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 30, 2013
Saturday, March 23, 2013
Midnight - Segment X
Slop
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.
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.
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Midnight - Segment IX
The Barn
Much of the equipment used to train and condition Midnight remains in the barn. When I inherited the ranch, I was hard pressed to change much at first. Eventually the house was redecorated under Victoria’s direction, a woman deserves her home to indeed look like hers. But she shied from the barn, being a city girl, and I rarely visited, the evoked memories strong and poignant.
So, as I release Midnight from the van’s many straps and clip a short leash to her nose loop, I realize there is needed new investment. The treadmill on which Midnight was worked to exhaustion is well weathered, the barn’s heater not fired up in years. Straps, harnesses, bridles, etc. will need to be replaced, the leather most likely dried and cracked. I’ll need to assure Midnight’s light cart, her favorite, is operational.
But other devices, well tucked away to avoid questions from casual visitors, just need dusting polishing, and repositioning.
A trained pony girl will never move unless directed. But a trained pony girl also feels best when trussed, harnessed, bridled... in general held in bondage. It’s ingrained, part of their makeup. So, I hold steady the leash and bend, forcing Midnight’s face to lower as I clip a hobbling strap from right ankle cuff to left.
Victoria looks at me quizzically.
“Pony girls are best kept well bound, dear. You’ll learn that.”
True. Yet there is also the unknown reaction, female to female, that brings a degree of concern. Midnight would never kick me. But I have yet to ascertain her acceptance of Victoria, my wife. In Midnight’s mind she may be deemed an interloper in the curious life long bond between Master and human equine. And I cannot imagine the damage a foot can inflict when propelled by leg muscles honed to those of an Olympic athletic.
Well hobbled, the strap exasperatingly short for those accustomed to a normal gait, I stand, raising my leash hand high, Midnight’s nose and face follow of course and she is forced to her toes. I then lead to the barn, a trip Midnight knows too well, and I note that Victoria follows, eyes riveted on rolling buttock muscles and labia flopping about... most comically I might add... for the neophyte observer. Yes, the strap forces rapid and ungainly footwork. It amuses... but also conditions.
Mother’s barn is replete with hooks and eyelets, ostensibly for hanging assorted gear. To free my hands, it is thus facile to lead to a post and tie off the leash, high, keeping Midnight straining on toes to minimize the stress on her nasal cavity.
“Wouldn’t she be better kept in the house, dear?” Victoria again evidencing her urban upbringing.
“Never, Sugar Buns. It’s too warm, too comfortable. Pony girls need to be kept eager to be run, like hunting dogs. So, feel her skin again. Smooth, quite presentable, but you’ll also find it to be thick. The cool air toughens a girl, encouraging insulating layers. Exercise precludes unsightly cellulite. As a result she can be well cropped without breaking the skin.”
Victoria does not hesitate to step forth and once again handle the nakedness, this time, away from the eyes of observers, feminine reserve is stowed. Instead, a hand brazenly grasps thick tufts at the thighs, then rises to roughly palpate the buttocks which have conjured such allure.
A gagged Midnight knows to let her have her way, not a wince or groan in protest. Her training thorough, she knows ownership bestows presumption. And I know that being handled brings strange comfort. Held in strict bondage, isolated for hour after hour, any attention becomes welcomed.
“My goodness, it’s like leather. Will she respond to discipline before a hand tires?”
I smile, knowing Midnight will obey with timely precision all pulls of her reins and snaps of the crop.
“Nipples and labia, dear one, though I doubt a pony girl with her years would need much attention there. Think parts pink when it’s necessary to chastize. Imagine the effectiveness of a good crisp stroke to those labia you find so fascinating.”
Victoria smiles wickedly. Yet, it is true. Efficiency dictates that behavior be corrected with a casual stroke of the directing hand. When run in harness, it is the pony girl to be worked into a lather, not the controlling equestrian.
