yes, quite a coincidence,” wondering if the family genes have his pecker hardening as is mine.  

“How long will she stand like this?”

I smile with the question, Douglas not fully understanding the thoroughness of his power.

“As long as you want her to stand,” my response coming as I demonstrate to Douglas the need for the attention of supervising fingers to assure that the long pink inner labia are draped right and left of the plank. 

Midnight quivers with my touch, the altered strips of flesh remaining wondrously sensitive.

Saturday, May 25, 2013

Midnight - Segment XIX

Adorning Midnight’s Cunt

The bowl empties, quite the offering of chow. I adjust the pulley cords, deeming Midnight to have had enough rest. She lifts at the waist to hang upright, a standing position except she remains in suspension, soft broad thigh straps holding her inches off the barn’s floor. From my pocket I retrieve the trinkets from the morning trip to the jewelry store.

Missing from Midnight’s well subjugated body... yoked, tethered at the ankles, pierced deeply at the hips... has been the silver chains decorating and highlighting Mother’s clitoral piercing. Her prior owner deemed such to be unnecessary, perhaps affording too much delight. Such is not within my intended paradigm for Midnight. I want her constantly aroused, always on the edge of orgasm, particularly when being run.

I have thus purchased some fine chainery, slim silver links intended for pendants and lockets. Young Douglas watches with fascination as I demonstrate why Midnight’s enormous bud was pierced horizontally and ringed. I thread one length through the right hip ring, across her pubes, through the clitoral ring and back to the hip. There is an inch or two or slack, but the clever clasp holding the two ends is adjustable, a mechanism which permits me to tighten, should I so desire. 

A second identical chain and adjusting mechanism is likewise threaded through the left hip ring and the clitoral ring. I adjust to decorate, assuring symmetrical slack as the bright silver festoons across her smooth black lower belly right and left.

“Both pretty and practical, don’t you think Douglas?”

My wide eyed son nods as he stares. The chains, though slack as indicated, serve to make both Midnight’s clitoris and her stainless steel ring much more prominent, calling attention there, should for some reason a viewer not notice the outrageously stretched labia.

Midnight stirs. I do believe her odor amplifies and I am going to have great fun if my baubles make her cunny begin to drip.   

“Yes, when I run her, I’ll first tighten these slim silver tethers. Her own motion will cause the chains plus her clitoral ring to oscillate. You are aware that that little nubbin is ultra sensitive, Douglas,” not recalling if my lecture included a discussion of vaginal orgasms versus clitoral.

As I found years ago, it is difficult to determine if and when Midnight blushes, her dark hue masking any telltale rush of circulation. But she does stir a bit, jostling her new chainery. Quivers of joy perhaps?

I do believe she’d like to say something, but I will not afford her the opportunity until next I run her, partake of her oral skills and penetrate that fine tight rectum... another activity which will bring tantalizing stress to her clitoral chains.

Saturday, May 18, 2013

Midnight - Segment XVIII

Training a Young Midnight

“Always hold her head high, Oliver. You want her looking like a proud pony girl.”   

Mother hands me a long slim pole, my end wrapped in leather to accommodate the grip of my left hand. It slims at the end, some eight to ten feet from where I stand, offering much flexibility. There a short cord dangles with a clasp on the free end.

A naked, nubile Midnight stands in the corral area yoked. Hairless, I have worked for a week to please Mother and remove every stand of hair, attack every follicle with harsh smelling depilatory lotion. She is glum in being made bald, considering herself unsightly. Little does she realize how appealing is her animalistic and vulnerable presentation.

Nipples normal, Mother not yet beginning to elongate, youthful labia somewhat dangle, the stretching there presumably begun in her native Rwanda. Despite the deepness of her black skin, one can quickly ascertain that Midnight is blushing. She is outdoors... made to present herself... fresh air wafting about her oiled naked flesh, the cool breeze awakening every nerve ending, emphasizing her exposure, announcing to the world her demeaning servitude.

With her instruction, Mother moves and clips the clasp to Midnight’s nose loop. She then stoops and removes the short hobbling strap, the use of which I have returned.

“Up, up, Oliver. You want her on her toes.”

I raise my hand slowly and gently, with the past week of handling Midnight, well aware of the extreme sensitivity of the nose binding. Midnight’s face follows of course. And yes, head back, forehead skyward, indeed on toes, the presentation is one of pride.

“Very good. So today some pony girl dressage, Oliver. Tidy up her footwork, acclimate her to a controlling hand and the sting of the whip, melt away some of that youthful baby fat, strengthen the legs, thighs and buttocks...”, my regal Mother in her element.

About the corral area, Mother has set up a half dozen cones and some low wooden bars, not quite knee high. A simple obstacle course, Midnight is to be run through it in a preset pattern... step past left cone, step past right cone, jump, step past left, step past right, jump, etc. It is my role to stand in the middle, the length of the controlling pole such that I need only take modest steps as Midnight circles me, the broad radius dictating much exertion, responding to my commands, tugs on the dressage pole and snaps of the whip.     

Mother has had me practicing with the slim nasty single tail. I am reasonably confident I can apply pain without breaking the skin. Marking a girl, as Mother explained, can be detrimental to her value.

‘Her flesh will keloid, Oliver. Do be circumspect.’

So in my right hand is a threatening long single tail, the crack of the whip more for psychological governance, a tug on the dressage pole more than adequate for dressage and strict instruction.

Mother nods and we begin. I am as much of a dilettante as Midnight. But I soon take to another segment of Mother’s avocation, making a girl, denuded of all covering by my hand, run and jump, run and jump, up on toes, run and jump.

The guided route seems random... over two hurdles, back over one, over the next three, back over two, etc. but we repeat and repeat the same route. Over time, the challenge is to have the pony girl memorize the task such that I can offer slack on the dressage pole and she will exercise herself.

