Midnight - Segment I

Midnight

Copyright 2013

by Chris Bellows

Author's Note (mea culpa): For some reason I refrain from spending time on ribald and lusty titles. Publishers suggest it is essential to sell books. I prefer to labor on story line and character development.

The Subterfuge

Naked, well toned muscling somewhat straining to pose on toes, dark skin gleaming, my wife not so much envies as she assesses.

“She’s tall,” finally managing to find words.

She is. Six foot two, 190 pounds, waist 30 inches, limited bust of 34 inches, an impressive 40 inches at the hips... really at the buttocks. I know this, not needing to peruse the offering brochure.

An apprehensive wifely hand reaches forth, a trembling finger tip lifts a metal disk attached to a formidable ring piercing the naked flesh at the right hip. Wife Victoria reads.

“Her name is Midnight. And she was born in the same year as you! You’re the same age!”

I just nod, feigning limited awareness. Then the eyes of my domineering wife move lower. I know the examination of Midnight’s identifying disk is a ruse, offering visual proximity to that which most attracts... the male... and most perplexes the female.

“My goodness, look at her pussy!”

I do. Midnight, in being shorn of all hair, cranium included, most prominently displays a mammoth clitoris and protruding inner labia.

“Her bud... it’s enormous... and it’s been ringed!”

My wife stoops and gawks at the thumb sized vestigial penis. Yes, abundant hormones induced to perfect muscling, have also enhanced her nubbin of joy. It protrudes and seems to welcome jewelry, a bright ring of stainless steel. And I also know it serves to both arouse and offer the bearer a sense of ownership. Dare I mention that a once fleshy clitoral hood has been surgically trimmed to offer better exhibition?

“And the labia!”   

Stretched ad infinitum, the deep pink provocatively contrasts the smooth dark skin of the inner thighs.

“She’s from Rwanda, dear. It’s a custom there.”     

The statement is factual, but rather incomplete. The process indeed began in Rwanda when Midnight first entered puberty, but continued with fervor after acquisition... by my mother. Midnight’s lips are longer than I recall, someone has furthered the process over the years.

“Would it be alright to touch?” my wife timorously inquires.  

“Of course. She’s placed on display for evaluation... your evaluation.”

“And yours, Oliver.”

True, but I need not evaluate. I know Midnight... know every inch of flesh, every ounce of muscle sculpted to perfection. As my wife reaches forth to inspect, I look up into the face of the well trussed girl... now woman I suppose. We’re both age 35.

Midnight offers no indication of familiarity, gratefully feigning noted aloofness. Gagged, leashed and yoked, there are no words to be offered, no ability to challenge. Besides, resistance has been long stifled. Many years in bondage and servitude.

My eyes lower to see my wife’s finger tip ever so gently smooth down the left labia and then up the right. I know the touch brings a brisance of delight, Midnight’s stretching attentively achieved utilizing the special herbal lotions of her native country. Sensitivity therefor not only remains, the native women will testify that proper stretching in fact enhances feel... thus the curious African custom prevails, despite much controversy suggesting the practice is akin to female genital mutilation.

I glance up to see that Midnight’s nipples, also elongated, crinkle and turn to pencil points. Yes, the slightest touch brings a thrill, greatly enhanced by years and years of forced chastity. Midnight has never touched herself there, at least never under my mother’s tutelage. Therefore, no matter the circumstances, any attention is not only welcomed, such brings a crashing wave of delight.

“Gukuna imishino, dear. It’s Swahili meaning ‘to make long labia’.”

I immediately regret sharing that tidbit of information, placing my little game, which an astute
Midnight seems to comprehend, in peril.

“She’s moist!” Victoria’s finger detects. “She’s enjoying this!”

Yes, it is imbued in the psyche. The intensity of the humiliation brings arousal to the subservient. Being displayed naked, all parts pink open to visual and physical examination fosters strange joy. I make a note to remain silent concerning the abundant vaginal wetness. It is a welcomed genetic trait. How many times have I masturbated Midnight to a gushing orgasm?

Yet such thoughts are not to be revealed.

My wife becomes more brazen as Midnight becomes objectified, her complete nakedness welcoming palpation. The finger penetrates, parting the dangling strips of flesh and slipping inward with ease.

“My goodness,” Victoria obviously encountering much vaginal flow. “She’s loose! The brochure suggests she’s kept in chastity but she is vaginally as open as the Holland Tunnel.”

Yes. Again I am aware. For various reasons, girls of Midnight’s ilk are opened, minimizing if not completely negating any joy to be derived from vaginal penetration. Midnight is thus more inclined to be used orally and anally... as intended. Many hours... night after night after night... Midnight’s feminine aperture was splayed open utilizing a speculum. For normal copulation she has been ruined... and someone has continued the practice.   

Meanwhile I again look up into the coal black handsome face. From above a slim chain attached to Midnight’s nose restraint holds her face high. A smooth thick plastic yoke encumbers the neck and secures hands and wrists at shoulder height well to the right and left. With the chain’s tautness, Midnight is forced to obsequiously stand on toes, stress on the nose loop most painful. Mounted on a low platform, stature noted, Midnight’s face and head tower above, placing her privates at chest height where such can be facilely opened and examined... just as Victoria demonstrates. 

They have taken the time to gloss her skin. Every inch has been oiled, made to shine brilliantly under the powerful ceiling lamps, any blemish of the skin to be quickly detected by the connoisseur of servility. For aficionados such as me the presentation brings allure. For the likes of my wife... well... rattan and nasty strips of leather come to mind. And sure enough, finished rummaging within Midnight’s vagina, Victoria steps to the side and gazes at the profile.

“My goodness, such buttocks.”

An emboldened hand reaches forth and grasps a meaty tuft of skin. I know it to be firm, the layers of epidermis sculpted through precise diet, unending exercise. Two inches of thickness which welcome the crop, whip and cane cover muscling which propels with speed and grace. Now, Victoria has genuine interest.

“They seem to beckon a good brisk caning,” Victoria observes.

I cannot help wondering if it is now she becoming moist.

Yes, wife Victoria cheerfully domineers, and if my subterfuge plays out, she’ll be offered much cheer.

“Pony girls are kept well exercised, dear, for obvious reasons. I think you will enjoy supervising a demanding regimen.”

“And Douglas?”

Our son. I knew our offspring would enter the equation. We’ve kept our more deviant escapades cloaked, concealed from our teenaged son. Yet it is time to educate. Besides I am tired getting neither any eggs benedict nor the other thing which the old joke suggests a man cannot get at home. My beautiful, glorious and regal wife will not orally satiate.     

“You know my mother was a trainer, Victoria.”

“Yes.”

“Well I was even younger than Douglas when I first... well first handled the human equine. I think he will adapt. It’s in the genes.”

My wife nods pensively, her hand continuing to more presumptuously caress and knead pony flesh. Metaphorically, Victoria is at the market and Midnight becomes a large melon, ripe for purchase and consumption.

Thoughts of my mother bring reminiscence...