Adorning Midnight’s Cunt
The bowl empties, quite the offering of chow. I adjust the pulley cords, deeming Midnight to have had enough rest. She lifts at the waist to hang upright, a standing position except she remains in suspension, soft broad thigh straps holding her inches off the barn’s floor. From my pocket I retrieve the trinkets from the morning trip to the jewelry store.
Missing from Midnight’s well subjugated body... yoked, tethered at the ankles, pierced deeply at the hips... has been the silver chains decorating and highlighting Mother’s clitoral piercing. Her prior owner deemed such to be unnecessary, perhaps affording too much delight. Such is not within my intended paradigm for Midnight. I want her constantly aroused, always on the edge of orgasm, particularly when being run.
I have thus purchased some fine chainery, slim silver links intended for pendants and lockets. Young Douglas watches with fascination as I demonstrate why Midnight’s enormous bud was pierced horizontally and ringed. I thread one length through the right hip ring, across her pubes, through the clitoral ring and back to the hip. There is an inch or two or slack, but the clever clasp holding the two ends is adjustable, a mechanism which permits me to tighten, should I so desire.
A second identical chain and adjusting mechanism is likewise threaded through the left hip ring and the clitoral ring. I adjust to decorate, assuring symmetrical slack as the bright silver festoons across her smooth black lower belly right and left.
“Both pretty and practical, don’t you think Douglas?”
My wide eyed son nods as he stares. The chains, though slack as indicated, serve to make both Midnight’s clitoris and her stainless steel ring much more prominent, calling attention there, should for some reason a viewer not notice the outrageously stretched labia.
Midnight stirs. I do believe her odor amplifies and I am going to have great fun if my baubles make her cunny begin to drip.
“Yes, when I run her, I’ll first tighten these slim silver tethers. Her own motion will cause the chains plus her clitoral ring to oscillate. You are aware that that little nubbin is ultra sensitive, Douglas,” not recalling if my lecture included a discussion of vaginal orgasms versus clitoral.
As I found years ago, it is difficult to determine if and when Midnight blushes, her dark hue masking any telltale rush of circulation. But she does stir a bit, jostling her new chainery. Quivers of joy perhaps?
I do believe she’d like to say something, but I will not afford her the opportunity until next I run her, partake of her oral skills and penetrate that fine tight rectum... another activity which will bring tantalizing stress to her clitoral chains.
Saturday, May 25, 2013
Saturday, May 18, 2013
Midnight - Segment XVIII
Training a Young Midnight
“Always hold her head high, Oliver. You want her looking like a proud pony girl.”
Mother hands me a long slim pole, my end wrapped in leather to accommodate the grip of my left hand. It slims at the end, some eight to ten feet from where I stand, offering much flexibility. There a short cord dangles with a clasp on the free end.
A naked, nubile Midnight stands in the corral area yoked. Hairless, I have worked for a week to please Mother and remove every stand of hair, attack every follicle with harsh smelling depilatory lotion. She is glum in being made bald, considering herself unsightly. Little does she realize how appealing is her animalistic and vulnerable presentation.
Nipples normal, Mother not yet beginning to elongate, youthful labia somewhat dangle, the stretching there presumably begun in her native Rwanda. Despite the deepness of her black skin, one can quickly ascertain that Midnight is blushing. She is outdoors... made to present herself... fresh air wafting about her oiled naked flesh, the cool breeze awakening every nerve ending, emphasizing her exposure, announcing to the world her demeaning servitude.
With her instruction, Mother moves and clips the clasp to Midnight’s nose loop. She then stoops and removes the short hobbling strap, the use of which I have returned.
“Up, up, Oliver. You want her on her toes.”
I raise my hand slowly and gently, with the past week of handling Midnight, well aware of the extreme sensitivity of the nose binding. Midnight’s face follows of course. And yes, head back, forehead skyward, indeed on toes, the presentation is one of pride.
“Very good. So today some pony girl dressage, Oliver. Tidy up her footwork, acclimate her to a controlling hand and the sting of the whip, melt away some of that youthful baby fat, strengthen the legs, thighs and buttocks...”, my regal Mother in her element.
About the corral area, Mother has set up a half dozen cones and some low wooden bars, not quite knee high. A simple obstacle course, Midnight is to be run through it in a preset pattern... step past left cone, step past right cone, jump, step past left, step past right, jump, etc. It is my role to stand in the middle, the length of the controlling pole such that I need only take modest steps as Midnight circles me, the broad radius dictating much exertion, responding to my commands, tugs on the dressage pole and snaps of the whip.