While exchanging these thoughts I rummage about and find the broad well padded straps which for many years held a naked Midnight in comfortable but most humiliating bondage. As Victoria watches I hope the diligence by which I return the imposing configuration to the barn’s beams does not offer any clue to our past.
Alas, she observes in silence. But when I hook up a pulley and string some cords, curiosity finally overcomes.
“What is all this preparation, Oliver?”
“Our pony girl has had an eventful day. She’ll need to rest a bit.”
“So have her lie down.”
I shake my head, smiling in recalling the many years of Mother of passing on extensive knowledge of training, keeping and caring for the human equine.
“Never. She must always, always feel the restriction of her Master’s bonds. You’ll see... and in time you’ll better understand that it is best for her.”
So Victoria returns to silence as I adjust the cords, assure the ropes for the two broad straps are well secured then position two unassuming but well worn boxes under the hanging configuration.
“Come girl,” my voice calm but authoritative as I release the hobbling strap, unhook Midnight’s leash and guide.
Do Midnight’s precise foot steps give us away? Without need for a command, she mounts, placing a foot on each box, the separation offering a lewd spread, those long labia now dangling most suggestively. Meanwhile with the broad padded straps I encircle right thigh then left, teasing fingers tweaking those deliciously well stretched strips of dark pink to encourage good behavior. Each padded strap, after being looped about the thigh is attached to a hanging rope, right and left, well separated. When I slide away the boxes, a yoked Midnight is suspended, upright, and forced to spared, feet just off the barn’s wooden floor.
It was in this form of suspension that Mother and me worked so diligently to tug away at Midnight’s tender inner labia, night after night, applying the special herbal lotion formulated centuries ago in her native Rwanda. A miracle concoction, the viscous potion not only kept the flesh moist, but assured all sensitivity was maintained without unsightly stretch marks.
Sitting beneath on a low milking stool, young hands pulled and pulled, Midnight’s femininity turned to cow’s udders. Then soft strips of cloth were wrapped about the objects of my efforts and weights were attached to assure the well stretched epidermis did not retract. And that’s how she was to sleep.
Every night, day after day, week after week.
The results now dangle enticingly as Victoria observes, her silence suggesting deep engrossment.
“She sleeps in a standing position?” an incredulous wife inquires.
“No. What sleep we decide to allow will come when I hook up her yoke and permit her to lower her head and shoulders. Control, Sugar Buns. We must control at all times.”
With that I draw down the cords from the pulley and tie about Midnight’s yoke at the right shoulder and left. With the device hanging some three to four feet to Midnight’s front, as I feed slack, she knows to bend at the waist and lower her head, offering balance as she shifts her suspended position to become more prostrate.
Victoria nods. I detect a hint of suspicion. She knows of my background with human equines, Mother’s curious peccadillo, but she is unaware of my extensive involvement, and certainly completely in the dark... I hope... concerning my past relationship with Midnight.
I divert another question by moving to a worn chest of drawers and retrieve a hood. Midnight never liked being hooded, so to once again bring her to sightlessness fosters a distant thrill. Within seconds Midnight is returned to the dull, lonely world of suspended nothingness.
As stated, it made her and will continue to make her quite eager to be released and run.
Before departing, I know Midnight has not urinated since arranging her purchase hours ago. I therefore locate a bucket, place it under those dangling labia, grasp the familiar strips of flesh and part.
“Psst. Psst.”
Without further ado a humiliated Midnight knows to open herself. She knows to never ever urinate without assistance, the deed not only sloppy with all that excess flesh, but also a necessary part of her subjugation... all bodily functions to be ceded to controlling Masters.
Victoria is intrigued with the instant abdication of such an otherwise intimate deed. I do believe she will learn to enjoy over and above regular canings of Midnight’s attractive buttocks.
