Just reviewed the Lulu sales report for the quarter. Three people purchased 'The Glass Oubliette' and have not yet requested the ending, which I was hesitant to publish on Lulu.
It's free. I normally respond within 24 hours, and never use or share anyone's email address. So let me know.
If you purchased the book, email me for the ending and I will forward. As indicated, you will need to provide the code at the end of the story.
And for those who enjoyed 'Interrogation', 'The Glass Oubliette may be of interest.
CB
Sunday, June 30, 2013
Saturday, June 29, 2013
Midnight - Segment XXIV
To Be Caned
There comes the thud of boots as I gleefully work Midnight’s bountiful buttocks, my oiled fingers squeezing, kneading, palpating with force, applying a grip which would bring tearful protests from the uninitiated. But the years of being handled, never a shred of covering, constant cropping, exposure to inclement temperature, has toughened, layer upon layer of smooth black perfection.
“How thoughtful of you, Oliver. She’s so presentable.”
I turn my head and smile, the value of pleasing the Dominant matriarch of the family never to be underestimated. Meanwhile my nose detects the scent of the aroused female, my touch, the perseverance required to ride the wooden pony, the labia so humiliatingly displayed abrading the rough wooden fibers, returns Midnight to a state of stimulation.
“She’s excited,” Victoria also recognizing the odor of the masochist in heat.
She steps to the opposite side and lowers her hand. An extended finger grazes up and down a long nipple. The pink shaft instantly hardens, a trained pet responding to a Master’s command. Victoria laughs.
“So large, so well muscled, yet so sensitive to touch, even the stretched nipples. You would think these would be like leather by now...”
“I believe there’s special lotion, Dear. Some kind of herbal concoction her African ancestors developed hundreds of years ago,” somewhat veiling my knowledge but needing to introduce the protocol before Victoria discovers the vast supply Mother left behind upon her demise.
“All for the better. Would it be appropriate to clip these udders? Add a degree of restraint so she doesn’t flop about too much while I cane her?”
“She’s yours, Sugar Buns. Keep in mind that she’s owned and thus damage to our own property should be kept in mind. Plus, good nipple sensitivity is for control... while she labors in harness.”
I forewarn, not wishing to damper Victoria’s fun, but not wishing to have our newly acquired pony turned into a mass of welts, nipples never again to respond to the crop.
“I’ll make sure not to cross the pattern.”
Being of similar ilk, I know that in caning the flesh, crossing, or offering a repeat stroke to any area of excoriated flesh, can break the skin. This results in potential scarring and for sure extends the period of healing and recovery. I would like to run Midnight every day, assuring not my eggs benedict but that other delight which men rarely get at home.
With that Victoria moves to Mother’s chest of deviant trinkets, finding a pair of evil nipple clamps strung together by a cord, the length to be adjusted by a middle buckle. As she approaches I note such are not serrated, Midnight’s dark pink areolas to feel pressure but not the bite of alligator clips. She readjusts the nose leash, to a lower hook, bringing Midnight’s torso closer to the plank. Then comes a squeal, muted by the deep gag as the left nipple is summarily clamped, the cord drawn under the plank and the right nipple clamped. Victoria then slowly adjusts, tightening the cord to make movement of the upper body painfully impossible.
Yes, lowering at the waist tensions the nose loop, rising tensions the nipple clamps.
Moans of protest faze not, a smiling Victoria stepping back to assess. Having completed my handiwork, the flesh of Midnight’s black buttocks gleaming under the halogen lighting, traces of oil evident, I also step away.
Midnight is the picture of servility... naked, well trussed, slowly suffering, feminine pink parts under duress.
“You’ve watered her?” Victoria inquires, stepping to the wall rack filled with bamboo rods of many shapes and sizes.
“Two pints. Plus she’s has not been offered relief since her bath,” spoken as Victoria selects a particularly rugged length, whooshing it ominously through the air.
As Victoria’s wicked mind enters D/s space, I am reminded of first meeting her at Club Le Femme...
There comes the thud of boots as I gleefully work Midnight’s bountiful buttocks, my oiled fingers squeezing, kneading, palpating with force, applying a grip which would bring tearful protests from the uninitiated. But the years of being handled, never a shred of covering, constant cropping, exposure to inclement temperature, has toughened, layer upon layer of smooth black perfection.
“How thoughtful of you, Oliver. She’s so presentable.”
I turn my head and smile, the value of pleasing the Dominant matriarch of the family never to be underestimated. Meanwhile my nose detects the scent of the aroused female, my touch, the perseverance required to ride the wooden pony, the labia so humiliatingly displayed abrading the rough wooden fibers, returns Midnight to a state of stimulation.
“She’s excited,” Victoria also recognizing the odor of the masochist in heat.
She steps to the opposite side and lowers her hand. An extended finger grazes up and down a long nipple. The pink shaft instantly hardens, a trained pet responding to a Master’s command. Victoria laughs.
“So large, so well muscled, yet so sensitive to touch, even the stretched nipples. You would think these would be like leather by now...”
“I believe there’s special lotion, Dear. Some kind of herbal concoction her African ancestors developed hundreds of years ago,” somewhat veiling my knowledge but needing to introduce the protocol before Victoria discovers the vast supply Mother left behind upon her demise.
