'Sweeney & Alison', Segment V

The last posted segment, but lengthy.

See the January 2 posting for availability from Lulu.

Enjoy.

CB

*****

Using the building’s freight elevator whenever come the rare times to guide Sweeney outside his apartment, George unlocks and quickly leads the half naked pony girl into his capacious penthouse, gently tugging as always on the clitoral hood leash.

To the kitchen, George unclips the leash and merely points. In silence Sweeney knows to lower herself, first kneeling upright then bending, forehead to the floor. No words need be exchanged.

George moves to the refrigerator, extracting a large bowl of brown mush, scooping two large spoonfuls into a smaller bowl and placing such on the floor before Sweeney’s bowed head.

“May I use my hands someday George? Maybe sit at the table?”

“No. Your mental submission is as important as the physical Sweeney. You wouldn’t feel right. Now spread for me like a good girl.”

As Sweeney sloppily partakes, the simple fare appearing unappealing, smelling somewhat insalubrious but without taste and highly nutritious, George pulls up a chair behind, knees parted widely in response.

Fingers work the feminine portal, slipping past the stretched labia. The Ben wa balls are to be extracted.

“I hate those things, George.”

“You say that... but your cunny says otherwise,” George quips, always amazed at the abundant slickness brought by the clever spheres.

Fingers of the right hand find the lower ball, some one inch in diameter, freely bobbing about in a well stimulated love pouch. 

“Now try to relax, Sweeney. Your kegel muscles are amazingly well developed.”

George has always found it curious how receptive the birth canal is to the insertion, the larger upper ball introduced. It glides well within, the natural function of the vagina to hungrily suck it inward to the point the two inch sphere of smooth stainless steel resides close to the cervix. It’s the extrication that requires time and tender coaxing. So lower ball captured, he ever so gently pulls, hearing Sweeney cooing with the conflicting sensations of joy and distress. Attached together by a filament appearing to be fishing tackle, the upper ball begins to lower... one centimeter... two... pulling with it the larger. 

It stops, the kegel muscles defiantly tightening. A well experienced George knows to diddle the clitoris with the very tip of his left index finger. This brings delight, an increased flow of endorphins, and relaxation.

“Stop, Sweeney. I know you’re pulling against me. You say you hate your vaginal insertions, but you fight my fingers every time.”           

Cunny now dripping wet, George finally wins the battle, both slick Ben wa balls dropping to his left palm.

As Sweeney finishes her gruel, George plops the steel balls into a pot... to be boiled and sanitized in the morning. He notes that even his jaded nose detects the strong vaginal fragrance as he returns to the kitchen chair basin in hand.

“You need to piss for me,” Sweeney knowing the words to be more of a command then suggestion.

George leans. In grasping right labia and left, he cannot help but think of fiancé Jennifer’s acuminous presumption.... that indeed his steed needs assistance with the most basic of bodily functions. He parts, pulling aside the long strips, splaying open such that the girl’s urethral opening is not encumbered.

Thought of as defiling by Jenn, George considers his assistance an act of devotion, assuring neatness in what would otherwise be a messy deed. And of course Sweeney relishes her Master’s touch... such intimacy.

There comes a strong and steady flow, Sweeney indeed in need. In completing George steps away basin in hand to dispose. In returning he lowers his hand, a finger hooking the heavily gauged nose ring, tenderly pulling to signal his steed to stand.

“Aren’t you going to wipe me?” the tone sultry and inviting.

“No. I know how much you enjoy, Sweeney. But it’s shower time. Come.” 

To the master bedroom, the adjoining bathroom is large, George having connected the space to an adjoining bedroom. Thus it’s more locker and exercise room than merely for ablutions.     

Stepping by the treadmill and wooden horse, George turns back, his hand holding high the nose ring, face pointed to the ceiling. Sweeney knows to obediently prance for him on toes. By rote her mind goes into pony girl space, imagining herself presented to judges at an exhibiting event... perhaps being led to the starting line for a race. 

To the shower. It is not a stall. Instead it is an open area, well drained floor, plumbing fixtures above, and a dangling cord with hook for the nose ring.

“Goods girls get a nice warm shower and scrubbing. Have you been a good girl, Sweeney?”

“Oh yes George. I showed myself for you tonight... at least your in laws seemed to be impressed. Your mother-in-law fondling... a sister- in-law infatuated with my tits... and a brother-in-law who wants to fuck me.”

