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.