Mother has had me practicing with the slim nasty single tail. I am reasonably confident I can apply pain without breaking the skin. Marking a girl, as Mother explained, can be detrimental to her value.
‘Her flesh will keloid, Oliver. Do be circumspect.’
So in my right hand is a threatening long single tail, the crack of the whip more for psychological governance, a tug on the dressage pole more than adequate for dressage and strict instruction.
Mother nods and we begin. I am as much of a dilettante as Midnight. But I soon take to another segment of Mother’s avocation, making a girl, denuded of all covering by my hand, run and jump, run and jump, up on toes, run and jump.
The guided route seems random... over two hurdles, back over one, over the next three, back over two, etc. but we repeat and repeat the same route. Over time, the challenge is to have the pony girl memorize the task such that I can offer slack on the dressage pole and she will exercise herself.
Failure to precisely follow the route brings tug on the pole... a snap of the whip.
I learn that the obstacle course Mother sets will change. Tomorrow will be a different configuration. Midnight’s training will begin anew, to again learn, respond to my directing left hand while she memorizes another seemingly random pattern, my excoriating right hand at the ready. Yes, she will adjust her footwork and her response will conform to the mandates of my hand.
Thus there is not only a physical challenge but, as we circle for well over an hour, a mental one as well. Discipline, concentration... on me, ingraining a sense of pride and accomplishment in pleasing me.
“Always hold her head high, Oliver. You want her looking like a proud pony girl.”
Mother hands me a long slim pole, my end wrapped in leather to accommodate the grip of my left hand. It slims at the end, some eight to ten feet from where I stand, offering much flexibility. There a short cord dangles with a clasp on the free end.
A naked, nubile Midnight stands in the corral area yoked. Hairless, I have worked for a week to please Mother and remove every stand of hair, attack every follicle with harsh smelling depilatory lotion. She is glum in being made bald, considering herself unsightly. Little does she realize how appealing is her animalistic and vulnerable presentation.
Nipples normal, Mother not yet beginning to elongate, youthful labia somewhat dangle, the stretching there presumably begun in her native Rwanda. Despite the deepness of her black skin, one can quickly ascertain that Midnight is blushing. She is outdoors... made to present herself... fresh air wafting about her oiled naked flesh, the cool breeze awakening every nerve ending, emphasizing her exposure, announcing to the world her demeaning servitude.
With her instruction, Mother moves and clips the clasp to Midnight’s nose loop. She then stoops and removes the short hobbling strap, the use of which I have returned.
“Up, up, Oliver. You want her on her toes.”
I raise my hand slowly and gently, with the past week of handling Midnight, well aware of the extreme sensitivity of the nose binding. Midnight’s face follows of course. And yes, head back, forehead skyward, indeed on toes, the presentation is one of pride.
“Very good. So today some pony girl dressage, Oliver. Tidy up her footwork, acclimate her to a controlling hand and the sting of the whip, melt away some of that youthful baby fat, strengthen the legs, thighs and buttocks...”, my regal Mother in her element.
About the corral area, Mother has set up a half dozen cones and some low wooden bars, not quite knee high. A simple obstacle course, Midnight is to be run through it in a preset pattern... step past left cone, step past right cone, jump, step past left, step past right, jump, etc. It is my role to stand in the middle, the length of the controlling pole such that I need only take modest steps as Midnight circles me, the broad radius dictating much exertion, responding to my commands, tugs on the dressage pole and snaps of the whip.
Mother has had me practicing with the slim nasty single tail. I am reasonably confident I can apply pain without breaking the skin. Marking a girl, as Mother explained, can be detrimental to her value.
‘Her flesh will keloid, Oliver. Do be circumspect.’
So in my right hand is a threatening long single tail, the crack of the whip more for psychological governance, a tug on the dressage pole more than adequate for dressage and strict instruction.
Mother nods and we begin. I am as much of a dilettante as Midnight. But I soon take to another segment of Mother’s avocation, making a girl, denuded of all covering by my hand, run and jump, run and jump, up on toes, run and jump.
The guided route seems random... over two hurdles, back over one, over the next three, back over two, etc. but we repeat and repeat the same route. Over time, the challenge is to have the pony girl memorize the task such that I can offer slack on the dressage pole and she will exercise herself.
Failure to precisely follow the route brings tug on the pole... a snap of the whip.