Much of the equipment used to train and condition Midnight remains in the barn. When I inherited the ranch, I was hard pressed to change much at first. Eventually the house was redecorated under Victoria’s direction, a woman deserves her home to indeed look like hers. But she shied from the barn, being a city girl, and I rarely visited, the evoked memories strong and poignant.
So, as I release Midnight from the van’s many straps and clip a short leash to her nose loop, I realize there is needed new investment. The treadmill on which Midnight was worked to exhaustion is well weathered, the barn’s heater not fired up in years. Straps, harnesses, bridles, etc. will need to be replaced, the leather most likely dried and cracked. I’ll need to assure Midnight’s light cart, her favorite, is operational.
But other devices, well tucked away to avoid questions from casual visitors, just need dusting polishing, and repositioning.
A trained pony girl will never move unless directed. But a trained pony girl also feels best when trussed, harnessed, bridled... in general held in bondage. It’s ingrained, part of their makeup. So, I hold steady the leash and bend, forcing Midnight’s face to lower as I clip a hobbling strap from right ankle cuff to left.
Victoria looks at me quizzically.
“Pony girls are best kept well bound, dear. You’ll learn that.”
True. Yet there is also the unknown reaction, female to female, that brings a degree of concern. Midnight would never kick me. But I have yet to ascertain her acceptance of Victoria, my wife. In Midnight’s mind she may be deemed an interloper in the curious life long bond between Master and human equine. And I cannot imagine the damage a foot can inflict when propelled by leg muscles honed to those of an Olympic athletic.
Well hobbled, the strap exasperatingly short for those accustomed to a normal gait, I stand, raising my leash hand high, Midnight’s nose and face follow of course and she is forced to her toes. I then lead to the barn, a trip Midnight knows too well, and I note that Victoria follows, eyes riveted on rolling buttock muscles and labia flopping about... most comically I might add... for the neophyte observer. Yes, the strap forces rapid and ungainly footwork. It amuses... but also conditions.
Mother’s barn is replete with hooks and eyelets, ostensibly for hanging assorted gear. To free my hands, it is thus facile to lead to a post and tie off the leash, high, keeping Midnight straining on toes to minimize the stress on her nasal cavity.
“Wouldn’t she be better kept in the house, dear?” Victoria again evidencing her urban upbringing.
“Never, Sugar Buns. It’s too warm, too comfortable. Pony girls need to be kept eager to be run, like hunting dogs. So, feel her skin again. Smooth, quite presentable, but you’ll also find it to be thick. The cool air toughens a girl, encouraging insulating layers. Exercise precludes unsightly cellulite. As a result she can be well cropped without breaking the skin.”
Victoria does not hesitate to step forth and once again handle the nakedness, this time, away from the eyes of observers, feminine reserve is stowed. Instead, a hand brazenly grasps thick tufts at the thighs, then rises to roughly palpate the buttocks which have conjured such allure.
A gagged Midnight knows to let her have her way, not a wince or groan in protest. Her training thorough, she knows ownership bestows presumption. And I know that being handled brings strange comfort. Held in strict bondage, isolated for hour after hour, any attention becomes welcomed.
“My goodness, it’s like leather. Will she respond to discipline before a hand tires?”
I smile, knowing Midnight will obey with timely precision all pulls of her reins and snaps of the crop.
“Nipples and labia, dear one, though I doubt a pony girl with her years would need much attention there. Think parts pink when it’s necessary to chastize. Imagine the effectiveness of a good crisp stroke to those labia you find so fascinating.”
Victoria smiles wickedly. Yet, it is true. Efficiency dictates that behavior be corrected with a casual stroke of the directing hand. When run in harness, it is the pony girl to be worked into a lather, not the controlling equestrian.
While exchanging these thoughts I rummage about and find the broad well padded straps which for many years held a naked Midnight in comfortable but most humiliating bondage. As Victoria watches I hope the diligence by which I return the imposing configuration to the barn’s beams does not offer any clue to our past.