“All for the better. Would it be appropriate to clip these udders? Add a degree of restraint so she doesn’t flop about too much while I cane her?”
“She’s yours, Sugar Buns. Keep in mind that she’s owned and thus damage to our own property should be kept in mind. Plus, good nipple sensitivity is for control... while she labors in harness.”
I forewarn, not wishing to damper Victoria’s fun, but not wishing to have our newly acquired pony turned into a mass of welts, nipples never again to respond to the crop.
“I’ll make sure not to cross the pattern.”
Being of similar ilk, I know that in caning the flesh, crossing, or offering a repeat stroke to any area of excoriated flesh, can break the skin. This results in potential scarring and for sure extends the period of healing and recovery. I would like to run Midnight every day, assuring not my eggs benedict but that other delight which men rarely get at home.
With that Victoria moves to Mother’s chest of deviant trinkets, finding a pair of evil nipple clamps strung together by a cord, the length to be adjusted by a middle buckle. As she approaches I note such are not serrated, Midnight’s dark pink areolas to feel pressure but not the bite of alligator clips. She readjusts the nose leash, to a lower hook, bringing Midnight’s torso closer to the plank. Then comes a squeal, muted by the deep gag as the left nipple is summarily clamped, the cord drawn under the plank and the right nipple clamped. Victoria then slowly adjusts, tightening the cord to make movement of the upper body painfully impossible.
Yes, lowering at the waist tensions the nose loop, rising tensions the nipple clamps.
Moans of protest faze not, a smiling Victoria stepping back to assess. Having completed my handiwork, the flesh of Midnight’s black buttocks gleaming under the halogen lighting, traces of oil evident, I also step away.
Midnight is the picture of servility... naked, well trussed, slowly suffering, feminine pink parts under duress.
“You’ve watered her?” Victoria inquires, stepping to the wall rack filled with bamboo rods of many shapes and sizes.
“Two pints. Plus she’s has not been offered relief since her bath,” spoken as Victoria selects a particularly rugged length, whooshing it ominously through the air.
As Victoria’s wicked mind enters D/s space, I am reminded of first meeting her at Club Le Femme...
Saturday, June 22, 2013
Midnight - Segment XXIII
Preparation for Caning
Despite her apprehension, Midnight slumbers in her sling, hooded, slack pulley cords allowing her to rest prostrate with a lowered yoke. I deliberately worked her hard on the return journey to the barn, thus the need for recuperative sleep has overcome the abject fear of Victoria’s excoriating hand.
Douglas again bathed under my supervision, also noting the added wetness drooling between her thighs with the clitoral stimulation of my chains. My son seemed reluctant to rinse away the fragrance and replace such with the lavender scent of the soap.
‘But it shall return’, I counseled my hesitant son, knowing the undouched vagina will reek again.
So I sit and gaze at my kept, trained, and exercised pony girl, enjoying a mid afternoon glass of wine while Victoria shops.
The nipples dangle invitingly... inviting both the sting of the crop and a sensuous, playful tweak of the fingers. Extending some three inches from the body of mammary glands exercised to moderate size, I often wonder what level of shapely attraction Midnight’s glands would have achieved had she not been subjected to daily rigorous exercise shortly after puberty.
Still the relative flatness is functional for a girl in forced physical servitude, conveniently making the nipples more prominent... for the crop... and offering limited top heaviness... the better to be run.
My eyes shift to the labia, gently swaying with a sleeping Midnight’s slight motion. Stretched further at some four to five inches, the epidermis there seems to take better, respond more robustly, to the herbal lotions, pulls of energetic fingers and weights.
Also to be subjected to the crop, I refrain from using such intensely painful encouragement, except on extreme occasions... the need for excessive speed... or to correct a gross lapse in pony deportment.
Victoria whimsically suggested we stretch such to her knees. It can be done, all skin able to be so modified. And with an enthusiastic son Douglas quickly learning proper care, I am sure the presentation will be accomplished.
I hear the car approach and know that an earnest Victoria, after stowing the fruits of her shopping, will find the need to express the bisexual side of her sadism. On this first occasion, we have decided to exclude Douglas, the past few days of Midnight’s introduction already deluging a young impressionable mind.
He’s at a friend’s house... perhaps a pickup game of basketball... computer games may be a better wager.
I brutishly chug down the last swallow of a fine and delicate Chardonnay, arise from my chair and head for the worn chest of drawers, Mother’s wellspring of bondage paraphernalia. Despite my counsel, I remain concerned that Midnight will speak, break down under the intensity of the searing pain and offer words to beseech. Tucked away is the penis gag... long, thick and cruel. Once buckled in place, Victoria will have no reason to remove it. And if for some reason there comes an inclination, I will remind her of the neighbors, putting aside the distant proximity and their aural limitations.
Before gagging, Midnight needs to be watered. It is important, a well hydrated flagellant better able to resist entering a state of shock... filled bladder also adding to the amusement as the intense agony challenges control of bodily functions.
So I fill one squeeze bottle, step to our resting giantess, and slip off the hood. She blinks, Midnight’s eyes slowly acclimating, the extended morning run bringing deep sleep.
“Time to ride the pony, pretty girl,” I coo, in a paternal voice, eliciting comfort... or least attempting to bring such.