Failure to precisely follow the route brings tug on the pole... a snap of the whip.

I learn that the obstacle course Mother sets will change. Tomorrow will be a different configuration. Midnight’s training will begin anew, to again learn, respond to my directing left hand while she memorizes another seemingly random pattern, my excoriating right hand at the ready. Yes, she will adjust her footwork and her response will conform to the mandates of my hand.  

Thus there is not only a physical challenge but, as we circle for well over an hour, a mental one as well. Discipline, concentration... on me, ingraining a sense of pride and accomplishment in pleasing me. 

Saturday, May 11, 2013

Midnight - Segment XVII

Food and Exercise

Whereas a brisk three mile run may seem like adequate exercise, for the likes of Midnight, it is more or less a warm up. Her well chiseled and honed form did not develop languishing in suspension.

So, after breakfast and completing a quick trip to the local jewelry and drug store, I show Douglas how to prepare Midnight’s slop and explain her demanded daily regimen.

“Midnight burns lots of calories, Douglas. She requires high levels of protein and complex carbohydrates. Limited fat, modest sugar.”

My words come as I stuff the blender with a gallimaufry of nutritious foodstuffs, adding a vitamin drink for moisture. There are also added a few droplets of that acquired at the drug store. A prescription for testosterone has been refilled. Ostensibly for me, it works wonders on Midnight, the female limbic system much more susceptible to the common male hormone. Had we not depilated her years ago, hair would grow in abundance. Instead it’s her clitoris that transforms. I like the thought of growing a little penis on her.     

“That’s really good food, Dad!” son Douglas surprisedly exclaims.

“Nothing but the best for our pony girl,” flipping the switch for the blender.

“But you’re ruining it!” the whirring blades turning the concoction to an unrecognizable grayish mush.

“For Midnight, food is to be functional, never something to enjoy. Hopefully the blending transforms the taste, hate to think she would identify anything... or find enjoyment,” my grin one of wickedness.

“So observe. There’s no magic recipe. Just stuff the blender, throw in some form of liquid and mash it until it becomes revolting.”

I pour into a bowl and grab a spoon.

“You’ll also need to supervise her exercise and you may find entertainment in an hour or two of dressage training.”

I lead from the kitchen... out the door... back to the barn with Douglas following... my seed planted.

“Dressage, Dad, what’s that?”

“The term comes from the French word, translated as ‘training’. In equine terms, horse and rider are expected to perform from memory a series of predetermined movements. The purpose is to develop, through standardized progressive training methods, a horse's natural athletic ability and willingness to perform, thereby maximizing its potential as a good riding horse.”

Douglas pushes open the barn door. We step within. The gaze of both pair of eyes immediately falls on our hanging pony girl. Not having weighted her elongated pink charms, she once again squirms in suspension, attempting to frottage her labia against her spread inner thighs.

More naughtiness.

“Another reason to keep her well spread Douglas. Note how she attempts to bring self gratification. I’m sure you will note the odor.”

Yes, the barn reeks, despite having hours ago offered Midnight a long cleansing with redolent soap. The scent of lavender has been overwhelmed by the redolence of her stimulated vagina.

I slip away the hood, offering Midnight a ‘tsk, tsk’, as mild rebuke. More severe admonishment or punishment is superfluous. After all, her libidinous actions only frustrate herself. She’ll never bring herself to ultimate climax while well bound and held open.

Handing son Douglas the bowl, I instruct.

“Slow and deliberate. She’s famished and will want to gobble. But remember, you are always in control.”

Midnight brazenly glares at me, knowing not to speak but signaling that indeed an empty stomach demands sustenance. So the feeding begins, one leisurely spoonful at a time, me nodding when a second, third and fourth offering is deemed appropriate, the timing so much augmenting both Midnight’s frustration and her owners power over her.

“Dressage, Dad. Midnight is a cart pony, not ridden,” Douglas’s curiosity bidding a continuation of our conversation.

“Oh, yes. Well for Midnight, the form of dressage is best having her prance through an obstacle course, the timing, the moves, the direction dictated by a trainer, practiced and practiced until memorized. It hones the foot work, acclimates her to being controlled plus inures obedience, not to mention of course conditioning legs and buttocks.”

My words bring reflection, recalling my introduction to Mother’s form of pony girl dressage many years ago...

Saturday, May 4, 2013

Midnight - Segment XVI

Binding Midnight

One more lesson before stepping to the house for a hearty breakfast.

Midnight has been well cleansed inside and out. I watched with paternal pride as Douglas began to take comfort in his governance. Releasing the enema, the excretions gushed to the table top where under my instructions, Douglas waited, spray nozzle in hand, and quickly rinsed all down the drain. Then he doused the nakedness, Midnight seeming to acclimate. If a cat, she would have been purring as soap and a soft chamois laved everywhere... except for her cunny.

Yes, I admonished Douglas, never, ever was a pony girl to benefit from hygiene there.

‘You’ll come to enjoy her smell, Douglas... it embarrasses to no end... and she takes comfort in that.’ divulging more secrets of the masochist.

Still Douglas reveled in handling her, commenting as do most on the amazingly firm blemishless black epidermis and the taut muscling beneath. I encouraged him to take liberties, express his ownership... feeling, caressing, kneading wherever he so chose.

Midnight was in her element and unfortunately the wetness of the bath cloaked what I knew to be a sopping wet vagina.

Massaged then oiled, just as when standing on the auction block, Midnight glows, bringing more awe, Douglas not only again feeling and palpating her entire body, but partaking in the visual delight of her shining blackness, slowly turned to a masterful piece of sculpture, exhibited for our viewing pleasure. 

It is now time for her nap.

“Hobble her, Douglas, always,” my words coming as the ankle restraints are released from the short chains of the cleansing table.