Alas, she observes in silence. But when I hook up a pulley and string some cords, curiosity finally overcomes.
“What is all this preparation, Oliver?”
“Our pony girl has had an eventful day. She’ll need to rest a bit.”
“So have her lie down.”
I shake my head, smiling in recalling the many years of Mother of passing on extensive knowledge of training, keeping and caring for the human equine.
“Never. She must always, always feel the restriction of her Master’s bonds. You’ll see... and in time you’ll better understand that it is best for her.”
So Victoria returns to silence as I adjust the cords, assure the ropes for the two broad straps are well secured then position two unassuming but well worn boxes under the hanging configuration.
“Come girl,” my voice calm but authoritative as I release the hobbling strap, unhook Midnight’s leash and guide.
Do Midnight’s precise foot steps give us away? Without need for a command, she mounts, placing a foot on each box, the separation offering a lewd spread, those long labia now dangling most suggestively. Meanwhile with the broad padded straps I encircle right thigh then left, teasing fingers tweaking those deliciously well stretched strips of dark pink to encourage good behavior. Each padded strap, after being looped about the thigh is attached to a hanging rope, right and left, well separated. When I slide away the boxes, a yoked Midnight is suspended, upright, and forced to spared, feet just off the barn’s wooden floor.
It was in this form of suspension that Mother and me worked so diligently to tug away at Midnight’s tender inner labia, night after night, applying the special herbal lotion formulated centuries ago in her native Rwanda. A miracle concoction, the viscous potion not only kept the flesh moist, but assured all sensitivity was maintained without unsightly stretch marks.
Sitting beneath on a low milking stool, young hands pulled and pulled, Midnight’s femininity turned to cow’s udders. Then soft strips of cloth were wrapped about the objects of my efforts and weights were attached to assure the well stretched epidermis did not retract. And that’s how she was to sleep.
Every night, day after day, week after week.
The results now dangle enticingly as Victoria observes, her silence suggesting deep engrossment.
“She sleeps in a standing position?” an incredulous wife inquires.
“No. What sleep we decide to allow will come when I hook up her yoke and permit her to lower her head and shoulders. Control, Sugar Buns. We must control at all times.”
With that I draw down the cords from the pulley and tie about Midnight’s yoke at the right shoulder and left. With the device hanging some three to four feet to Midnight’s front, as I feed slack, she knows to bend at the waist and lower her head, offering balance as she shifts her suspended position to become more prostrate.
Victoria nods. I detect a hint of suspicion. She knows of my background with human equines, Mother’s curious peccadillo, but she is unaware of my extensive involvement, and certainly completely in the dark... I hope... concerning my past relationship with Midnight.
I divert another question by moving to a worn chest of drawers and retrieve a hood. Midnight never liked being hooded, so to once again bring her to sightlessness fosters a distant thrill. Within seconds Midnight is returned to the dull, lonely world of suspended nothingness.
As stated, it made her and will continue to make her quite eager to be released and run.
Before departing, I know Midnight has not urinated since arranging her purchase hours ago. I therefore locate a bucket, place it under those dangling labia, grasp the familiar strips of flesh and part.
“Psst. Psst.”
Without further ado a humiliated Midnight knows to open herself. She knows to never ever urinate without assistance, the deed not only sloppy with all that excess flesh, but also a necessary part of her subjugation... all bodily functions to be ceded to controlling Masters.
Victoria is intrigued with the instant abdication of such an otherwise intimate deed. I do believe she will learn to enjoy over and above regular canings of Midnight’s attractive buttocks.
Saturday, March 9, 2013
Midnight - Segment VIII
Reunited at the Ranch
A windowless panel truck, appropriate bindings, we bring the mammoth and naked Midnight back to the family ranch where years ago mother trained, I bathed and fed, and we both worked to elongate day after day.
The ride is not long but not short either. Victoria oozes with enthusiasm, occasionally looking back into the rear compartment where I have Midnight trussed kneeling upright.