I insert the straw of the squeeze bottle and begin to hydrate. Though I know her to be well watered before suspending her, she will take one full pint to be followed by another. And I shall not have her empty her bladder.
Midnight imbibes. In spotting the gag she knows to make a last request before being silenced.
“I must go Master,” bladder filled as suspected.
“No. You’ll hold and ride the pony for me,” my pleasant smile turning to one of wickedness.
“It will be uncomfortable,” slurping the final ounce.
“It is best for you,” not sounding overly disingenuous.
I refill the bottle. Midnight obediently drains, seemingly the last meal of the condemned.
“How many?.. strokes.”
“As many as sadistic whim suggests. With all that muscling and skin toughened in cool climate, I suspect you’ll endure many.”
The second pint finished, I insert the penis gag, Midnight’s well trained throat offering not a scintilla of resistance as inch after inch glides inward, gag reflex long ago mastered. She attempts some final words and I believe I discern her question.
“Yes, I’ll be here to watch,” seeing Midnight nod, my reply seeming to comfort.
I buckle the gag at the back of her head. Show time.
I raise the pulley cords, bringing Midnight’s helpless hanging form upright. I return the boxes and as her feet find support, release the thigh straps. Midnight knows to draw together ankles to be hobbled. The strap is attached and I retrieve a leash.
Never ever does Midnight move without being tethered. Psychologically it is paramount.
Untying the pulley cords from the yoke, my pony girl can prance. Accordingly I raise my leash hand, up on the toes, and lead to the wooden pony.
Though Douglas oiled well, her flesh will need some touch up, and I need to assure the buttocks will be receptive. A resounding ‘thwack’ pleases the aficionado of rattan based excoriation. Wife Victoria is not to be disappointed.
The upturned plank has been returned to the perfect height, Midnight needing to go higher on toes to straddle. I secure the nose leash to a hook, forcing our flagellant to bend at the waist in a moderate pose. Victoria the perfectionist may adjust. But for now I just want her positioned so as to oil and offer one last massage of her well worn muscles.
Fingers work to assure the long labia drape right and left of a plank which parts and threatens the sensitive vaginal portal. I then move to the cleansing table where the large bottle of body oil rests from the morning bath.
Is it best to offer relaxation before the horror Midnight will endure?
The answer matters not.
Despite her apprehension, Midnight slumbers in her sling, hooded, slack pulley cords allowing her to rest prostrate with a lowered yoke. I deliberately worked her hard on the return journey to the barn, thus the need for recuperative sleep has overcome the abject fear of Victoria’s excoriating hand.
Douglas again bathed under my supervision, also noting the added wetness drooling between her thighs with the clitoral stimulation of my chains. My son seemed reluctant to rinse away the fragrance and replace such with the lavender scent of the soap.
‘But it shall return’, I counseled my hesitant son, knowing the undouched vagina will reek again.
So I sit and gaze at my kept, trained, and exercised pony girl, enjoying a mid afternoon glass of wine while Victoria shops.
The nipples dangle invitingly... inviting both the sting of the crop and a sensuous, playful tweak of the fingers. Extending some three inches from the body of mammary glands exercised to moderate size, I often wonder what level of shapely attraction Midnight’s glands would have achieved had she not been subjected to daily rigorous exercise shortly after puberty.
Still the relative flatness is functional for a girl in forced physical servitude, conveniently making the nipples more prominent... for the crop... and offering limited top heaviness... the better to be run.
My eyes shift to the labia, gently swaying with a sleeping Midnight’s slight motion. Stretched further at some four to five inches, the epidermis there seems to take better, respond more robustly, to the herbal lotions, pulls of energetic fingers and weights.
Also to be subjected to the crop, I refrain from using such intensely painful encouragement, except on extreme occasions... the need for excessive speed... or to correct a gross lapse in pony deportment.
Victoria whimsically suggested we stretch such to her knees. It can be done, all skin able to be so modified. And with an enthusiastic son Douglas quickly learning proper care, I am sure the presentation will be accomplished.
I hear the car approach and know that an earnest Victoria, after stowing the fruits of her shopping, will find the need to express the bisexual side of her sadism. On this first occasion, we have decided to exclude Douglas, the past few days of Midnight’s introduction already deluging a young impressionable mind.
He’s at a friend’s house... perhaps a pickup game of basketball... computer games may be a better wager.
I brutishly chug down the last swallow of a fine and delicate Chardonnay, arise from my chair and head for the worn chest of drawers, Mother’s wellspring of bondage paraphernalia. Despite my counsel, I remain concerned that Midnight will speak, break down under the intensity of the searing pain and offer words to beseech. Tucked away is the penis gag... long, thick and cruel. Once buckled in place, Victoria will have no reason to remove it. And if for some reason there comes an inclination, I will remind her of the neighbors, putting aside the distant proximity and their aural limitations.
Before gagging, Midnight needs to be watered. It is important, a well hydrated flagellant better able to resist entering a state of shock... filled bladder also adding to the amusement as the intense agony challenges control of bodily functions.
So I fill one squeeze bottle, step to our resting giantess, and slip off the hood. She blinks, Midnight’s eyes slowly acclimating, the extended morning run bringing deep sleep.