The short strap joins her feet. The yoke is released from the clever stanchions and lastly I unhook her leash. Handing the controlling length of leather to Douglas, he guides her from the cleansing table to where she is to be suspended. There I show him the procedure for securing her from the overhead ropes... the waiting boxes, broad straps and the cords of the pulley to be attached to her yoke.

“When you want her to sleep, slacken the cords from the pulley. She can thus lean and lower herself to rest prostrate. Always assure her entire body, feet included, are off the floor. It is important to imbue helplessness. Make sure she is well spread as well, such assures the humiliation she craves, having her cunny always open for inspection and access.”

Douglas nods, quite the willing student. Task completed, we both step back and observe the fruit of our labors. Do I detect tears? Of shame? Of frustration? Of the humiliation she so desperately demands? 

“She’s crying , Dad,” Douglas also noting. “Why?”

I step behind and without effort deftly slide two fingers into her wide open inviting sex. The simple penetration causes motion. As her naked form gently swings to and fro in suspension, I hold up the drenched digits before Douglas. He just smiles, the imputed knowledge of her arousal answering his own question.

My son is a quick learner, he realizes Midnight is happy.

I hood our pony girl then adjust the pulley cords, her torso lowering to permit slumber.

“Let’s eat.”

Saturday, April 27, 2013

Midnight - Segment XV

The Cleansing Table

There is really no need to secure Midnight to the low, well drained washing table. She thrills with her ablutions after a good long run in harness and would willingly endure.

Still, there are my rules. She is to be held immobile, at all times in thorough restraint, unless pulling the cart or other vehicle of conveyance. It makes her eager to be run.

“Over here, Douglas. You’re going to give Midnight a good cleansing,” patting the top of the slab of stone.

Beveled, drained, plumbing fixtures above, the elaborate cleansing table, a slab of marble with some special features, beckons a sweaty well worn pony girl.

At one end, left and right, are adjustable stanchions designed to hold in place the ends of Midnight’s yoke. At the opposing end are short chains, well secured to the marble, to be clipped to Midnight’s ankle restraints.

Thus as I direct, Midnight knows to mount, kneel, lower her head to align her yoke into the stanchions, and part her feet. As always, I want her spread open, revealing all, imbuing a sense of vulnerability as her buttocks part and the long labia dangle between forcibly spread thighs. Within moments, the yoke is secured as are her ankles, making Midnight one with the table. Her leash is tied off above, holding steady her face and head. Then the bit is slipped out, Midnight knowing to remain silent as I furtively press a finger to my lips. 

Douglas becomes a little squeamish when I announce that thorough daily cleansings begin with a long deep and soapy enema.

As stated, Mother spared no time and money in caring for her property, for those she owned. The formidable table and stanchion configuration is quite an investment. Midnight’s yoke can be lowered to mandate the proper posture. I thus show Douglas how to work the adjustable stanchions and within moments Midnight kneels in a most obscene and revealing pose, head and shoulders low, spread and open buttocks high. The tips of the long nipples abrade the cool marble and I smile in seeing the long pink nubs crinkle and harden.

We fill the enema bag... soap, warm water. I have an ulterior motive for the deep colonic we are going to administer. Midnight’s colon remains filled with my seed, the evidence of sodomy needs to be purged. 

I note that Midnight begins to quiver. All the years of intense degradation and she remains so wonderfully shy about being handled by men she does not know. I thus mandate that Douglas do all the touching, including well greased fingers working that tight but well used sphincter.

“No gloves, Douglas, it’s too impersonal and it’s best you and Midnight get to know one another... intimately,” my words coming as index and middle finger plunge deeply where my penis so joyously reveled.

And so the morning jaunt comes to an entertaining end, watching a helpless Midnight quiver as Douglas clumsily stuffs her rectum with an oversized enema nozzle, the valve is opened and the slow torment begins.

“Just ignore any moans, Douglas. Deep within she enjoys...”

Saturday, April 20, 2013

Midnight - Segment XIV

Douglas the Groom

Having left a note on Douglas’s bedroom door, he greets us at the barn door. I smile to myself... no hesitation for this normally obstinate teen. Last night’s many lessons have indeed piqued prurient interest in our newly acquired beast.

It’s warmer in the mid morning sun, and whereas I was able to work Midnight into a good sweat in the early morning cool, her sudoriferous form now exudes rivulets which stream to her calves and feet. I crop the buttocks with zeal, the thwack of leather on wet skin sure to further impress young Douglas. The cart lurches, attaining top speed. And so I drive Midnight at an unsustainable pace for the final quarter mile, Douglas observing with awe.

Yes, at six foot two, 190 pounds of pure muscle, a yoked Midnight makes an impression with those stretched nipples jutting forth and the elongated labia flopping wildly between rapidly pumping thighs.

I sometimes wish I could both observe and be the flagellant working her into a lather.    

I pull the cart to a stop and direct, the first day of ‘Douglas the groom’s’ training.

“Hobble her, then take the reins,” tossing to Douglas the short ankle strap.

The first step is facile. But then I must explain that the reins must drawn from the cart and back through the eyelets on the plastic yoke, leaving such looped through the ends of the bit and the nose restraint.

I dismount and demonstrate.

“Be very gentle, Douglas, besides the bit pressing her mouth and lips, the nose loop penetrates her sinus cavity, thus applied tension irritates a myriad of nerve endings,” reaching forth to tweak my son’s nose.

“Ow! Dad!”

“Just so you understand. Handling the nose loop... and anything attached to it, offers instant and thorough control over her. You must be appreciative... as appreciative as her.”

Douglas nods, his eyes watering from the untoward pinch of my fingers. Rather brazen of me, but the point is made. Do not thoughtlessly apply suffering. Pain is to be applied for a reason.