“It would have been more comfortable to restrain her lying down, Oliver. But it’s fun watching the labia sway about,” Victoria observes.
Nose loop hooked well above, yoke remaining, straps about the thighs tied right and left to the van’s walls mandate Midnight display herself. The van’s motion causes the lengthy strips of flesh to swing to and fro, reminding Midnight of her modified pussy. The motion also brings titillating arousal, much like when she is run in harness, and in the closed compartment my nose detects the fragrance of a sopping wet vagina.
Pony girls are not ever douched. As a result their condition of sexual excitement is well announced.
“It’s best she be kept somewhat stressed. Tension on the nose loop forces her to stay balanced rigidly upright, thus conditioning and exercising the thigh muscles, stomach muscles and those buttocks you admire.”
“I do so much want to cane her, Oliver. They’re so large but so well shaped and proportioned.”
“I think it would best for both of you to do so,” I encourage. “Certain girls need discipline.... crave a correcting touch.”
Victoria of course is well aware of that, spending many Saturday nights at a certain club, owned by dominant libertines, open to subordinate masochists who feel a necessary urge to visit and challenge the correcting hands of the members.
My need for dominance is less episodic. Sporadic encounters don’t do it. With the arrival of Midnight years ago, the power exchange was constant... day in, day out. Mother immersed me. Had she been teaching me how to swim, the first lesson would have been to toss me into the Atlantic Ocean. I remember when Midnight was first yoked...
Yoking Midnight
“The hands must never be free for mischief, Oliver. But cuffs and neck collar are too restrictive. So we’ll yoke her. Light and smooth, but strong. To be removed only by cutting.”
Midnight lies supine, bound on the table where I will be tending to her daily. She is well strapped down, knees and thighs spread to obscenely reveal feminine charms... I am to learn always to reveal her feminine charms.
‘It is best for girls like her... to be exposed... the humiliation demeans... but also excites,’ I recall Mother attempting to explain the psyche of the masochist... that which the likes of Midnight will never be able to fully understand herself. Over the years I have come to learn that if her ilk understood, the masochist would suffer... lose the excitement... subjugation never again to stimulate. But alas it does not happen. We sadists must instead accommodate.
Mother has fastened the arms at the biceps leaving the upper forearms, wrists uncovered. With elbows bent, Midnight’s hands are at the level of her head. If standing she would be in a position of surrender.
Mother shows me the yoke, comprised of two lengths of smooth bright white plastic. Each have semi circular indentations, one large in the center for the neck, two smaller, right and left for the wrists. When pressed together such align to form circles.
Mother hands me what will be the front portion. Light indeed, it’s some four inches thick where there are no indentations for limbs and neck
“Coat the inner surface with this glue, and be careful not to get it near your eyes. If you get it on your skin, rinse it away as soon as possible.”
The jar contains a gelatinous mass with a brush attached to the lid. The substance smells of acetone and as mother slips the back half under Midnight’s head and arranges the wrists to rest in the semicircles, I slather the inner surface with the gooey brush, noting that the powerful chemical begins to turn the firm plastic into pudding, somewhat melting the surface.
“Now do this side as well,” mother taking the upper portion from me.
I coat, the barn filling with the intoxicating smell. The surface likewise melts and my well experienced mother pauses, letting the acetone soften the plastic. Then she bends and presses the top portion in place, entrapping neck and wrists. Midnight says not a word, in my mind oddly accepting of her fate. Yes, it is an early age to be exposed to the needs of girls like Midnight. She makes not sound, frowns not but neither smiles. She concedes without struggle, without protest, seeming to know that although the thick special polymer may some day be cut away, it is not by her hand, not by her will, her behest, that she will ever again be free.
Realizing this, I feel a twitch below. Also, with my nose acclimating to the chemical, wafting in place of the strong scent of acetone comes another fragrance.... musky. I am later to learn the redolence is from spread labia, a sopping wet cunny evidencing what Midnight prefers not to reveal. Ceding power arouses!
