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.