“Now take the reins, one in each hand. That’s it, now just a simple tug left then right...”

Douglas complies and for the first time in his life experiences the exhilaration of controlling the subordinate human beast. Remaining attached to the cart, Midnight’s face diligently follows Douglas’s slow draw to the left then back to the right.

I smile with the dismayed look on Midnight’s face, a well trained and experienced pony girl having to respond to the neophyte. Yet she has no choice. And I am willing to bet that a simple splay of those labia and quick diddle of her vagina will reveal the wetness which betrays her true reaction to a controlling hand. It arouses.

“Now draw her into the barn, Douglas. Hold her head high. Always demand good form from a pony girl. Slowly now, remember you’ve hobbled her...”  

Douglas raises his hands.

“Higher, bring her up to her toes. Pony girls look more obeisant on toes. She will be more respectful of your governance... be more obedient... use your power.”

More comical foot work, as on toes, Midnight is forced to prance. Though the way is short, the steps are many, and I note Douglas’s eyes are glued below to where the dark pink flesh of Midnight’s vaginal opening announce her ownership and forced modification.

Into the barn, I show Douglas how to release the prongs from the hip rings. Then, freed of the cart, I direct to the washing table. It’s bath time. And whereas Midnight normally enjoys the deluge of warm water, soapy chamois and my caressing hands, I am sure she will once again find reservation. As opposed to last night when Douglas merely watched, on this morning he will touch... everywhere. Naked pony girls no longer have need for modesty. Yet the humiliation and the concurring concupiscent reaction remain.

Saturday, April 13, 2013

Midnight - Segment XIII

Countering Apprehension

“Your spouse wants to cane me,” a somewhat somnolent Midnight proclaims.

Midnight is in repose, kneeling, belly pressed over the familiar log, upper body prostrate. My semi erect penis continues to rest inside her tight rectum. We let it slowly become flaccid leaving behind a massive discharge of male effluent. I lean, my torso resting on her muscled form for support, my energy temporarily depleted after fucking with fervor. My warming her nakedness is appreciated, the morning air still nippy.

Yes, Midnight remains tight... marvelously tight. With male pride, I ripped her open... and reveled in so doing. My thrusting motion caused her labia to rhythmically dangle back and forth, occasionally brushing my scrotum. This brings to her tantalizing joy and pleasing thoughts for me... that I am seizing male pleasure and, but for faint grazes of her stretched labia, completely  denying her.

The sexual power exchange enthralls.

I recuperate as she advantages herself of moments of permitted speech... ungagged, unbridled, and not gasping for breath.

“It’s Victoria’s thing, Midnight. One cannot deny a woman of her ilk her pleasures. I think deep within you will enjoy. Your prior owner was a woman...”

“She was not overly harsh, Sir. She spared the crop and whip as long as I orally accommodated.”

I laugh, the notion that Midnight thinks she can somehow dictate any form of intercourse amongst her owners brings a degree of drollness.

“It is not within your purview to decide how you will serve... how you will be used, Midnight. Surely you must know that by now.”

I reach beneath, left hand and right each finding a firm pony breast, depleted of most feminine fat through extensive exercise, yet remaining overly sensitive, to both excoriating crop and sensuous touch.

“She’s given to apply bamboo here as well, Midnight” my fingers bringing joy as I feel her tighten in fear.

A moment of silent thought, then Midnight finds words.

“I am not sure I can take that. Not there.”

“Oh, but you will. It is your role to accept what others offer... no matter the pain, the discomfort, the humiliation. You will not have a choice. Picture yourself strapped down, well exposed, offering all to the chastising hand of a Domineering woman. It excites, Midnight. Deep within it arouses you. I know... and in time you will as well.”

Midnight puckers her rectum, squeezing my spent penis and adding a degree of post coitus thrill. In turn, there has been comparatively none for her, of course. Pleasure has been all mine to take.

“I need to be run, Master.”

Reluctantly, I arise, with a ‘plop’ my flaccid penis exiting a well trained anus, my torso no longer warming Midnight’s nakedness. My well fucked pony girl is right, breakfast awaits. Extended moments in the carnal embrace of the Sodomite will bring questions.

A crooked finger slips through Midnight’s nose loop. I force her to stand. I guide, smiling lasciviously in watching a hobbled Midnight hop back to the waiting pony cart, labia rippling with each strained footfall.

“Welts will nicely adorn your black flesh, Midnight.”

As I return my beast to the restraints of the pony cart, clipping the prongs to her hip rings, I recall the persnickety care Mother offered Midnight’s skin, at the time the exacting level of her attentiveness lost on this hormone deluged teen.

Yes, Midnight was sunned regularly, nose loop secured high above to a stanchion in the corral, her entire body exposed to the intense rays of the summer sun. Hour after hour she was made to expose herself in the hot direct rays. As dark as her Rwandan skin was, Mother assured she was further blackened, day after day after day.  

And then there was the effect of ultra violet rays on unprotected pink flesh. Yes, a crop applied to sun burned pink flesh can be quite effective... limited exertion... maximum response.

Before returning the bit, I stand proximate, a finger hooking the nose loop to draw Midnight’s face to my zipper. Without need for a command she cleanses the moist, odorous appendage, the final task of the well trained sodomite. Saving time, I zip myself then press the bit to her lips and draw the slack from the reins.

Such an invigorating view, I think to myself in mounting the cart... though I barely noticed. 

Saturday, April 6, 2013

Midnight - Segment XII

Running Midnight

I am an early riser. Victoria sleeps relatively late. The morning thus becomes an ideal time to harness Midnight and have her flex those well developed but most likely cramped muscles.

