Saturday, July 20, 2013

Midnight - Segment XXVII


I have Midnight mounted on the cleansing table, ankles secured, yoke attached to the stanchions.

She rests, buttocks ablaze, the huge globes so tender to the touch that I cannot yet apply unguent without bringing further agony. I count twelve stripes on each hillock, evenly spaced, precisely parallel. Victoria caned with the exacting rigor of a surgeon.

I believe it was stroke eight when Midnight’s ability to control her filled bladder ceded, excretions splattering, soaking the plank and eventually gushing to the bucket... most of it. Victoria chided. I was impressed, Midnight otherwise maintaining her position... legs, buttocks and lower back able to keep tension off the nose loop and protect her pink vaginal opening from the gruff grains of the plank.

This brought a pause, Victoria letting the psyche absorb the ignominy of having uncontrollably urinated like a toddler. Then she resumed of course, even more enthused in forcing such humiliation on our well tethered pony girl.

Buttocks completely adorned, Victoria has retreated to the house. For her, a post caning brew seems to be part of the ritual. This leaves me to offer care... and catharsis, our huge, well muscled pony girl reduced to blubbering into her penis gag. 

I lower a cord from above, hooking Midnight’s nose loop... not tight but certainly not loose. Mercy has never been a significant aspect of our relationship. Midnight is owned... to be used... to be enjoyed. She serves. And the care I offer is akin to maintaining a car, antique rifle or some other valuable device. So I clean, ensure everything functions, and in Midnight’s case exercise daily to demand top performance.

I slip out the penis gag... so long... so cruelly aggravating.

Midnight coughs, clearing a well stuffed throat.

“You wife is a bitch. Master,” her words bringing a wane smile.

“But she did not break the skin. Your buttocks remain comely,” I offer in reflection.

I have Midnight kneeling in the standard cleansing position, thighs well parted but yoke and head not lowered. I let her rest, stepping to her rear. A proximate hand dares not touch the well excoriated flesh yet senses the intense radiating heat. A lusty male mind suggests that I take her anally. The thought of feeling the welts of her torrid flesh greet my pubes with every deep penetrating thrust brings arousal. And with the searing pain, she would be sure to resist, perhaps delightfully clenching to challenge, enhancing the male’s need to conquer.   

“You cane well,” my words a compliment.

And Midnight accepts as such.

“Thank you, sir. But I would rather serve you. Run for you. Feel your crop hand. Taste you.”

“Yes, of course you would. It is ingrained in your psyche. But you will entertain and perform for Victoria as well. And Douglas. Have you tasted him?” knowing that at some point in time, my hormone laden son will indulge.  

“His trousers bulge, when he handles me. But in silence, I cannot encourage.”

Ah, a dilemma. I so often recall Midnight’s simple beseeching words in those halcyon days... when Mother trained her... and me as a groom. ‘May I suck your penis, sir?’ The words still both thrill and comfort. But in mandating silence, the ears of young Douglas shall not be so treated.  

I must give consideration.

I hear a car, the annoying roar of a modified exhaust system, young Douglas, as with most teens, deciding the neighbors should be aware of his comings and goings.

“I’m going to milk your cunt, Midnight. You’ll feel better.”

“Please masturbate me, Master, to completion.”

“No. No climax. But we’ll stimulate enough endorphins so that you’ll feel better.”


“Yes, Douglas has arrived.”

“Please not before him!”

“Before whomever I decide, Midnight. It’s time he learned, reviewed his lesson in female anatomy... put such to good use. And the humiliation will make you feel even better. You know that.”

With that I step to the barn door and signal Douglas, exiting the noisy ten year old Honda. Then I move to the chest of drawers. The speculum rests atop. I rummage about within. It’s poignant to find Midnight’s milking bowl. How many times have I labored to coat its surface with viscous feminine essence?

I also discover the slim probe with the small bulbous tip which formerly penetrated Midnight’s quim, slipping into her anterior fornix to delicately palpate. I find myself somewhat chagrined that in my younger days I reveled in making her squirt, ejaculating in mind numbing climax, over developed muscling turning to jello, her naked form seeming to melt on the cleansing table, head slumping in ecstatic joy.

I do believe Midnight’s vaginal walls will begin to oscillate just looking at the wickedly pleasurable length of smooth stainless steel. Alas, those times are gone. Frustrating chastity is best for those obligated to be tethered and run. It makes them eager to perform. So I return the probe, casting aside adolescent thoughts of indiscriminately anointing a girl with unnecessary pleasure. 

Lastly a feather, so tantalizingly soft and pliable, perfect to tease, yet never to bring utmost fulfillment.

Douglas enters. We both approach the kneeling coal black naked form of Midnight.

“More lessons, Douglas, if you have a few moments.”

I inwardly smile knowing the priapic lad will find a lifetime of moments when tending to Midnight.

“Midnight has been disciplined, something a girl with her propensities requires from time to time.”

I move to Midnight’s head. Douglas of course immediately positions himself to view the buttocks, well spread thighs and genitalia so audaciously exposed under the bright barn ceiling lights.

My son visually examines as I release the nose loop, lowering the stanchions to bring Midnight’s head and face down to the marble surface of the cleansing table. She has this pleading look, knowing not to speak, but also in spying the milking bowl, well aware of the forthcoming slow torment of unending yet incomplete pleasure.

I reconnect the nose loop, noting that with buttocks high, back arched and knees well spread, the evidence of Victoria’s long slow afternoon of torture cannot be veiled.

“Wow Dad, that looks painful!” Douglas noting the 24 evenly spaced horizontal welts.

“It is. That is the intent. Now the problem is applying unguent. Her punishment has ended, so we don’t want to induce more pain. Therefor we’re going to milk her cunt which will promote the flow of endorphins.”

I move to the rear, Douglas at my side. The speculum slips inward with ease, the moist vagina once again evidencing Midnight’s proclivity. I turn the adjusting knob, parting the prongs, splaying her open, the display of bright pink expanding with every twist of my fingers. Midnight moans... in delight?.. in protest?.. it matters not.    

The musky sent of femininity undouched fills the barn, so nicely augmenting the intensity of Midnight’s embarrassment. I push the bowl between her knees, the strips of labial flesh dangling just above, seeming to point the way for juices which will soon be flowing in abundance.

“Now, Douglas,” handing the feather to my energetic hormone laden son, “let’s review the female anatomy. I’ll name some of the most sensitive parts and regions, you point and toy with  the feather. We’ll soon have her purring like cat, her cunny flowing like a dairy cow.”

Midnight so much detests, yet so much craves the attention. With Mother’s training and my many years of experience, I’ll show Douglas how to bring her to the very brink of orgasm... again... and again... and again.

“Show me the urethral opening, Douglas. Just a little feathering there to start....”

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