“Time to ride the pony, pretty girl,” I coo, in a paternal voice, eliciting comfort... or least attempting to bring such.
I insert the straw of the squeeze bottle and begin to hydrate. Though I know her to be well watered before suspending her, she will take one full pint to be followed by another. And I shall not have her empty her bladder.
Midnight imbibes. In spotting the gag she knows to make a last request before being silenced.
“I must go Master,” bladder filled as suspected.
“No. You’ll hold and ride the pony for me,” my pleasant smile turning to one of wickedness.
“It will be uncomfortable,” slurping the final ounce.
“It is best for you,” not sounding overly disingenuous.
I refill the bottle. Midnight obediently drains, seemingly the last meal of the condemned.
“How many?.. strokes.”
“As many as sadistic whim suggests. With all that muscling and skin toughened in cool climate, I suspect you’ll endure many.”
The second pint finished, I insert the penis gag, Midnight’s well trained throat offering not a scintilla of resistance as inch after inch glides inward, gag reflex long ago mastered. She attempts some final words and I believe I discern her question.
“Yes, I’ll be here to watch,” seeing Midnight nod, my reply seeming to comfort.
I buckle the gag at the back of her head. Show time.
I raise the pulley cords, bringing Midnight’s helpless hanging form upright. I return the boxes and as her feet find support, release the thigh straps. Midnight knows to draw together ankles to be hobbled. The strap is attached and I retrieve a leash.
Never ever does Midnight move without being tethered. Psychologically it is paramount.
Untying the pulley cords from the yoke, my pony girl can prance. Accordingly I raise my leash hand, up on the toes, and lead to the wooden pony.
Though Douglas oiled well, her flesh will need some touch up, and I need to assure the buttocks will be receptive. A resounding ‘thwack’ pleases the aficionado of rattan based excoriation. Wife Victoria is not to be disappointed.
The upturned plank has been returned to the perfect height, Midnight needing to go higher on toes to straddle. I secure the nose leash to a hook, forcing our flagellant to bend at the waist in a moderate pose. Victoria the perfectionist may adjust. But for now I just want her positioned so as to oil and offer one last massage of her well worn muscles.
Fingers work to assure the long labia drape right and left of a plank which parts and threatens the sensitive vaginal portal. I then move to the cleansing table where the large bottle of body oil rests from the morning bath.
Is it best to offer relaxation before the horror Midnight will endure?
The answer matters not.
Sunday, June 16, 2013
New Novella/'Interrogation'
Just so you're aware that my fingers are not idle, I have posted a novella of some 20,000 words on Lulu.
Female Dominant/female submissive, bestiality, sodomy, oral servitude. Strong Chris Bellows stuff.
http://www.lulu.com/content/e-book/interrogation/13925157
$4.00. Enjoy.
Female Dominant/female submissive, bestiality, sodomy, oral servitude. Strong Chris Bellows stuff.
http://www.lulu.com/content/e-book/interrogation/13925157
$4.00. Enjoy.
Saturday, June 15, 2013
Midnight - Segment XXII
Another Morning Ride
Normally a teen of Douglas’s age has some difficulty dragging himself/herself out of bed in the morning. But after introducing him to the inner glee of governing a naked well trussed pony girl, I find in peering out the bedroom window, Midnight is hobbled, harnessed to the light pony cart, bearing the bit with reins in waiting. I quickly don slacks and sweater, knowing that in the cool morning air, my pony girl will be eager to perform for me.
Yes, Douglas the groom has taken to his new responsibility with aplomb, being promised, in time, that it will be he seated on the cart, reins and crop in hand. So for the first time he has removed the speculum which holds Midnight open, unhooked the labial and nipple weights and unraveled the soft strips of cloth which I use to gently enshroud the skin undergoing slow modification. Soon adorning Midnight’s body with such will also be his responsibility, but for now we take one step at a time. Assuring the stretched skin is properly anointed with the special lotion and the nipples and labia are incessantly pulled with the appropriate tension is a skill to be acquired. It will come.
I exit the house, Midnight standing in wait, in the coolness those lengthy nipples serving as a thermometer, hardened and sticking straight out, appearing to be darts aimed at a target.
Douglas hears me approach and exits the barn. We exchange morning pleasantries, me swelling with pride, and Douglas stoops to remove the hobbling strap, then hooks it to the cart. I, of course, work Midnight’s fine chainery, tightening at the hips to remove all slack, watching intently as her ringed nubbin rises with the newly applied tension. Such a prominent display, the hormone swelled organ not to be veiled.
She stirs with the sensation and I smile in satisfaction, knowing that with every step, the motions of her thighs will jostle that most sensitive button of feminine flesh. Yes, with inner labia flopping, clitoris jostling, Midnight will run and masturbate herself to a sexual frenzy, ultimate climax denied.
I sit, utter the command ‘giddup’ and swing, the crop nipping the right nipple, bringing what I know to be searing pain. Midnight digs in, buttocks clenching, thighs rippling, her response instantaneous.
Off we go, to our idyllic clearing, no eggs benedict to be offered. Instead I will partake in that other delight never to be served at home.