“But not my bride. And Doug will not fuck you. That manner of vaginal penetration is forbidden. He wants to sodomize you... take you anally.”

George knows how much warm soapiness is relished... versus a quick frigid spray for bad girls. There is also the prospect of releasing the arms... never both at the same time. But the sense of relief can be ecstatic, Sweeney always reminding that good bathing includes the underarms.

“My arms sir,” George expecting the plea... such always coming with the obsequious form of address. 

The nose ring is secured, cord tightened, Sweeney remaining on toes. A spreader bar waits on the wall. Secured to the thigh bands, Sweeney’s knees are held widely apart, bringing more stress to standing on toes, the elongated labia freely dangling.

A picture of subjugation, George notes, stepping to take in hand the spray hose. And she so much enjoys! 

George always finds thrill as well, despite the many years of care. There is not one square centimeter of feminine flesh not exposed... not to be subjected to his examining, palpating fingers and hands.

He looks to see the lengthy nipples begin to crinkle and harden, jutting forth invitingly, once again turning to tiny spears. She so much cherishes his touch.

Valve turned, water temperature adjusted, an evening cleansing begins. If only the beautiful Jennifer O’Malley could bring herself on board... join him in his supreme dominion.

George adjusts the nozzle to offer soft spray, the water hot but soothing. The body of firm golden brown is doused. Sweeney hums in comfort. Then the flow is turned off, George dons rubber gloves, a large jar of strong smelling chemicals is opened. As he coats his hands, Sweeney detects the odor.

“Please no, George. There is no hair... it’s gone.” 

“And it will stay gone. I realize... and you must begin to realize also... that depilating your entire body is more symbolic at this point. That I can do with your nakedness anything I want to do. Deep within it excites you.” 

“But it stings.”

“More thrill for you. Now close your eyes,” the advisement coming as the hands begin to slather the odorous white ointment, starting high on the head, working down, neck, shoulders, back, breasts, stomach, thighs, legs.

“Please be careful,” the beseeching words coming as George steps to the front, stooping to assure the pubes area is well coated.

There come moans and groans... the sting... George knowing such overwhelms in being felt within every pore of her nakedness. It is unlike the suffering brought by a quick snap of the crop or quirt. It is consuming... lasting... continuous... only to end under the whim of her Master. When he pushes a coated hand under the bent right arm, there comes a strident shriek, the under arms sensitive. Another comes in coating the left.  

Body coated, George steps back, smiling in seeing the spectacularly shaped form squirm and writhe with the building agony. She enjoys in so submitting all to him. 

The gloves are rinsed then removed. George mentally counts... delay... delay... delay. Finally the squirming becomes paroxysmal, stressing the nose ring, doubling the pain and endangering the skewered nose cartilage. The valve is again turned. A warm rinsing is most welcomed... head to toes.

“Thank you, thank you,” the gratitude most sincere as the underarms are rinsed.

There follows soap, a soft chamois. Head and shoulders, George swathes over the breasts, the mounds prepubescently limited, the nipples remaining hardened. There is gentleness, the chamois grazing over treasured bronze flesh... smooth... warm... without blemish. To the pubes, Sweeney presses forth her hips, her concupiscence apparent. George circles about. Buttocks of stone, developed over the years of serving in harness... mile after mile on the treadmill. He steps back gazing... in awe... in admiration. Such power... such subjugated power.

He leans... the thighs, reaching about to lather the front. Further leaning, the calves are soaped. There comes a yelp as he lifts the right foot, the weight shifting to momentarily stress the nose ring. Completed, left foot is cleansed and returned to the floor tiling. Sweeney hums in satiation as George steps back taking in the idyllic vision... white suds adorning bare skin of golden brown, 

There is pride in ownership.  

“My arms sir?” again the form of address expressing desperate desire.

“Did I not clean under your arms recently?

“Yes sir. But it feels so good.”

George ignores for now. Returning to the front, the fingers of a left hand pushes about the clitoral hood chain the chamois swabbing the lower belly, left then right. Next the thigh bands left and right are slipped upwards as the chamois cleanses the flesh beneath. Finally a gracious George concedes, stepping behind, fingers of the left hand releasing the simple but oh so significant clasp securing the thumb ring of the left hand from the steel neck collar.

