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.

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