With the crop I rhythmically work the buttocks, tapping away to bring not suffering but instead the comfort Midnight feels in knowing she’s totally under the control of an exacting Master. Soon, perspiration beads, and despite the early hour, adrenaline has Midnight laboring with zest.
I do believe she’s as eager as I am to reach the apex, the slim chains working their magic.
Step, step, step, a good brisk jog brings us to our destination. I pull to a halt, leaving some slack on the reins, dismount and quickly hobble. When I slip the bit from Midnight’s mouth, she knows there is an opportunity to speak and wastes not the opportunity.
“Please, Master, I need to be masturbated!”
I smile, repressing laughter, the abundance of moisture flowing down her inner thighs not entirely sweat.
“I think my wife will cool your needs,” reminding that she has an appointment on the wooden pony.
“She scares me sir,” truncating further exchange while I cradle her head and her teeth begin to work my zipper.
“She should. A relentless flagellatrix. Though you should be accustomed to being disciplined.”
“When I needed correction. Now I am obedient... and work hard to please.”
“Well this afternoon you will work hard to please while riding the pony and having your buttocks striped,” I offer with a snort.
Midnight has no immediate response, instead knowing to engulf my penis. She likes my taste. And I offer her a feast, relieving myself, her throat opening to take all. It’s exhilarating power. I hear not a single gulp, and I press to empty myself before pending tumescence impedes the flow.
In finishing, tongue and lips assure neatness, her oral training sublime.
“I will do anything for her to avoid being caned,” she pleads.
“You will do everything for her and be caned. Know your place.”
Her lips return to what it is now a semi firm penis. Fellatio begins, no invitation required. I slowly step back and lower to sit on the large rock we’ve worn to smoothness over the years, my hands continuing to cradle Midnight’s baldness. She follows, continuing to suck, hobbled feet managing two short steps, cart following. Mouth continuously engaged, Midnight knows to also lower herself, lips sucking, tongue swishing.
Exquisite!
Whether or not to take her anally is always a random choice. For some reason on this morning I choose not to expend the energy. I let her suck and suck, enjoying the vista, early Spring spurring the flora, photosynthesis transforming the surrounding hills to green.
Sensing growing excitement, her head bobs with vigor, challenging my grip to orally fuck herself. The sensation overwhelms. I explode copiously, deeply, again hearing not a gulp or suggestion that Midnight cannot accommodate and ingest all I offer, her skills extensive.
Lips purse to again assure neatness. Then Midnight knows to pause, letting me revel in the afterglow. After several moments she lifts her head, adoring a male appendage returning to flaccidity.
“I can orally please her, Master. My last owner was a woman. Perhaps that will quiet her hand,” the condemned returning to discussion of her pending execution.
I smile.
“You’re to be caned. Remember to remain wordlessly silent, though I am sure you will scream. Afterwards I will milk you in reward.”
“Full climax, Master?”
“Of course not.”
“Before Douglas? Please no...”
I laugh wickedly knowing that the intense humiliation of being so spread open and slowly purged of feminine essence is the ultimate narcotic for the masochist... and to have such expunged before a young male... nirvana. Midnight, as with most girls of her ilk, remains confused concerning her proclivity. She objects... but she is in so much need...
“Yes, before Douglas. I may even have him feather you.”
A stunned Midnight obediently works her lips and teeth to right my zipper. She protests, she objects, but deep within she will enjoy.
Normally a teen of Douglas’s age has some difficulty dragging himself/herself out of bed in the morning. But after introducing him to the inner glee of governing a naked well trussed pony girl, I find in peering out the bedroom window, Midnight is hobbled, harnessed to the light pony cart, bearing the bit with reins in waiting. I quickly don slacks and sweater, knowing that in the cool morning air, my pony girl will be eager to perform for me.
Yes, Douglas the groom has taken to his new responsibility with aplomb, being promised, in time, that it will be he seated on the cart, reins and crop in hand. So for the first time he has removed the speculum which holds Midnight open, unhooked the labial and nipple weights and unraveled the soft strips of cloth which I use to gently enshroud the skin undergoing slow modification. Soon adorning Midnight’s body with such will also be his responsibility, but for now we take one step at a time. Assuring the stretched skin is properly anointed with the special lotion and the nipples and labia are incessantly pulled with the appropriate tension is a skill to be acquired. It will come.
I exit the house, Midnight standing in wait, in the coolness those lengthy nipples serving as a thermometer, hardened and sticking straight out, appearing to be darts aimed at a target.
Douglas hears me approach and exits the barn. We exchange morning pleasantries, me swelling with pride, and Douglas stoops to remove the hobbling strap, then hooks it to the cart. I, of course, work Midnight’s fine chainery, tightening at the hips to remove all slack, watching intently as her ringed nubbin rises with the newly applied tension. Such a prominent display, the hormone swelled organ not to be veiled.
She stirs with the sensation and I smile in satisfaction, knowing that with every step, the motions of her thighs will jostle that most sensitive button of feminine flesh. Yes, with inner labia flopping, clitoris jostling, Midnight will run and masturbate herself to a sexual frenzy, ultimate climax denied.
I sit, utter the command ‘giddup’ and swing, the crop nipping the right nipple, bringing what I know to be searing pain. Midnight digs in, buttocks clenching, thighs rippling, her response instantaneous.