Yes, Midnight is owned, her subconscious accepting, her physicality resisting not, and most ignominiously her feminine charms reveling with the abdication of all control.
Encircling bungee cords complete the task, holding the two halves firmly in place atop the shoulders while the acetone drys.
In time, essentially the two halves will become one, the opposing plastic surfaces chemically melting together. There are no locks, no straps. When the glue sets, Midnight will forever be one with the simple single piece of white plastic.
“Now for your next task, Oliver. The girl is to be made hairless... every strand removed... every follicle destroyed. I want her well exposed, nothing covering that fine black skin. It will take time, be one of your daily chores. But in doing so you’ll get to know her well... especially when working about her genitalia. The depilatory is quite strong and can burn the more sensitive flesh. You see the soft dark moist skin... no chemicals to be applied. So you’ll need to take your time there.”
I sense my penis engorging, my slacks suddenly becoming quite confining. Meanwhile Midnight just looks at me with this beseeching look. I am newly empowered and it thrills... me. For Midnight there is apprehension... but in thinking back... the odoriferous genitalia suggested deeper emotions were roiled as well.
Mother hands me shears and points to Midnight’s head.
“Please no!” the strident plea surprising both Mother and me.
Words of English!
“Begin here. If you don’t wish to listen to her, I’ll gag her for you,” mother offers.
I shake my head. For some reason I’d rather hear her beg.
A windowless panel truck, appropriate bindings, we bring the mammoth and naked Midnight back to the family ranch where years ago mother trained, I bathed and fed, and we both worked to elongate day after day.
The ride is not long but not short either. Victoria oozes with enthusiasm, occasionally looking back into the rear compartment where I have Midnight trussed kneeling upright.
“It would have been more comfortable to restrain her lying down, Oliver. But it’s fun watching the labia sway about,” Victoria observes.
Nose loop hooked well above, yoke remaining, straps about the thighs tied right and left to the van’s walls mandate Midnight display herself. The van’s motion causes the lengthy strips of flesh to swing to and fro, reminding Midnight of her modified pussy. The motion also brings titillating arousal, much like when she is run in harness, and in the closed compartment my nose detects the fragrance of a sopping wet vagina.
Pony girls are not ever douched. As a result their condition of sexual excitement is well announced.
“It’s best she be kept somewhat stressed. Tension on the nose loop forces her to stay balanced rigidly upright, thus conditioning and exercising the thigh muscles, stomach muscles and those buttocks you admire.”
“I do so much want to cane her, Oliver. They’re so large but so well shaped and proportioned.”
“I think it would best for both of you to do so,” I encourage. “Certain girls need discipline.... crave a correcting touch.”
Victoria of course is well aware of that, spending many Saturday nights at a certain club, owned by dominant libertines, open to subordinate masochists who feel a necessary urge to visit and challenge the correcting hands of the members.
My need for dominance is less episodic. Sporadic encounters don’t do it. With the arrival of Midnight years ago, the power exchange was constant... day in, day out. Mother immersed me. Had she been teaching me how to swim, the first lesson would have been to toss me into the Atlantic Ocean. I remember when Midnight was first yoked...
Yoking Midnight
“The hands must never be free for mischief, Oliver. But cuffs and neck collar are too restrictive. So we’ll yoke her. Light and smooth, but strong. To be removed only by cutting.”
Midnight lies supine, bound on the table where I will be tending to her daily. She is well strapped down, knees and thighs spread to obscenely reveal feminine charms... I am to learn always to reveal her feminine charms.
‘It is best for girls like her... to be exposed... the humiliation demeans... but also excites,’ I recall Mother attempting to explain the psyche of the masochist... that which the likes of Midnight will never be able to fully understand herself. Over the years I have come to learn that if her ilk understood, the masochist would suffer... lose the excitement... subjugation never again to stimulate. But alas it does not happen. We sadists must instead accommodate.