Sweeney knows to go limp, allowing Master George to unfurl her folded arm, guiding straight to the side and swabbing arm and armpit. To resist, defiantly move her arm under her own volition brings rebuke... meaning many weeks without release, of continuous binding, cramping ignored. 

Left arm cleansed, the limb is resecured and the right arm is treated to equivalent momentary relief. Such is evanescent yet so welcomed. 

Entire nakedness soaped and swabbed, George pauses. Sweeney stills herself. She knows to be silent as Master George enjoys his quiet dominion. Finally, the spray hose is turned on and a must soothing warm rinse follows.

Water off, a huge fluffy towel begins to slowly and sensuously dry, playfully cradling the bald head then moving down... shoulders, back, breasts, pudendum, buttocks, thighs, calves. Placing the damp towel on the tiling, Sweeney knows to move feet, stepping to dry her soles.

It is a twice daily ritual, to be repeated after tomorrow morning’s extensive exercise.

“Thank you sir. Are you going to masturbate me?”

“You should not ask, Sweeney. You know that comes only at my caprice. I’m in charge of every aspect of your care... and you’re well cared for. But some body oil. Would you like that?”

“Everywhere sir?” the formal manner of address again hinting at her need

“You are randy this evening, Sweeney. Being exhibited excites.”

“It’s been a while... since you’ve shown me.”

“Yes. But those contest days are over, Sweeney. You’re still beautiful in your naked subservience... remaining well conditioned... but exhibitions are for the young ponies. And you’ve won your share of prizes... and been rewarded.”

“Yes, the stimulator. How old am I George?”

“I don’t know. No one knows. But I’m nearing thirty and been training and caring for you for more than fifteen years.”

“So I’m fifteen.”

“No silly girl. Mother acquired you as a girl. It was enlightening, to bathe you as you went through puberty.”

“You liked touching me.”

“Still do,” George reaching for a bottle of mineral oil. 

Lubricating his hands he recalls preparing Sweeney for shows, bringing a sheen to her perfect skin, the golden brown glistening, for sure attracting the judges eyes. Objectification, George was to later in life learn of the paraphilia. And an aroused pony girl Sweeney responded when displayed at events, her fragrance evident... just as it was with mother O’Malley in presenting her naked form on the living room coffee table.    

Loving hands begin, smoothing the unguent from head to toe, salaciously kneading the breasts, playfully tugging at the long nipples. Stepping to rear the buttocks receive more brusque attention, hands grasping thick tufts of flesh, rubbing vigorously, sensing the potency of muscling developed with extensive training... years of pulling in harness... hour after hour of treadmill time.... much sweat... the slow agony of riding the wooden horse bringing the shapeliness demanded of comely pony girls.

The left hand splays the cheeks. The fingers of the right graze about within the gluteal cleft. One finger then two slip into the rear portal bringing a gasp of delight.

“Your thumb Master...” for Sweeney the precursor to masturbation... the method of bringing pony girl ecstasy regimented but oh so welcome.

“No, not tonight. Perhaps a little clitoral stimulation. You’ll sleep better.”

“Oh, George you know that drives me crazy. I need a full orgasm.”

“You’ll not have it,” hands slipping from the well lubricated posterior. 

George steps to the front. He notes the scent of the mineral oil does little to mask the fragrance of his pony girl’s arousal. Face forced to the ceiling, Sweeney does her best to make eye contact, her facial expression one of beseeching.

“Just a little stimulation for you, Sweeney. You’ve been a good girl.”

“But I need more than a little, Master. I sucked your penis...”

“And you enjoyed that as much as I.”

The words come as knowing hands work the heated folds of the labia, pushing the extended lips aside, a single digit of the left hand sliding within the vagina, hooking upwards to knead the urethral sponge. Sweeney sighs with the unwanted delight. The right hand goes to the slim chain of the clitoral hood piercing, jostling teasingly. Then there comes a shriek of joy as the tip of the right index finger works under the stimulated hood and finds the enormous feminine bud, slowly circling about in ever so lightly grazing.

George has had training of his own, a mother knowing how to reward pony girls, teaching him at a young age the complicated and ever so sensitive parts of the female anatomy... clitoris, bulbospongiosus, urethral opening, vagina... even learning that the perineum can be an erogenous zone. And of course manipulating deep within, a special stimulating device for the anterior fornix.

‘You can make a girl squirt for you, George,’ Sweeney’s Master recalls his mother instructing.