Off we go, to our idyllic clearing, no eggs benedict to be offered. Instead I will partake in that other delight never to be served at home.
With the crop I rhythmically work the buttocks, tapping away to bring not suffering but instead the comfort Midnight feels in knowing she’s totally under the control of an exacting Master. Soon, perspiration beads, and despite the early hour, adrenaline has Midnight laboring with zest.
I do believe she’s as eager as I am to reach the apex, the slim chains working their magic.
Step, step, step, a good brisk jog brings us to our destination. I pull to a halt, leaving some slack on the reins, dismount and quickly hobble. When I slip the bit from Midnight’s mouth, she knows there is an opportunity to speak and wastes not the opportunity.
“Please, Master, I need to be masturbated!”
I smile, repressing laughter, the abundance of moisture flowing down her inner thighs not entirely sweat.
“I think my wife will cool your needs,” reminding that she has an appointment on the wooden pony.
“She scares me sir,” truncating further exchange while I cradle her head and her teeth begin to work my zipper.
“She should. A relentless flagellatrix. Though you should be accustomed to being disciplined.”
“When I needed correction. Now I am obedient... and work hard to please.”
“Well this afternoon you will work hard to please while riding the pony and having your buttocks striped,” I offer with a snort.
Midnight has no immediate response, instead knowing to engulf my penis. She likes my taste. And I offer her a feast, relieving myself, her throat opening to take all. It’s exhilarating power. I hear not a single gulp, and I press to empty myself before pending tumescence impedes the flow.
In finishing, tongue and lips assure neatness, her oral training sublime.
“I will do anything for her to avoid being caned,” she pleads.
“You will do everything for her and be caned. Know your place.”
Her lips return to what it is now a semi firm penis. Fellatio begins, no invitation required. I slowly step back and lower to sit on the large rock we’ve worn to smoothness over the years, my hands continuing to cradle Midnight’s baldness. She follows, continuing to suck, hobbled feet managing two short steps, cart following. Mouth continuously engaged, Midnight knows to also lower herself, lips sucking, tongue swishing.
Exquisite!
Whether or not to take her anally is always a random choice. For some reason on this morning I choose not to expend the energy. I let her suck and suck, enjoying the vista, early Spring spurring the flora, photosynthesis transforming the surrounding hills to green.
Sensing growing excitement, her head bobs with vigor, challenging my grip to orally fuck herself. The sensation overwhelms. I explode copiously, deeply, again hearing not a gulp or suggestion that Midnight cannot accommodate and ingest all I offer, her skills extensive.
Lips purse to again assure neatness. Then Midnight knows to pause, letting me revel in the afterglow. After several moments she lifts her head, adoring a male appendage returning to flaccidity.
“I can orally please her, Master. My last owner was a woman. Perhaps that will quiet her hand,” the condemned returning to discussion of her pending execution.
I smile.
“You’re to be caned. Remember to remain wordlessly silent, though I am sure you will scream. Afterwards I will milk you in reward.”
“Full climax, Master?”
“Of course not.”
“Before Douglas? Please no...”
I laugh wickedly knowing that the intense humiliation of being so spread open and slowly purged of feminine essence is the ultimate narcotic for the masochist... and to have such expunged before a young male... nirvana. Midnight, as with most girls of her ilk, remains confused concerning her proclivity. She objects... but she is in so much need...
“Yes, before Douglas. I may even have him feather you.”
A stunned Midnight obediently works her lips and teeth to right my zipper. She protests, she objects, but deep within she will enjoy.
Saturday, June 8, 2013
Midnight - Segment XXI
A Visit
Watching Midnight sweat... watching Midnight struggle... watching Midnight suffer... mesmerizes... son Douglas as a curious and impressionable teen... me as I relive the halcyon days of attaining and enjoying complete sexual control over a human beast.
So we step back and with quiet serenity let time and gravity challenge the dynamism of a pony girl honed, exercised, trained, sculpted, fed and medicated to physical perfection.
In riding the wooden pony, there is never triumph, only slow surrender. All succumb... and such is the case with Midnight as leg muscles begin to quiver, the strain on buttocks and lower back bring slow but moderate tension to the leash holding up Midnight’s nose loop.
Yet I note the plank darkens, the wood fibers absorbing the attestation of the masochist, traces of feminine arousal streaming from her vaginal opening, her elongated lips becoming conduits of odoriferous wet which stains.
“She’s leaking,” a naive Douglas exclaims.
I snicker.
“No son, she’s enjoying,” wondering how long Midnight can maintain her silence before the agony of tensioned nose loop and abraded pink flesh spurs a beseeching cry for mercy.
“Well, you boys enjoying yourselves?” the haughty words those of wife Victoria.
We both turn, wondering how long she has been observing from the barn door. Aware of Victoria’s proclivities, I know the basis for her huffy interruption is not one of disapproval but one of objection for being excluded from the entertainment. She steps forth, boots thudding, head erect, arms akimbo, establishing her governing presence.
I can only imagine the impression to be made upon the vanilla wife of a rancher, a naked, well trussed, human equine being tormented, perspiration mixing with abundant massage oil to make her expanse of black blemishless flesh scream for the attention of wanton eyes.
But this is Victoria.
“Is there not a quicker method of offering discipline? You boys must be quite bored by now.”