Concluding my evening lecture, I not only left her legs restrained in a folded position, after a priapic Douglas exited the barn, I took the time to apply the special lotion and robustly pull away at Midnight’s pink parts. I then enshrouded both labia and nipples with the soft stretching straps and located a challenging set of weights, such that have previously dangled from her feminine parts, and attached with fervor. Thus her modification continues.

Whereas the elongation of her vaginal lips is culturally acceptable for Midnight, the nipple stretching is found to be both objectionable and aggravating. Yet it is for the best. Long nipples offer easy targets for the crop. As stated, running a girl is for her exercise, not the equestrian. Therefore the lightest of strokes to a nipple can bring instant compliance, nominal exertion for the rider. In the long run, it’s best for both.

I forgo a morning shower for now, to bathe after any prospective coupling with Midnight deemed to be the wiser course. Casually dressed, I head to the barn, hearing the propane heater roar in offering offsetting warmth to the early Spring coolness.

Midnight hangs, prostrate, just as I left her. She no longer contracts her muscles to spur an arousing swaying motion. In being weighted, she knows such futile motion will only hasten the stretching of her sensitive flesh. 

Hearing the barn door open, she stirs, the limited temperature making her eager to be harnessed as intended. I therefore waste no time in preparing her, heartened that at some point son Douglas  will be trained as a groom and each morning have the naked form well trussed and waiting for me harnessed to a cart.

But for now, it remains my task.

There comes a sigh of relief with the removal of the four weights. The soft straps are unraveled. A bucket is pushed under her pudendum and with some sibilant sounds, no further encouragement is needed for Midnight to open herself as I reach to part labia which appear to have grown another half inch.

It is not true of course, my male imagination offering pleasant delusion. Still there will be steady inexorable lengthening, probably attaining the imagined half inch of growth within a month or two.

I next remove the hood and extricate the extreme penis gag. Now is as good a time as ever to permit Midnight to speak, son and wife in slumber.

“Thank you sir,” the humble words coming after Midnight clears her throat and finds moisture for her lips. 

I release the leg straps and Midnight graciously smiles as she slowly straightens her legs and lowers her feet to relieve the cramping.

“Must you bind me so firmly, sir? I cannot move at all.”

“It is best for you, Midnight. You know that. Deep within a girl like you finds comfort. Plus I can safely assume you’re now eager to perform for me.”

She reluctantly nods as I turn to prepare the light pony cart. The two wheeled vehicle rests nearby, nothing more than a seat mounted on an axle, two aluminum poles jut forth, Midnight to stand between, her deeply implanted hip rings to bear the23 stress of pulling her Master. 

Yes, Midnight will be run completely naked, ubiquitous yoke and nylon ankle cuffs her only covering. No waist belt as utilized at the auction house. Mother preferred to expose as much of a pony girl as possible... a penchant with which I came to concur at an early age. There is an optimization in binding a girl. Restraints offer the modesty of covering. I prefer demeaning nakedness, as Mother vehemently suggested. So Mother had Midnight pierced at the hips, deeply, stainless steel rings mounted on posts which internally penetrate bone. Thus Midnight will be made one with the light pony cart, but not overly covered in leather restraints.
As Midnight kicks her legs, limbering muscles held in strict immobility, I begin to water her... lots of water. I squeegee one pint then return to the barn’s cleansing area to refill.

“It was most humiliating to be introduced to your son like that, Master. Spread wide open and exposed.”

“I am glad you enjoyed it. He’s going to learn to care for you, Midnight. After I have run you this morning, he’s going to cleanse. It will be interesting to see if my lecture spurred any adolescent male thoughts. You will accommodate him, by the way. And report to me. Since Douglas thinks you can’t talk, it will be amusing to learn how a hormone laden teen will take advantage of you.”

“And your wife?”

“She will benefit from bed sheets made more presentable,” I muse, assuming that Midnight, having so often fellated me as a budding teen, catches my drift.

I squeegee more water. Midnight at one time resisted being filled and filled. Years of training in strict bondage have brought complacency in being compelled and controlled. She swallows.  

“You always enjoyed my taste. I am sure you will come to enjoy Douglas as well.”

“Yes sir.”
“And as you are aware, Victoria is an aficionado of the cane. When the occasion arises, do scream unintelligibly. You’ve been silenced. The ruse must continue for now. No pleading. No discernible words.”

I raise the cords holding the yoke, returning Midnight to being suspended upright. Next I return the two boxes and her bare feet deftly find the smooth surfaces, worn by many years of mounting and dismounting, to stand on toes. Weight transferred, the thigh straps are easily loosened, lowering and permitting her feet to slide off the boxes and come together on the barn floor.  

With that I engage the hobbling strap and clip a leash to her nose loop. Midnight objects.

“You need not hobble me sir. I will not kick”

“I know you will not kick... because you will always be hobbled when not suspended or harnessed to a cart. It is important for you. Control, Midnight. A girl like you needs to sense constant control.”

“I suppose you are right, sir,” the words coming as I untie the cords holding the yoke.

“Time to be run, Midnight,” my voice gushing with enthusiasm.

Holding high the leash, I lead Midnight, prancing on toes, to the light cart. Nothing more than a seat mounted on a pair of wheels and two prongs to be attached to the hip rings. Midnight knows to position herself with little guidance as I stoop, raise the aluminum poles and secure such to rings, snapping in place utilizing ‘D’ clamps.

A simple bit is next, rather welcomed after enduring the long stout penis gag. She willingly opens to take it. No bridle necessary, I know she will not attempt spit it out. Then I remove the leash and in place attach thin strips of leather, nose ring to a waiting loop in the bit, through a loop on the yoke and then to the seat area... left side and right. Her reins. I turn off the propane heater and open the barn door.