And he did... and does... but not tonight.

Just a moment or two of tantalizing finger work... no orgasm of course. Just enough to bed the girl and leave her wanting more.

She’ll be pulling at her arm and hand bindings all night, wanting so much to play with herself... yet only face denial.

“Please George.”

“I’ll stop.”

“No more fingering... penetration please... use the stimulator...”

“No,” the fingers withdrawing. “Full orgasms tire you... and you’ll need your energy. I’ll want you riding the horse tomorrow... plugged. Open you for my future brother-in-law.”

'Sweeney & Alison, Segment IV

Returned to darkness, forced to silence while the lovers bicker, the exchange brings to mind pony girl Sweeney’s early encounters with Master George, the matriarch of the family farm turning her care, training... and even the needed knowledge of language... over to her son... now beloved Master.

She owes him everything, her reliance on her Master complete. 

She smiles in thinking of bride-to-be Jennifer’s indignation in concluding... correctly... that Master George must assist with toilet duties. Arms and hands bound shortly after arrival at the farm, there early came a curious bond in having her cunny and anus subjected to a boy’s care. Her exposure and vulnerability were brought to a maximum.... and remains such... now unobjectionable. And with the total reliance came fondness. The sordid act of having her gluteal cleft wiped and cleansed has come to bring not so much a thrill but a sense of satiation... that in the mind of her owner only for a treasured living relic would such a deed be performed.       

Putting aside the efforts of her enthusiastic tongue and lips, dare Master George ever divulge the progression of the bonding... well worked pony girl and attentive owner?

She cannot recall the very first time she was masturbated for an exemplary performance. But the reward came to be... and continues to be... a narcotic for which she would... will... gleefully trade her abject obeisance.

Perhaps tonight?

She’s been good, she tells herself, remaining silent, allowing herself to be examined most intimately without word or gesture of objection, not a hint of her jealousy for the woman who may meddle her Master’s care... break their bond.

It would be too much to image that Master George may have brought the stimulator and lip stretchers... that he would show his in laws the ignominious manner in with his pony girl is brought to ecstasy... how her staunch allegiance is assured.

As humiliating as it would be, Ben wa balls beginning her concupiscence, then being fingered, objectified, nipples and labia fondled, there is need, her masochism inflamed. She will further exhibit herself... beg... open herself... squeal with ecstasy... and ultimately squirt... demonstrating that her thigh bands are for more than hobbling. 

Voices from the dining room divert her thoughts. There comes light laughter, Master George apparently extricating himself from the wrath of a scornful fiancé, mother O’Malley most likely smoothing things, her fascination with Master George’s equine pursuits apparent.

Then comes the sound of chairs moving, dishes and glassware rattling. Lemonade and pie consumed, she hears Master George and a male voice which must be brother Doug talking nearby. Next she feels the hobbling double ‘D’ clamp removed and her clitoral hood leash snapped in place.   

“Good girl. Time to go. Step down carefully.”

“The stimulator, Master?” daring to whisper.

“Not here, naughty girl. But it’s telling you so wanted to be spread open for them.”

*****

“How do you think it went, sir?”

“We’re alone now, Sweeney. It’s George again,” guiding the car back onto the interstate. “It appears I kissed my sister... in terms of having the family recognize you as a needed servant.”

“What does that mean sir... ah... George?”

“An old saying... I was fortunate to get a kiss... but the affection was from someone with whom I cannot have familiar relations... my future mother-in-law. And no discernible progress in terms of having you continue to be harnessed and run with Jenn’s blessing... after marriage.”

As come the words, pony girl Sweeney leans in the passenger seat, face to George’s crotch, lips opening, teeth working to find the tab to his zipper.

“May I suck your penis?” the quest muffled by the cloth of the trousers.

“That’s exactly what needs to stop, Sweeney. I’m going to need... well... what manliness I have will be to please my wife. So no... stop.”

With his demand, George thinks of both the talent and the determination for a girl to hone the skill of initiating fellatio without the use of hands and fingers. So many years of endeavoring to please...

“I’m sorry, George. But you know how much I’ve come to relish pleasing you... and tasting you.”

“You just want to be spread open and feel the stimulator... be masturbated... like in front of Jenn’s family.”

“I was aroused George. Leashed... with my cunny stuffed. I can feel the Ben wa balls now... the motion of the car. It drives a girl mad.”

