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.