Watching the reaction of Midnight’s coal black skin as wafts of cold air rush in is delightful. The nipples crinkle, with their length the dark pink shafts turning to pencil points. I sit, crop in hand leaving the hobbling strap in place. Nothing more than deviant fun, I apply a crisp snap of the crop to the right nipple and a perplexed Midnight instantly shuffles forth, the reins directing to the door, the encumbered feet bringing a most entertaining and strained gait.

“If you again object to being hobbled, I will run you like this for miles,” I admonish. “Understand?” 

A silenced Midnight nods, the added tension on the reins bringing a pang of suffering.

Exiting the door I pull to a stop. Dismount, shut the barn door then stoop to remove the hobbling strap from a rapidly chilling Midnight.  

Yes, she is most eager to be run, so much wants to perform for me. Still I take my time, reseat myself and pause. She knows to remain perfectly still, obediently waiting until I once again apply a snap of the leather to a nipple long and sensitive.

‘I’ve missed you,’ a sentimental side wants to call out.

Yet, I refrain from emotion and finally apply a convincing stroke to the left nipple. I am sure Midnight has missed me as well, judging from the instant and obedient contraction of enormous thigh muscles and buttocks, my flick of the wrist bringing forth quick acceleration of the cart.

Such a delightful morning.

Despite the cool morning air, I soon have Midnight worked into a good sweat, droplets flinging from a moist, glabrous body which gleams under the rising morning sun. I deliberately select challenging inclined ranch paths that lead up a modest hill. The vista there can be invigorating, and the many climactic releases offered in the past by Midnight’s receptive apertures bring fond  memories of adolescence.

So I crop away, feeling the cart lurch with the quick but effective nips of agony, knowing that Midnight is in her element, legs pumping impressively, enduring, exerting, wondrously tormented... yet enjoying.

Air suctioned in desperation whistles past her bit. The muscling ripples and rolls. What buttocks! On occasion I reach forth and palm a pair of pink labia which flop about, thumping against her inner thighs, serving to both amuse and entice.

We finally reach the apex, and though I tug unmercifully on the reins, strained head rotating under my exacting direction, by rote Midnight knows where I want her. A convenient clearing, a smooth boulder upon which to sit, a fallen tree where, tummy down, a Midnight released from harness can rest and open herself for the anal penetration she first ignominiously learned to accept and later came to deviantly crave.

I pull the cart to a stop and dismount. Expelled lungfuls of demanded oxygen bring snorts. I loosen the reins, drawing slack in order pop the bit from Midnight’s mouth. It dangles just below her chin, suspended by the slim leather lengths which remain attached to her nose loop, threaded through her yoke and attached to the front of the cart where I tied off. I stoop and again hobble her ankles with the short strap. On this occasion she utters a wordless ‘umph’ of disapproval. I choose to ignore.

“Welcome home,” my tone one of genuine acceptance.

“Thank you sir,” Midnight manages to offer between gulps of needed air. “You ran me rather hard.”        

“A girl like you needs to be run hard... and cropped,” stooping again as I insert a hand between well heated thighs. My digits knowingly splay the lips then middle and ring finger glide between her loose labia, easily slipping into a vagina gushing with the juices of feminine excitement. Midnight squeals with the joy of my evanescent touch.

Withdrawing to hold the sopping wet odoriferous digits before her face, I smile, my look one of Schadenfreude.

“Would you suppose this is perspiration, Midnight? Are you sweating now from your vagina? Or did that demented psyche of yours secretly enjoy every agonizing stroke to those long stretched nipples? Yes, you need to be worked... naked... bound... well exposed and displayed, made to perform.”

Her masochistic needs are an addiction. And males such as me, sadistic males such as me, have become the dealer of the drug which she craves.
She demurs in answering, still not fully cognizant of what we of the governing ilk understand so much better. Naked, harnessed and cropped... indeed forced to perform... Midnight is aroused. She is in her element, but she comprehends not.

“May I taste you, sir?” the tone so tantalizingly obeisant.       

How can my smile of evil not transform to one of condescension? I move proximate. Midnight knows to drop to her knees.

“I need to relieve myself first... and I do believe you need to be watered. Then bring me up and I’ll take you over the log, tummy down, back arched, thighs spread. It’s been awhile, but you know the position...”

“Yes, sir,” those talented teeth and lips working my zipper as I cradle her bald, sweat coated head.

“I have not brought lubricant. Be sure you moisten me well... otherwise it may hurt,” I forewarn.
We always kept Midnight tight back there, maximizing penile pleasure. Mother understood the penchants of the male, regularly slathering Midnight’s rectum with the astringent alum... hydrated potassium aluminum sulfate... to assure a purse string muscle well toned and both receptive yet delightfully reluctant to fully yield.

Hopefully her former owner has done the same.       

Saturday, March 30, 2013

Midnight - Segment XI

Opening Midnight

Having explained the external female genitalia, making sure young Douglas is aware of all erogenous areas, I return to the trusty chest of drawers remaining stocked with so many of the tools of Mother’s avocation.

Lots of restraints, straps, clips, clamps, a wide range of weights for nipples and labia, I select a speculum and grab a flashlight from the wall.

“More parts, Douglas. The female form is marvelously complicated... many ways to make a girl feel good, to suffer, and in general manifest control and ownership.”

I am amused to think that for the first time since achieving puberty, Douglas truly listens to the patriarch of the family. With hormones surging, I ignore the bulge in his trousers, certainly not one to make judgements about that.     

As usual, in returning to the rear where Midnight displays her modified sex between forcibly parted thighs and now upturned feet, my nose detects continuing if not growing arousal. Vaginal juices ooze to the point that a droplet has formed at the tip of the right labium. So convenient. I use the abundance to coat the stainless steel speculum... and warm it. I am such a thoughtful gentleman.

Probably unnecessary with the degree of Midnight’s arousal, but assuring that the smooth steel slips inward without mishap is standard operating procedure and I want to make sure Douglas takes note.