“As intended. But there’s another element, Sweeney. Your ingrained masochism... which I have so attentively accommodated over the years. You went through the loop this evening. Thank heaven I did not have the stimulator and the lip spreaders... I would have been tempted.”

“The loop?”

“With your warped psyche, the humiliation of posing naked and bound leads to arousal. And in realizing that your arousal is apparent... the scent of your cunny filling the room air... there comes more humiliation... which of course enhances your state of arousal.”

“You know so much, George... know me. I’m shamed to think it was so... obvious.”

The right hand leaves the steering wheel, arm reaching, fingers searching beneath the cape to find a well stretched left nipple, sensuously rolling about. There comes more redolence, Sweeney’s arousal restored, the closed interior of the car making such evident even to a nose jaded by the constant denial of feminine hygiene.   

“But I think Jennifer’s mother would have enjoyed,” Sweeney’s brazen advisement pressing her role. 

“That is an aspect of the family relationship to which I must give renewed thought. I agree. She certainly had no compunction in fondling your cunny.”

“If you wish to further stretch me, George, consider having her watch,” the tone of words coming as a sultry invitation.

“I’ll stretch you when and where I choose. That being said, sister Alison asked a lot of questions over lemonade and apple pie. She seemed mesmerized... curious as to how it felt being in bondage all the time... subjected to modifications... made to run under the crop... walked about with vaginal insertions, and be put on display. Your bound nakedness seemed to enthrall, Sweeney. I must wonder... first if she became aroused... like you... and second, if aroused  from what angle was her apparent interest stirred.”   

“Not sure what you mean, George.”

“She was fantasizing... about binding a girl... or being bound. Was she feeling the sting of a riding crop while run about naked?”

“I see.”

“And by the way, speaking of fantasizing, brother Doug wants you.” 

“I offered to suck his penis.”

“No. He wants to take you anally. I told him you’re quite tight... and quite skilled... and quite receptive.”

“But I’m not. I’m too tight. Do his mother and sisters know?”

“We’ll work on opening you... again. And of course they don’t know... won’t know. It will be between us guys. And he’ll help in gaining Jenn’s concession... to owning a human beast of burden. One who will take care of my in laws.”

“But I’m not a beast... and whatever could be the burden?” Sweeney’s face returning to George’s lap... teeth and lips to now work the zipper without objection.     

A Rant of My Own

Readers ask why my Lulu stuff is not available through Amazon and other commercial channels.  (When I publish on Lulu I deliberately choose not to obtain an ISBN to specifically preclude such sales.) Well, to explain see below. While surfing Goodreads (which I do from time to time to get a feel for what people are reading and get a flavor for author's writing styles) I came across this review of 'The Predator', a Female Dominant story I wrote many years ago.

A reviewer named 'Zofia' not only panned the story, she took the time to rant with a 900+ word lecture.

She should not be reading my stuff. And if she does not enjoy non consensual D/s she should put the story down and move onward... not lecturing.

To me it's like reading a murder mystery and, in a state of shock about the macabre, writing a scathing review because someone in the story gets killed. 

A simpler solution... don't read murder mysteries! 

BTW, 'The Predator' takes place in the 1800's, and what some of the Indian tribes did to captured settlers is documented history. 

So 'Zofia', a warning, Chris Bellows stories rarely have what you would consider to be a HEA. And consensual D/s?.. try finding a 'consensual' murder mystery.

*****

I BOUGHT this book because of the rating given on this site, and it was simply quite… AWFUL. I honestly have no idea who could be rating these so-called femdom ‘books’ and, giving them a high rating but don't write a review, is it friends of the author? One has to wonder – but it really needs to be stopped. These so called novels need to have a forewarning and re-labelling/labelling “written by enthusiastic MISANDRY minded people” and come with a warning that the male characters are mutilated without their consent by women who thoroughly enjoyed prolonging their pain by slowly cutting them and changing their sex by removing these guys genitalia and, without any aesthetic I might add – it’s not BDSM book it’s horror story from start to finish written from I can only describe as a very disturbed mind.