I learn that the obstacle course Mother sets will change. Tomorrow will be a different configuration. Midnight’s training will begin anew, to again learn, respond to my directing left hand while she memorizes another seemingly random pattern, my excoriating right hand at the ready. Yes, she will adjust her footwork and her response will conform to the mandates of my hand.
Thus there is not only a physical challenge but, as we circle for well over an hour, a mental one as well. Discipline, concentration... on me, ingraining a sense of pride and accomplishment in pleasing me.
Saturday, May 11, 2013
Midnight - Segment XVII
Food and Exercise
Whereas a brisk three mile run may seem like adequate exercise, for the likes of Midnight, it is more or less a warm up. Her well chiseled and honed form did not develop languishing in suspension.
So, after breakfast and completing a quick trip to the local jewelry and drug store, I show Douglas how to prepare Midnight’s slop and explain her demanded daily regimen.
“Midnight burns lots of calories, Douglas. She requires high levels of protein and complex carbohydrates. Limited fat, modest sugar.”
My words come as I stuff the blender with a gallimaufry of nutritious foodstuffs, adding a vitamin drink for moisture. There are also added a few droplets of that acquired at the drug store. A prescription for testosterone has been refilled. Ostensibly for me, it works wonders on Midnight, the female limbic system much more susceptible to the common male hormone. Had we not depilated her years ago, hair would grow in abundance. Instead it’s her clitoris that transforms. I like the thought of growing a little penis on her.
“That’s really good food, Dad!” son Douglas surprisedly exclaims.
“Nothing but the best for our pony girl,” flipping the switch for the blender.
“But you’re ruining it!” the whirring blades turning the concoction to an unrecognizable grayish mush.
“For Midnight, food is to be functional, never something to enjoy. Hopefully the blending transforms the taste, hate to think she would identify anything... or find enjoyment,” my grin one of wickedness.
“So observe. There’s no magic recipe. Just stuff the blender, throw in some form of liquid and mash it until it becomes revolting.”
I pour into a bowl and grab a spoon.
“You’ll also need to supervise her exercise and you may find entertainment in an hour or two of dressage training.”
I lead from the kitchen... out the door... back to the barn with Douglas following... my seed planted.
“Dressage, Dad, what’s that?”
“The term comes from the French word, translated as ‘training’. In equine terms, horse and rider are expected to perform from memory a series of predetermined movements. The purpose is to develop, through standardized progressive training methods, a horse's natural athletic ability and willingness to perform, thereby maximizing its potential as a good riding horse.”
Douglas pushes open the barn door. We step within. The gaze of both pair of eyes immediately falls on our hanging pony girl. Not having weighted her elongated pink charms, she once again squirms in suspension, attempting to frottage her labia against her spread inner thighs.
More naughtiness.
“Another reason to keep her well spread Douglas. Note how she attempts to bring self gratification. I’m sure you will note the odor.”
Yes, the barn reeks, despite having hours ago offered Midnight a long cleansing with redolent soap. The scent of lavender has been overwhelmed by the redolence of her stimulated vagina.
I slip away the hood, offering Midnight a ‘tsk, tsk’, as mild rebuke. More severe admonishment or punishment is superfluous. After all, her libidinous actions only frustrate herself. She’ll never bring herself to ultimate climax while well bound and held open.
Handing son Douglas the bowl, I instruct.
“Slow and deliberate. She’s famished and will want to gobble. But remember, you are always in control.”
Midnight brazenly glares at me, knowing not to speak but signaling that indeed an empty stomach demands sustenance. So the feeding begins, one leisurely spoonful at a time, me nodding when a second, third and fourth offering is deemed appropriate, the timing so much augmenting both Midnight’s frustration and her owners power over her.
“Dressage, Dad. Midnight is a cart pony, not ridden,” Douglas’s curiosity bidding a continuation of our conversation.
“Oh, yes. Well for Midnight, the form of dressage is best having her prance through an obstacle course, the timing, the moves, the direction dictated by a trainer, practiced and practiced until memorized. It hones the foot work, acclimates her to being controlled plus inures obedience, not to mention of course conditioning legs and buttocks.”
My words bring reflection, recalling my introduction to Mother’s form of pony girl dressage many years ago...
Whereas a brisk three mile run may seem like adequate exercise, for the likes of Midnight, it is more or less a warm up. Her well chiseled and honed form did not develop languishing in suspension.