“We keep Midnight open, stretching to excess the vaginal opening. For the most part it ruins her for vaginal penetration... by the male appendage... obviating normal coitus... yet readies her for fisting, should a given owner or rider care to explore within.”

I am sure Douglas can Google the term ‘fisting’ and learn more of that wondrously domineering activity at some other time.

The prongs of the speculum glide with ease. I twist the adjusting lever to open and from beneath the hood hear a moan... of pleasure?.. of discomfort? Mostly likely in muted protest.

I am opening Midnight’s most intimate anatomy... before a boy she has never before met. Her cunt yawns, seemingly so receptive to manipulation. Ostensibly the female reaction is to demonstrate reservation... silly shyness. But with the likes of girls like Midnight, the psyche, the inner reaction is to revel in the intensity of the humiliation. Midnight feels she is an object... to be explored without compunction. She enjoys being such.

So I ignore whatever reservations she attempts to express, smiling to myself in knowing that Midnight may verbally try to offer resistance, but a well drenched cunny suggests otherwise.

The odd delight of the masochist...

So my lecture continues, pointing out the mysterious skene’s glands, explaining the unproven theory that it is from such tiny openings that a girl will gush ejaculate when properly masturbated. A finger enters and ever so gently rubs the urethral sponge. Midnight lurches, nicely complementing my point concerning the area as a source of pleasure.

The Bartholin’s glands are next located and explained, Midnight’s pair working with zeal in offering so much lubrication.

The urethral opening is more prominently displayed and I explain to Douglas its function and that he will be assisting Midnight in urination, clearing the way for the free flow of excretions.    
Lastly I turn on the flashlight and gesture for Douglas to stoop. With the vaginal entrance widely parted, we can visually examine Midnight’s sex right up to the cervix. And of course I must point out the anterior fornix and another feminine mystery, the climactic reaction to penetration and stimulation there... in Midnight’s case making her cunny gush like a fire hose.

“Do be wary if you choose to explore there, Douglas. Midnight here may just wet you. She’s amusingly orgasmic.”

Douglas nods. I will not overwhelm by explaining my protocol of strict chastity on this evening. He has his head full as it is. Tomorrow morning, after I take Midnight for her morning run, I’ll chart out her care and who has what responsibilities. Tonight’s tete a tete is merely to invoke interest in Douglas and warm him to his new chores.

And I do believe I have piqued his interest.

Saturday, March 23, 2013

Midnight - Segment X


Victoria laughs as I thrust everything left over from our meal into a blender.

“Whatever are you doing?” the sharp words uttered as the motor whirrs to turn the remnants of an otherwise sumptuous dinner into an unidentifiable mass of gruel.

“For Midnight, she needs feeding.”

“That’s what she eats?”

“She’ll eat whatever we decide to offer... and enjoy it.”

Victoria nods in thought, never having total control over a being... at least not long term control.

“It’s getting cold. She’ll stay out there?”

“I’ll fire up the heater. Send Douglas out in a little while. May as well begin to acclimate.”

I pour the hideous mass, Midnight’s dinner, into a bowl and grab a large spoon, surprised with Victoria’s concern.

Years ago, I met my future wife at an upscale D/s club, Le Femme. Quite the nasty woman, at least that was her reputation. I never watched her work, but she was given to lounge in the ‘bad girls ballroom’, males forbidden. We guys at the bar speculated as to the going’s on, some of us probably envious. Yes, dominant lesbian/bisexual undertakings offered intrigue, and there was a strong rumor that both demanding Dominatrixes and mousey ‘bad girls’ were all stripped naked, the hearsay being that pain and torment was brought to bear until subjugated tongues and lips laved and sucked... everywhere.

I often wondered how many strokes of the cane were required before a subordinate girl realized that demanded analingus, no matter the repulsion, was the better choice over excoriated breasts and buttocks.

Anyway, with Mother’s tutelage, a lad of my ilk was not, is not, one to make judgements. My Dominance was more subtle... having my penis sucked, for example, by a kneeling naked subordinate while discussing the day’s events over a martini with fellow libertines.

The rumors I believe were well founded. Many worn and flustered Dommes exited the ballroom. quite in need of thirst quenchers after a laborious interlude... which of course ended in deviant oral sex.

Long canings, multiple strokes of rattan, can tire a girl. I met a sweaty, robed Victoria when she exited the ballroom, propped herself on the barstool next to me and ordered a sizable brew. Interests aligned, somewhat, we talked, dated and in time married.     

My recollections end as I enter the barn. I smile in seeing a hooded Midnight. She works to contract various muscles, causing her nakedness to sway in the simple cords and suspension straps. My nose detects the feminine arousal of a long undouched cunny. In so swinging about, the long labia flop, brushing inner thighs to frottage and bring self induced arousal.

Such a naughty, naughty girl.

But I fear not. She will not, cannot bring herself to orgasm... only abet the extended frustration of forced chastity.

I turn on the heater, somewhat surprised that it still functions. The barn is drafty, the ceiling high. The propane fueled device will offer moderate warmth, yet keep the space well below normal room temperature and thereby continuing to thicken that marvelous coat of coal black flesh. A chilled Midnight will be quite eager to run in harness for me tomorrow morning.

I pull up a low stool and slip away the hood. Midnight blinks, smiling as her eyes adjust.

“You’ve been kept chaste. Your owner did not masturbate you?” my question apropos.

I inquire as I unbuckle the gag then slowly slip the specially formed dildo from her mouth.

“Thank you. Thank you sir.”

Her voice is raspy. Tongue and lips work to return moisture. Finally come more words.

“May I speak?”

“Yes. Victoria is in the house for the night. My son Douglas will visit and you are to return to silence when you hear him approach. He is not to know you can talk. And you will obey him... just as you are to obey everyone.”