Douglas is perplexed. I laugh.
“Exercise, Victoria. Time consuming but effective. I am sure you’ve focused on her buttocks. They didn’t get that large and firm sitting about eating cupcakes.”
Victoria’s regal march continues, bringing her to stand most proximate. Both hands extend and brusquely clasp the referenced saturated globes with notable force, causing Midnight to lurch and jerk her nose loop.
The well worn pony girl cries out, eliciting what I know to be feigned sympathy from wife Victoria.
“You’ve hurt yourself, tsk, tsk,” stepping back, swinging her arm to offer a thunderous slap to hillocks which cannot avoid assault.
This brings another lurch, another cry of anguish as Victoria steps further back, becoming more pensive with assessment.
“Rather simple bondage, Oliver,” she offers after a long pause. “But I’m willing to wager a girl can be well caned when so presented.”
Well, if there were any reservations about introducing son Douglas to our eccentric lifestyle, such have more than adequately been cast aside. And I begin to fear for the continuation of my subterfuge, Midnight not bearing her gag.
After an hour or more of riding the wooden pony, most fortitude has waned. Can Midnight’s concentration withstand both the slow torment of the plank and the quick vicious searing strokes of Victoria’s bamboo laden hand?
“She needs feeding, Victoria. Perhaps later. Plus she’s not gagged... we do have neighbors...”
Yes, but some two miles down the road, aged and hard of hearing. Will Victoria fall for another ruse? Forestall that which most enthuses?
The latter concern does not faze.
“I’ll need her watered. And I’ll want her at full strength. So much more fun breaking a girl that way... bladder opening to capitulate in complete surrender...”
Midnight is thus offered a reprieve for now, for her strength has finally dissipated. Despite the agony to be offered her most sensitive feminine charms, the knees slowly buckle and the wet entrance to her vagina greets the scabrous edge of the plank. She whines like a wounded puppy, but her muscling responds not to the dire need for elevation. It required nearly two hours, but Midnight’s energy is depleted, her fortitude vanquished.
Still I must let her suffer, assuring that the slow dip is not a deception to curry sympathy. So when the buttock muscles likewise surrender and the leash tightens to tension the nose loop, I know it is time. Our wet, well worn, well exercised pony girl is to be returned to her sling.
I step forth and release the adjustable clamps which hold in place the plank, lowering to provide instant relief. Lips of a most humble Midnight begin to move, to thank me, and I quickly press closed with my finger.
“No more moans,” I rebuke, reminding her of the stoic silence I mandate.
So a nearly comatose Midnight is put away wet, returned to her thigh slings with needed assistance, to be later watered and fed after a nap.
“Tomorrow. I have a free afternoon. I’ll want her riding the pony,” wife Victoria speaks, inspecting a wall rack lined with various lengths of bamboo, not seeming to be overly disappointed in having to wait.
Saturday, June 1, 2013
Midnight - Segment XX
More conditioning
I have ordered a new treadmill. But until it arrives, we’ll need to somewhat improvise. I therefor clear away a little used portion of the barn, little used since Mother passed on and her timid estate lawyers quickly disposed of Midnight, deemed an asset not to be listed in the estate accounting.
Since wife Victoria has taken such interest in the enormous yet well shaped buttocks of our pony girl, particular attention needs to be expended in ensuring such continue to be suitable targets for the cane. Such a thoughtful husband am I.
So I have Douglas join me, pushing aside some old furniture and storage boxes to clear a space at the right wall.
“Gee, Dad, I never noticed this plank before.”
Yes, as stated, we’ve sheltered young Douglas from our more debaucherous penchants. Therefore the horizontal one inch thick upturned plank of some four to five feet in length has deliberately been tucked away for years.
“It’s a wooden pony, Douglas.”
My son stares in assessing, not able to ascertain its function. Perhaps we have been overly cautious in keeping it somewhat concealed.
The plank is connected to the wall, protruding at a right angle, currently some two and a half to three feet above the floor. It’s height is adjustable, a clever feature that assured slow torment even as a youthful Midnight grew after acquisition. On the wall are a vertical series of hooks where Midnight’s nose loop was so often secured. It was quite facile to condition those calves, thighs and buttocks by having Midnight straddle the plank, the scabrous edge abrading her pink genitalia, the height adjusted to force her to her toes. I recall Mother lecturing when Midnight was first introduced to the slow unending torment, hour after hour of straining to protect her precious pink parts from more painfully greeting the dreaded plank...
‘Depending on what muscles you wish to work, Oliver, you tie off the nose loop high or low. High forces her to work the calves, low the buttocks... feel.’
A timorous young hand was invited to knead the buttocks of a stooped Midnight, clenched and straining to hold her head and torso high enough so as not to stress her secured nose loop. Yet the leg muscles also labored, the edge of the plank quite rough.
“A Wooden pony?” Douglas’s imagination finally conceding, the purpose of the plank not to be conjured.
“For riding. Keeps a girl in good shape.”
I lead and we return to a suspended Midnight, remaining in the slings of the thigh straps.
“Release her, Douglas,” I softly command, offering my son practice in handling a kept human equine.