So, after breakfast and completing a quick trip to the local jewelry and drug store, I show Douglas how to prepare Midnight’s slop and explain her demanded daily regimen.
“Midnight burns lots of calories, Douglas. She requires high levels of protein and complex carbohydrates. Limited fat, modest sugar.”
My words come as I stuff the blender with a gallimaufry of nutritious foodstuffs, adding a vitamin drink for moisture. There are also added a few droplets of that acquired at the drug store. A prescription for testosterone has been refilled. Ostensibly for me, it works wonders on Midnight, the female limbic system much more susceptible to the common male hormone. Had we not depilated her years ago, hair would grow in abundance. Instead it’s her clitoris that transforms. I like the thought of growing a little penis on her.
“That’s really good food, Dad!” son Douglas surprisedly exclaims.
“Nothing but the best for our pony girl,” flipping the switch for the blender.
“But you’re ruining it!” the whirring blades turning the concoction to an unrecognizable grayish mush.
“For Midnight, food is to be functional, never something to enjoy. Hopefully the blending transforms the taste, hate to think she would identify anything... or find enjoyment,” my grin one of wickedness.
“So observe. There’s no magic recipe. Just stuff the blender, throw in some form of liquid and mash it until it becomes revolting.”
I pour into a bowl and grab a spoon.
“You’ll also need to supervise her exercise and you may find entertainment in an hour or two of dressage training.”
I lead from the kitchen... out the door... back to the barn with Douglas following... my seed planted.
“Dressage, Dad, what’s that?”
“The term comes from the French word, translated as ‘training’. In equine terms, horse and rider are expected to perform from memory a series of predetermined movements. The purpose is to develop, through standardized progressive training methods, a horse's natural athletic ability and willingness to perform, thereby maximizing its potential as a good riding horse.”
Douglas pushes open the barn door. We step within. The gaze of both pair of eyes immediately falls on our hanging pony girl. Not having weighted her elongated pink charms, she once again squirms in suspension, attempting to frottage her labia against her spread inner thighs.
More naughtiness.
“Another reason to keep her well spread Douglas. Note how she attempts to bring self gratification. I’m sure you will note the odor.”
Yes, the barn reeks, despite having hours ago offered Midnight a long cleansing with redolent soap. The scent of lavender has been overwhelmed by the redolence of her stimulated vagina.
I slip away the hood, offering Midnight a ‘tsk, tsk’, as mild rebuke. More severe admonishment or punishment is superfluous. After all, her libidinous actions only frustrate herself. She’ll never bring herself to ultimate climax while well bound and held open.
Handing son Douglas the bowl, I instruct.
“Slow and deliberate. She’s famished and will want to gobble. But remember, you are always in control.”
Midnight brazenly glares at me, knowing not to speak but signaling that indeed an empty stomach demands sustenance. So the feeding begins, one leisurely spoonful at a time, me nodding when a second, third and fourth offering is deemed appropriate, the timing so much augmenting both Midnight’s frustration and her owners power over her.
“Dressage, Dad. Midnight is a cart pony, not ridden,” Douglas’s curiosity bidding a continuation of our conversation.
“Oh, yes. Well for Midnight, the form of dressage is best having her prance through an obstacle course, the timing, the moves, the direction dictated by a trainer, practiced and practiced until memorized. It hones the foot work, acclimates her to being controlled plus inures obedience, not to mention of course conditioning legs and buttocks.”
My words bring reflection, recalling my introduction to Mother’s form of pony girl dressage many years ago...
Saturday, May 4, 2013
Midnight - Segment XVI
Binding Midnight
One more lesson before stepping to the house for a hearty breakfast.
Midnight has been well cleansed inside and out. I watched with paternal pride as Douglas began to take comfort in his governance. Releasing the enema, the excretions gushed to the table top where under my instructions, Douglas waited, spray nozzle in hand, and quickly rinsed all down the drain. Then he doused the nakedness, Midnight seeming to acclimate. If a cat, she would have been purring as soap and a soft chamois laved everywhere... except for her cunny.
Yes, I admonished Douglas, never, ever was a pony girl to benefit from hygiene there.
‘You’ll come to enjoy her smell, Douglas... it embarrasses to no end... and she takes comfort in that.’ divulging more secrets of the masochist.
Still Douglas reveled in handling her, commenting as do most on the amazingly firm blemishless black epidermis and the taut muscling beneath. I encouraged him to take liberties, express his ownership... feeling, caressing, kneading wherever he so chose.