Mother has fastened the arms at the biceps leaving the upper forearms, wrists uncovered. With elbows bent, Midnight’s hands are at the level of her head. If standing she would be in a position of surrender.
Mother shows me the yoke, comprised of two lengths of smooth bright white plastic. Each have semi circular indentations, one large in the center for the neck, two smaller, right and left for the wrists. When pressed together such align to form circles.
Mother hands me what will be the front portion. Light indeed, it’s some four inches thick where there are no indentations for limbs and neck
“Coat the inner surface with this glue, and be careful not to get it near your eyes. If you get it on your skin, rinse it away as soon as possible.”
The jar contains a gelatinous mass with a brush attached to the lid. The substance smells of acetone and as mother slips the back half under Midnight’s head and arranges the wrists to rest in the semicircles, I slather the inner surface with the gooey brush, noting that the powerful chemical begins to turn the firm plastic into pudding, somewhat melting the surface.
“Now do this side as well,” mother taking the upper portion from me.
I coat, the barn filling with the intoxicating smell. The surface likewise melts and my well experienced mother pauses, letting the acetone soften the plastic. Then she bends and presses the top portion in place, entrapping neck and wrists. Midnight says not a word, in my mind oddly accepting of her fate. Yes, it is an early age to be exposed to the needs of girls like Midnight. She makes not sound, frowns not but neither smiles. She concedes without struggle, without protest, seeming to know that although the thick special polymer may some day be cut away, it is not by her hand, not by her will, her behest, that she will ever again be free.
Realizing this, I feel a twitch below. Also, with my nose acclimating to the chemical, wafting in place of the strong scent of acetone comes another fragrance.... musky. I am later to learn the redolence is from spread labia, a sopping wet cunny evidencing what Midnight prefers not to reveal. Ceding power arouses!
Yes, Midnight is owned, her subconscious accepting, her physicality resisting not, and most ignominiously her feminine charms reveling with the abdication of all control.
Encircling bungee cords complete the task, holding the two halves firmly in place atop the shoulders while the acetone drys.
In time, essentially the two halves will become one, the opposing plastic surfaces chemically melting together. There are no locks, no straps. When the glue sets, Midnight will forever be one with the simple single piece of white plastic.
“Now for your next task, Oliver. The girl is to be made hairless... every strand removed... every follicle destroyed. I want her well exposed, nothing covering that fine black skin. It will take time, be one of your daily chores. But in doing so you’ll get to know her well... especially when working about her genitalia. The depilatory is quite strong and can burn the more sensitive flesh. You see the soft dark moist skin... no chemicals to be applied. So you’ll need to take your time there.”
I sense my penis engorging, my slacks suddenly becoming quite confining. Meanwhile Midnight just looks at me with this beseeching look. I am newly empowered and it thrills... me. For Midnight there is apprehension... but in thinking back... the odoriferous genitalia suggested deeper emotions were roiled as well.
Mother hands me shears and points to Midnight’s head.
“Please no!” the strident plea surprising both Mother and me.
Words of English!
“Begin here. If you don’t wish to listen to her, I’ll gag her for you,” mother offers.
I shake my head. For some reason I’d rather hear her beg.
Saturday, March 2, 2013
Midnight - Segment VII
The Reunion Ends
“Yes, of course you will be stretched. I’ll want your lips at your knees,” noting that my words strangely bring comfort.
“And I’ll want your clitoral ring fettered. Your former owner removed the chains?”
“Yes, sir. She wanted all pleasure denied.”
Mother deviously not only had Midnight’s clitoral hood removed and her enlarged bud ringed but she also attached very fine jewelry chains of silver, securing such to piercings right and left at the hip. This resulted in a very decorative presentation, scintillating strips of metal against coal black skin with Midnight joyously jostling her pearl with each step. By the end of every run, vaginal juices would be flowing down her inner thighs... leaving her in great need... relief not to be offered.