He’s learning, pushing the boxes under her feet, unhooking the thighs straps, hobbling with diligence as Midnight knows to bring together her ankles. I hand him the leash, almost forgotten, and Midnight’s nose once again becomes a lever for control.
“Over to the pony, have her straddle it facing the wall and those hooks. You’ll need to release the hobbling strap.”
Midnight of course knows precisely of the protocol, having so often ridden, in her adolescence practically every day. It is therefore with little resistance that she shuffles forth on toes, Douglas offering a challenging high grip on the leash. Our pony girl steps to the plank, Douglas stoops to remove the hobbling strap, and with two more very short steps she moves forward, high on toes, the plank slipping between her thighs.
“Tie off the leash to a ring in the middle, Douglas, have her bend a little at the waist. Yes, that’s it.”
Midnight becomes the picture of tormented subjugation as yoked, naked and tethered her feet work to remain high on toes, her buttocks labor to hold up the weight of her chest and torso, and even the lower back muscles somewhat strain.
“Gee Dad, the height of the plank is perfect,” Douglas notes with enthusiasm, my ruse to veil prior ownership in peril.
“Yes, quite a coincidence,” wondering if the family genes have his pecker hardening as is mine.
“How long will she stand like this?”
I smile with the question, Douglas not fully understanding the thoroughness of his power.
“As long as you want her to stand,” my response coming as I demonstrate to Douglas the need for the attention of supervising fingers to assure that the long pink inner labia are draped right and left of the plank.
Midnight quivers with my touch, the altered strips of flesh remaining wondrously sensitive.
I have ordered a new treadmill. But until it arrives, we’ll need to somewhat improvise. I therefor clear away a little used portion of the barn, little used since Mother passed on and her timid estate lawyers quickly disposed of Midnight, deemed an asset not to be listed in the estate accounting.
Since wife Victoria has taken such interest in the enormous yet well shaped buttocks of our pony girl, particular attention needs to be expended in ensuring such continue to be suitable targets for the cane. Such a thoughtful husband am I.
So I have Douglas join me, pushing aside some old furniture and storage boxes to clear a space at the right wall.
“Gee, Dad, I never noticed this plank before.”
Yes, as stated, we’ve sheltered young Douglas from our more debaucherous penchants. Therefore the horizontal one inch thick upturned plank of some four to five feet in length has deliberately been tucked away for years.
“It’s a wooden pony, Douglas.”
My son stares in assessing, not able to ascertain its function. Perhaps we have been overly cautious in keeping it somewhat concealed.
The plank is connected to the wall, protruding at a right angle, currently some two and a half to three feet above the floor. It’s height is adjustable, a clever feature that assured slow torment even as a youthful Midnight grew after acquisition. On the wall are a vertical series of hooks where Midnight’s nose loop was so often secured. It was quite facile to condition those calves, thighs and buttocks by having Midnight straddle the plank, the scabrous edge abrading her pink genitalia, the height adjusted to force her to her toes. I recall Mother lecturing when Midnight was first introduced to the slow unending torment, hour after hour of straining to protect her precious pink parts from more painfully greeting the dreaded plank...
‘Depending on what muscles you wish to work, Oliver, you tie off the nose loop high or low. High forces her to work the calves, low the buttocks... feel.’
A timorous young hand was invited to knead the buttocks of a stooped Midnight, clenched and straining to hold her head and torso high enough so as not to stress her secured nose loop. Yet the leg muscles also labored, the edge of the plank quite rough.
“A Wooden pony?” Douglas’s imagination finally conceding, the purpose of the plank not to be conjured.
“For riding. Keeps a girl in good shape.”
I lead and we return to a suspended Midnight, remaining in the slings of the thigh straps.
“Release her, Douglas,” I softly command, offering my son practice in handling a kept human equine.
He’s learning, pushing the boxes under her feet, unhooking the thighs straps, hobbling with diligence as Midnight knows to bring together her ankles. I hand him the leash, almost forgotten, and Midnight’s nose once again becomes a lever for control.
“Over to the pony, have her straddle it facing the wall and those hooks. You’ll need to release the hobbling strap.”
Midnight of course knows precisely of the protocol, having so often ridden, in her adolescence practically every day. It is therefore with little resistance that she shuffles forth on toes, Douglas offering a challenging high grip on the leash. Our pony girl steps to the plank, Douglas stoops to remove the hobbling strap, and with two more very short steps she moves forward, high on toes, the plank slipping between her thighs.
“Tie off the leash to a ring in the middle, Douglas, have her bend a little at the waist. Yes, that’s it.”
Midnight becomes the picture of tormented subjugation as yoked, naked and tethered her feet work to remain high on toes, her buttocks labor to hold up the weight of her chest and torso, and even the lower back muscles somewhat strain.
“Gee Dad, the height of the plank is perfect,” Douglas notes with enthusiasm, my ruse to veil prior ownership in peril.
“Yes, quite a coincidence,” wondering if the family genes have his pecker hardening as is mine.
“How long will she stand like this?”
I smile with the question, Douglas not fully understanding the thoroughness of his power.
“As long as you want her to stand,” my response coming as I demonstrate to Douglas the need for the attention of supervising fingers to assure that the long pink inner labia are draped right and left of the plank.
Midnight quivers with my touch, the altered strips of flesh remaining wondrously sensitive.
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