Midnight was in her element and unfortunately the wetness of the bath cloaked what I knew to be a sopping wet vagina.
Massaged then oiled, just as when standing on the auction block, Midnight glows, bringing more awe, Douglas not only again feeling and palpating her entire body, but partaking in the visual delight of her shining blackness, slowly turned to a masterful piece of sculpture, exhibited for our viewing pleasure.
It is now time for her nap.
“Hobble her, Douglas, always,” my words coming as the ankle restraints are released from the short chains of the cleansing table.
The short strap joins her feet. The yoke is released from the clever stanchions and lastly I unhook her leash. Handing the controlling length of leather to Douglas, he guides her from the cleansing table to where she is to be suspended. There I show him the procedure for securing her from the overhead ropes... the waiting boxes, broad straps and the cords of the pulley to be attached to her yoke.
“When you want her to sleep, slacken the cords from the pulley. She can thus lean and lower herself to rest prostrate. Always assure her entire body, feet included, are off the floor. It is important to imbue helplessness. Make sure she is well spread as well, such assures the humiliation she craves, having her cunny always open for inspection and access.”
Douglas nods, quite the willing student. Task completed, we both step back and observe the fruit of our labors. Do I detect tears? Of shame? Of frustration? Of the humiliation she so desperately demands?
“She’s crying , Dad,” Douglas also noting. “Why?”
I step behind and without effort deftly slide two fingers into her wide open inviting sex. The simple penetration causes motion. As her naked form gently swings to and fro in suspension, I hold up the drenched digits before Douglas. He just smiles, the imputed knowledge of her arousal answering his own question.
My son is a quick learner, he realizes Midnight is happy.
I hood our pony girl then adjust the pulley cords, her torso lowering to permit slumber.
“Let’s eat.”
One more lesson before stepping to the house for a hearty breakfast.
Midnight has been well cleansed inside and out. I watched with paternal pride as Douglas began to take comfort in his governance. Releasing the enema, the excretions gushed to the table top where under my instructions, Douglas waited, spray nozzle in hand, and quickly rinsed all down the drain. Then he doused the nakedness, Midnight seeming to acclimate. If a cat, she would have been purring as soap and a soft chamois laved everywhere... except for her cunny.
Yes, I admonished Douglas, never, ever was a pony girl to benefit from hygiene there.
‘You’ll come to enjoy her smell, Douglas... it embarrasses to no end... and she takes comfort in that.’ divulging more secrets of the masochist.
Still Douglas reveled in handling her, commenting as do most on the amazingly firm blemishless black epidermis and the taut muscling beneath. I encouraged him to take liberties, express his ownership... feeling, caressing, kneading wherever he so chose.
Midnight was in her element and unfortunately the wetness of the bath cloaked what I knew to be a sopping wet vagina.
Massaged then oiled, just as when standing on the auction block, Midnight glows, bringing more awe, Douglas not only again feeling and palpating her entire body, but partaking in the visual delight of her shining blackness, slowly turned to a masterful piece of sculpture, exhibited for our viewing pleasure.
It is now time for her nap.
“Hobble her, Douglas, always,” my words coming as the ankle restraints are released from the short chains of the cleansing table.
The short strap joins her feet. The yoke is released from the clever stanchions and lastly I unhook her leash. Handing the controlling length of leather to Douglas, he guides her from the cleansing table to where she is to be suspended. There I show him the procedure for securing her from the overhead ropes... the waiting boxes, broad straps and the cords of the pulley to be attached to her yoke.
“When you want her to sleep, slacken the cords from the pulley. She can thus lean and lower herself to rest prostrate. Always assure her entire body, feet included, are off the floor. It is important to imbue helplessness. Make sure she is well spread as well, such assures the humiliation she craves, having her cunny always open for inspection and access.”
Douglas nods, quite the willing student. Task completed, we both step back and observe the fruit of our labors. Do I detect tears? Of shame? Of frustration? Of the humiliation she so desperately demands?
“She’s crying , Dad,” Douglas also noting. “Why?”
I step behind and without effort deftly slide two fingers into her wide open inviting sex. The simple penetration causes motion. As her naked form gently swings to and fro in suspension, I hold up the drenched digits before Douglas. He just smiles, the imputed knowledge of her arousal answering his own question.
My son is a quick learner, he realizes Midnight is happy.
I hood our pony girl then adjust the pulley cords, her torso lowering to permit slumber.
“Let’s eat.”
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