There is no genuine compassionate/affectionate bond between both parties; it is a totally one-sided relationship were the ‘slave’ can be disposed of without a care in the world when the dominatrix has got bored or wants a ‘new toy/pet’. I always thought the meaning of a Dom or Dominatrix was a person, male or female who has ‘the power or control’ over his or her partner in a sexual relationship. Because a true Dom or Dominatrix has been entrusted by the sub or slave to ensure that everything they devise for their partner or participant will give them the sexual liberation they need and, not be handled with a Dominatrix that is a severely deep-seated misandristic and, has a total revulsion for their partner/participants sexual needs or orientation.
I enjoy reading and, have read many, many BDSM novels, and out of all the femdom ones, I have to say, sadly, that out of all of them, I have only read, probably 2 genuinely good femdom novels to date. In both those novels the lead protagonists ACTUALLY like men! Can you believe that? Actually having a preference for the opposite sex and THEY ARE NOT MISANDRISTIC minded women in the slightest. Yes, they were in control of their men but that's the whole point isn't it when being the Dominant? Being a Dominant means one has to be able control oneself first, to be able to control of not going too far and, to be always aware, and of how far to push their sub. They don't want to mutilate/remove the parts they enjoyed putting through paces, with the usual teasing/tormenting etc. Seriously, what would be the point of removing that part? That’s all part and parcel of the collective. Otherwise they might as well just cut to the chase and have a relationship with a woman as that’s what their ultimate preference for is, isn’t it?
One has to concluded from what these particular femdoms writers is, THEY ACTUALLY ARE MISANDRISTIC because for a Dominatrix whose only mind set is to enthusiastically, gleefully, scheme, plot ways to lure and entrap a trusting, subservient man with the sole intent to turn him in to a woman without his forewarned knowledge and to find the whole process thrilling to destroy a mans body and mind, well, there must be something wrong ‘upstairs’ for that Dominant, and FYI? If a bloke wanted to be a woman he'd go see his doc and get the ball rolling & be COUNSELLED FOR AGES to make sure that's what they really want.
Reading some of these novels by these so-called femdoms, one SERIOUSLY wonders if they themselves need counselling. It is quite clear that they write with total abandon about the systematic, sometimes fast, sometimes slow but ALWAYS excruciating painful, permanent, irreversible removal of their genitalia like they’ve just done other women and the guy a massive favour.
In this particular book, a very young man (going by the admission of the main female character in the storyline description when he was captured by the lead character and changed by someone who was training to be a doctor in the past that, when he was still little more boy than a young man) has his dick stitched/welded to his stomach and his balls removed! You’ve got to wonder what kind of a person could write about doing that to a kid! What happens to the second young man is equally as bad if not worse and, I honestly can’t be bothered to mention it was nothing short of being described as sick. This is so NOT a femdom book, it’s more of a nightmare-horror story from a depraved mind. And, if any would-be submissives were, interested in to taking the next step into ‘becoming a slave’ previously read these horror stories going under the pretence name of femdom, they would change their minds. These types of femdom books should all be made to carry a warning for those under the misapprehension that these are real BDSM novels, and they should be labelled “warning, these books are written by MISANDRISTIC minded people” because the only feeling one has when reading this novel is the pure dislike the lead character has of men, in point of fact, she practically says as much, several times through the horror story. I am sure there are misandristic women out there that enjoy these types of novels and labelling them as such would probably help them in choosing a book for some light reading but personally, I know for sure I would not buy a book that was labelled ‘ideal for the MISANDRISTIC’, because if you’ll excuse the pun, it just doesn’t cut it for me. (less)

'Sweeney & Alison', Segment III

Missing from the discourse has been brother Doug. George glances his way in attempting to avoid finance Jennifer’s stern look of concern. Having thought the evening’s challenge was to win over mother O’Malley, instead her brash palpating fingers suggest approval. And in Jennifer struggling to envision the details of George’s bathing obligation there appears to more than a slight air of disapproval.

Doug seems restless, trying not to gawk, cloaking his apparent prurient reaction to bound feminine nakedness by remaining behind the three examining women. He’s aroused, George realizes, confirming his state of growing priapism by excusing himself and inquiring if any one would like a drink while he’s in the kitchen.    

Mother O’Malley’s curiosity seems to further burgeon. Her fingers leave the dangling labia, rising to examine the slim vertical chain running from the navel piercing to the clitoral hood. She hooks her finger and gently tugs, her motion lifting the clitoral hood and bringing into complete view the feminine bud of joy.

“Goodness, George, it’s enormous... more like a penis.”

“It’s for show, mom. The judges seem to find attraction.”

“How did it grow so big?”

“The pills,” George not to disclose the Viagra trick which brings further swelling to a bud of size.

