Midnight - Segment II

Author's note: The practice of 'gukuna imishino' is real and continues in certain African regions. If the ritual was a Swedish custom, Midnight would be blonde and Caucasian. Thus the ethnicity of our protagonist. 

At the Ranch - Adolescent Years

“You’ll need to learn responsibilities, Oliver. I am aware of the prurient interests the girl inspires, but you must offer care. She’ll never ever have use of her hands. So you must feed and bathe, plus help with her training.”

Mother lectures as I gawk. Hormones have begun to flow and in concurrence with the resulting physical transformation... at least so it seems... mother has acquired a girl... a girl to be trained and used as an equine. 

She’s naked, skin as black as the night. I have not before seen a naked girl. Not often been in the company of any ethnicity other than Caucasian. Thus I am both excited and curious. Yes, my trousers somewhat tent... there comes a degree of firmness... down there. 

“She’s dark.”

“She’s from Rwanda, Oliver. Africa. The skin pigmentation offers protection from the sun. It’s stronger there and more direct.”

The girl appears to be my age and I am amazed that she’s taller. A thick leather collar encircles her neck. Her arms are drawn behind her back, bent at the elbows. Cuffed wrists are secured to the back of the neck collar, tightly, cruelly holding her hands high, forcing her to thrust forth a developing chest. Yet she shows no signs of distress.

It is evident the girl is accustomed to bondage.

“What is her name, mother?”

“No name. What would you like to call her?”

“Well... she’s dark... like the night.”

“So call her ‘night’.”

I pause in thought.

“‘Midnight’. It has a better ring.”

“Then she is now ‘Midnight’. I will train her and exercise her... initially. You will feed and bathe. In time you’ll learn my role as well. Now I will show you how to loop her nose. Lots of nerve endings there. We’re going to have one obedient pony girl... aren’t we, Midnight.”

Mother pinches a puffy nipple, firmly grasping the modest mound of breast flesh. The girl represses a wince and follows mother’s directing hand to a low table in the barn. Kneeling, Midnight’s nose is to be looped. A smooth but rugged elliptical length of hollow plastic is inserted into one nostril, cruelly pressed through the sinus cavity and pushed to exit the other nostril. Mother is quick and agile, minimizing the discomfort. But when thick glue is inserted to add firmness and the open ends pressed together to indeed form a loop, I am amazed how quickly the girl... Midnight... has been made to bear a most simple but imposing restraint device.

“Control the nose loop... control the pony girl.” mother quips, standing back to let the glue set.

I note there are tears, not so much of sadness, the girl stoic, but in an uncontrollable reaction. The plastic invades most intolerably.

“Mother, she’s crying,” I note.

“She does need to acclimate to being leashed. Why not walk her a bit, Oliver. I think you’ll come to enjoy her company.”

Mother hooked a leash to a nose ring deemed dried and set. In handing it to me, I felt something within I had not before experienced. Yes, I was to learn responsibility, but I was to also learn that utmost control excites.