Midnight nods.

“I have been held in complete chastity for years, Master. My prior owner did not accommodate. She was aloof to a girl’s needs.”

I smile, laughing inwardly. How could a woman be aloof to feminine needs? More likely she found complete denial to be subtly pleasing.

“Will you masturbate me? Like before?” the plea so heart rendering.

In younger days of naive leniency, yes I masturbated Midnight. Very much reveling in the level of control, I made her squirt in climactic ecstasy... sometime later realizing I was too generous.

“Possibly. When you’re good. And if you keep our relationship a secret for now.”

“I will run for you, suck you, take you anally...” a most humble Midnight wheedles.

“I know you will. And you will do so while kept chaste. But perhaps I will milk your cunt. You like that.”

Midnight’s look becomes lugubrious.

“But not if I don’t squirt for you. Cunny milkings are slow torment.”

Yes, I know... that’s why I so freely offer, I think to myself.

Formerly offered as foreplay to orgasm, I would feather a well trussed Midnight, both labia and clitoris, bringing forth an abundance of vaginal secretions which would drip and drip. I’d capture such in a bowl, thus the reference to milking. The smell can be quite invigorating for a young libidinous male... and most frustrating and humiliating for the well subjugated pony girl. Those sessions ended with a knowing finger or two smoothing over the urethral sponge... and a little exploration of the anterior fornix... to bring forth a climactic eruption of feminine essence.

Mother taught well.

“Enough. I have glop. Yum, yum,” I mockingly entice in picking up the bowl of foul mush.

Days of auld lang syne, I spoon feed, pulling on Midnight’s nose binding to make her thank me for every revolting spoonful. 

“I think you’ll be happy in returning here to the ranch, Midnight. Mother’s gone, but you’ll find Victoria’s tendance to be warming,” stifling a laugh with the double entendre... warmed by endless applications of bamboo.

As I scrape the bottom of the bowl, I hear the soft scrunch of rubber soled running shoes compacting the clay soil near the barn’s entrance. Though having cautioned Midnight about speech, it brings more surety to slip back in place the ungainly penis gag, its length and girth a constant reminder of subservience.

As the large door creaks open with Douglas’s formidable push, Midnight struggles to draw the stout faux phallus fully into its home, the depths of her throat. I laugh.

“You’re gagging, pretty pony girl. With female ownership certain talents have been brought to neglect.”

My words bring a sheepish smile, Midnight a sucker of cocks nonpareil. She nods, suggesting agreement, and I know she will endeavor to sharpen her former prowess. A twinge in my loins indicates a certain male organ will accommodate oral practice.

Buckling in place the gag, young Douglas approaches with the reverence of a pious churchgoer. Indeed, hanging by well spread thighs and the wrists and neck captured by her yoke, Midnight’s bald, black nakedness appears as would an animal awaiting pagan sacrifice. The old barn has been retrofitted with the extreme brightness of halogen lighting, and a degree of sheen from the auctioneer’s oiling of her skin remains. My equine servant glows.

Thus Douglas is in awe, his father appearing to be preparing a beast for slaughter.

“Mom sent me,” Douglas’s words halting in amazement.

“Douglas... meet Midnight.”

I let Douglas further gaze and am amused to smell evidence of arousal, Midnight’s undouched sex betraying the reaction of the masochist, the excitement derived from the humiliation of being displayed naked and bound not to be denied. Vaginally, she secretes.   

“Wow, Dad. What is it?”

“A pony girl, Douglas. A human beast of burden. Well trained, completely subservient, desiring to serve and please. She’ll be occupying the barn. She is owned... by me... and by your mother.”

“She’s got no hair! Anywhere!”

“Permanently removed for hygiene and to impute a proper frame of mind. Hair offers the modesty of covering, Douglas. Midnight shall never have that,” the words those of my Mother so many years ago.

Douglas’s dumbfounded reaction brings me back to those years when I in turn was first introduced to Midnight. At that time a body of clay to be molded, now a sculpture, a divine masterpiece. When held motionless, she figuratively transforms to a statue destined for the Louvre.   

No diversion, youthful eyes freely examine. Something about a gagged and naked girl in bondage invites brazen inspection, the conclusion coming quickly that she can neither physically nor verbally protest. I reach for the hood, knowing that Midnight’s psychological capitulation will be augmented by blindness.

I want her objectified, from the very start Douglas thinking of her as, not necessarily a car to be polished, perhaps better verbalized as a plant to be watered. 

Midnight’s lugubrious look briefly returns as I again introduce her to darkness.

“I think it’s time, Douglas, that you have more responsibilities here at the ranch.”

My pedantic words are offered as I reach above and adjust the ropes tensioning Midnight’s thigh straps. As widely spread as she hangs, yes, I can spread her further. Then I march to the chest of drawers which earlier offered the hood and retrieve two belt like lengths of leather. I continue my lecture as I lift one dangling foot, bring it up to the massive globe of buttock flesh encircle and buckle to hold left leg then right in a folded position... thighs and calves pressed together.

My actions most obscenely present the female genitalia, enlarged and ringed clitoris, stretched labia. I somewhat struggle to recall mother’s informing words concerning the female sex organs, but as I warm to my role, words such as perineum, vaginal orifice, mons pubis, labia majora, labia minora, urethral meatus, glans clitoris roll forth. I find that my lecture sadly short changes Douglas. Midnight’s clitoral hood has been excised. Explaining the flap of flesh found on normal girls will need to be saved for another lecture.

Yet my clinically precise words bring Midnight to not only squirm, but her cunny begins to drip as well.

How prevenient! Explanation of feminine arousal follows, and more specifically that of the masochistic submissive, pining for intense embarrassment and the humiliation of being bound and brought under exacting control.