The chains also brought attention to her sex... that someone of authority capriciously decided to have the genitalia modified.
Time of the essence, I right my moist manhood and zip up, normally a poignant post fellatio task left for Midnight’s teeth. Next I reach forth and press the bit into her mouth. Midnight appears disappointed as I position the bridle and buckle in place.
“Remember that Victoria thinks you have been surgically silenced. It is probably best that she not know otherwise.”
Midnight nods. I mount. Crop now in left hand, I pull the reins and swing to apply an equally stinging stroke to the long left nipple.
“Giddup.”
Cropping a girl while in the glow of sexual climax can be heady stuff. I thus tap the buttocks and gaze in wonderment at the long flopping labia which I will endeavor to stretch even further. And I also reflect on the reaction of son Douglas when I offer a similar anatomy lecture to that bestowed on me many years ago. I think Douglas will enjoy milking a girl’s labia. And knowing Midnight’s penchant for the taste of male seed, Victoria will find the bed sheets to be much more presentable.
Within minutes the stable is in sight and I see Victoria standing in wait arms akimbo. She smirks... a marital thing when a good time is attained by one spouse without the other. But her time will come, Midnight’s enormous well rounded buttocks to offer double duty... laboring to propel me about the farm... clenching in excruciating agony as Victoria does her thing.
“She meets with your approval?” Victoria inquires as I dismount.
“Well trained, enjoys being run. If she can fulfill your needs I think it’s a go.”
“The auctioneer says you already purchased her.”
She’s got me. I shrug, my hand caught in the cookie jar.
“Yes, of course you will be stretched. I’ll want your lips at your knees,” noting that my words strangely bring comfort.
“And I’ll want your clitoral ring fettered. Your former owner removed the chains?”
“Yes, sir. She wanted all pleasure denied.”
Mother deviously not only had Midnight’s clitoral hood removed and her enlarged bud ringed but she also attached very fine jewelry chains of silver, securing such to piercings right and left at the hip. This resulted in a very decorative presentation, scintillating strips of metal against coal black skin with Midnight joyously jostling her pearl with each step. By the end of every run, vaginal juices would be flowing down her inner thighs... leaving her in great need... relief not to be offered.
The chains also brought attention to her sex... that someone of authority capriciously decided to have the genitalia modified.
Time of the essence, I right my moist manhood and zip up, normally a poignant post fellatio task left for Midnight’s teeth. Next I reach forth and press the bit into her mouth. Midnight appears disappointed as I position the bridle and buckle in place.
“Remember that Victoria thinks you have been surgically silenced. It is probably best that she not know otherwise.”
Midnight nods. I mount. Crop now in left hand, I pull the reins and swing to apply an equally stinging stroke to the long left nipple.
“Giddup.”
Cropping a girl while in the glow of sexual climax can be heady stuff. I thus tap the buttocks and gaze in wonderment at the long flopping labia which I will endeavor to stretch even further. And I also reflect on the reaction of son Douglas when I offer a similar anatomy lecture to that bestowed on me many years ago. I think Douglas will enjoy milking a girl’s labia. And knowing Midnight’s penchant for the taste of male seed, Victoria will find the bed sheets to be much more presentable.
Within minutes the stable is in sight and I see Victoria standing in wait arms akimbo. She smirks... a marital thing when a good time is attained by one spouse without the other. But her time will come, Midnight’s enormous well rounded buttocks to offer double duty... laboring to propel me about the farm... clenching in excruciating agony as Victoria does her thing.
“She meets with your approval?” Victoria inquires as I dismount.
“Well trained, enjoys being run. If she can fulfill your needs I think it’s a go.”
“The auctioneer says you already purchased her.”
She’s got me. I shrug, my hand caught in the cookie jar.
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