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...