Mother O’Malley amuses herself, fingers jostling the slim chain in a motion she knows to bring intense arousal. George smiles inwardly, his prospective mother-in-law for sure to enjoy a stay at the farm.

“So why is she hooded, George?”

“It tends to bring calm... limits the cerebral input in situations and environments unknown to her. And of course for pony girls in training it inhibits any bolting.”

“Well, you have her hobbled... so she can’t bolt... and I’d say she’s calm and acclimated to the environment here,” mother O’Malley seeming to want to continue her examination.

George steps forth. An arm extends, the black cloth hood is instantly whisked away. Human equine Sweeney blinks, eyes adjusting to the room light. She looks about sheepishly, yet the look slowly changes to humble pride. Naked and bound, exhibited before the new family of Master George, she assumes a stance and look of self respect in her accomplishments. She has a body seemingly chiseled from stone... has won races... been exhibited and taken best in show.

Also there comes a womanly pose of quiet defiance. Jennifer O’Malley may be gaining the attention of her Master and owner, but pony girl Sweeney has won for him... sucked his penis with aplomb... and in turn won from him his care and attention... intimate attention.

“She’s bald... but beautiful, “ sister Alison gushes. “And collared,” Alison focusing on the neck for the first time.  

“And with a rather formidable nose ring,” mother O’Malley adds. 

“The collar in mandatory... in the pony world... sort of like the rules for keeping your dog on a leash. And leading her about by the nose is as convincing as her cunny... ah... her clitoral hood restraint.”

“She doesn’t even have eyebrows,” Alison giggles.

“It abets hygiene... makes grooming simple... soap her down... rinse... some body oil to give her a good sheen...”

George immediately regrets the detailed explanation, looking again to see fiancé Jennifer giving him the fisheye. In silence she moves to circle behind the naked form, noting the ringed thumbs hooked to the back of the neck collar then glaring at impressive hillocks of stone.

“She’s not only run.... but there must be special exercises... for these,” Jenn notes, George in a way relieved as a dainty hand rises and strokes the seemingly protruding rounded right cheek... Master petting a dog... her touch suggesting a degree of acceptance.

“Yes, much treadmill work... when not at the farm. And there are indeed... well... term it positions which stress the gluteus maximus muscles to promote prominence.”

“So she’s forced to stress herself?”

“Part of the daily conditioning, Jenn. Pony girls come to expect and enjoy a challenge.”

“Yes, enjoy. She’s becoming more and more redolent in exposing herself to us,” a nose turning up and sniffing with disdain.

Saving George from the glare of his betrothed, brother Doug returns, tray in hand.

“I’ve poured lemonade for all,” gathering everyone’s attention. “Wasn’t sure about...”

“Sweeney... her name’s Sweeney,” George realizing that with the objectification of his human steed, no one inquired as to her name... and before thought not to offer it. “I prefer she not drink when her cunny is... well the insertions are in place.”

George instantly realizes he has dug further into his own hole.

“Yes, just how does this Sweeney girl empty herself... when she has a need.... hands and fingers rendered useless,” Jenn reaching around the right hip to palm the dangling labia.

“Ah... well... yes. Good point. At the farm the sloppiness does not matter... being in the pasture and all.”

“And in your apartment?”

“Really Jenn. We need not.... ah... well... if you’re suggesting there’s untoward intimacy, it’s more like the need to change a diaper.”        

“On an adult woman. And she’s able to wipe herself?”

Mother O’Malley intercedes, wisely sensing daughter Jennifer’s ire and her prospective son-in-laws’s discomfort.

“I’ve made some pie... will go nicely with the lemonade. Let’s talk in the dining room. And George, tell me more about the farm. Perhaps a visit someday...”

Son Doug and daughter Alison know the suggested respite... pie in the dining room... is more maternal directive than suggestion. As the duo move away, Master George returns the hood, needlessly assuring steed Sweeney will remain in place.

'Sweeney & Alison', Segment II

George turns onto the street of his fiancé’s family home. He has of course met Jennifer O’Malley’s mother before... and her brother Doug and sister Alison. But in introducing pony girl Sweeney there is apprehension. To verbally disclose the relationship is one thing... to present the tall, well muscled bronzed servant is another. He had considered passing off Sweeney as his housegirl. But the bubble of such a charade would quickly burst with the first visit to his inherited family farm... Sweeney prancing about harnessed to a pony cart. Plus there is the clothing issue. Sweeney has none... and this evening’s cape covering her chest and shoulders has been crudely fashioned from an old table cloth, a paper clip somehow holding in place at the neck.

