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.