“I have something for you, Sweeney,” George pulling to the driveway.

He reaches into his pocket for a blue pill, free hand going to a thermos bottle on the car seat.

“What is it sir?”

“A pill. Same as you took when I put you on display.”

“Viagra, sir?”

“You got it. Makes you very presentable... where a girl like you likes to show off.”

“It’s embarrassing for me sir.”

“That’s one of the reasons you want to take it for me.”

“And the other?”

“That you’re obedient.”

Hands rendered useless, the pill is pushed to pony girl Sweeney’s lips. Water is offered. The pill is consumed. Experienced pony girl Sweeney is well aware that the dose of sildenafil citrate will bring engorgement to her vestigial penis... her clitoris.  

“Now since you’re concerned with embarrassment, I’ll hood you... for now. So remember your leash training.”

“Nose ring or collar sir?”

“Neither,” a hand taking the thermos and retrieving a slim cord ending with a small ‘D’ clamp.

“Please sir... not there.”

“Deep within, you’d not want it any other way, Sweeney. It’s a convincing manner of conveying who is in control.”

With that, one hand pushes aside the folds of the brief cape and the other clips the ‘D’ clamp to a slim vertical chain attached to a navel piercing. George jostles very gently. There comes a moan... of joy?.. discomfort?.. concern? Next a black cloth is quickly slipped over a bald head of shiny bronze flesh and George slips out the driver’s door.    

“Slowly, Sweeney. But we can’t dawdle... there are neighbors and still some daylight.”

George reaches for the slim cord. Ever so tenderly pulling, a well conditioned pony girl knows to turn and rise from the car seat, being leashed and blinded returning her psyche to youthful days of endless training.

She stands, her covered head just below that of six foot two George. He feels twinges, a degree of arousal coming in sensing his power. Despite his betrothal to Jennifer O’Malley, sexual needs fulfilled, there is a different need to be gratified. And he has come to realize... for both.

“Remember, no talking. You’re to be displayed... hopefully pass muster with mother O’Malley.”

Pony girl Sweeney follows in earnest, the lower end of the slim vertical chain attached to a ring piercing her clitoral hood. With each step she senses the odd, conflicting sensations... a degree of pleasure... vaginal insertions shifting about... some discomfort should she falter in her steps... and for sure a sense of vulnerability and surrender. The latter is welcomed... feeling her Master’s directing hand has brought an inner glow of pride over the many years. The frequent fellatio initiated as an expression of her thanks for his guidance has become a form of self satisfaction... that she can so ably please her Master... he who so much cares for her.

Sweeney hears the doorbell ring. She tries not to tremble. Despite the years or being run, raced and shown, she knows that with the marriage there must be acceptance. That bride Jennifer O’Malley must be comfortable in jointly possessing a human steed.            

“Uh, George... do come in... the neighbors. And you did bring her... she’s real.”

“And I hope this meets with your approval, Jenn. She’s very...”

“Enough. Mother’s been well briefed. But the hood? And what’s that in your hand?” stepping back from the door to permit entry.

“She’s more complacent in being sightless and leashed.”

“That cape doesn’t cover much,” Jennifer O’Malley gazing downward, the hem of the table cloth ending at the midpoint of Sweeney’s mons. “And my Lord, George, what’s... well... her girl parts...”

“It’s... ah... not uncommon among pony girls. Sort of makes them eager to run... you know feeling...”

“Ug! You can explain all that when mom comes down. Does she speak?”  

“Only with permission. I’ll leave the hood in place for now, Jenn. Get an initial reaction from your mother. Where shall I have her exhibited?”

“What kind of a question is that?”

“Guess I’ve had her to too many shows. I’m sure you and mom would like to look her over. So where do you want her presented. She’s finely shaped... for what she does... what I want her to do.”

“Well, take her to the livingroom. I’ll close the blinds.”

George pulls. Sweeney follows in darkened silence. He spies a low coffee table. It’s sturdy. How fortuitous!

The paper clip yields, The cape falls away. With the command ‘step up’ Sweeney obediently mounts, the table just about centering the muscular nakedness in the spacious room.

“You had that attached to her clitoris,” Jennifer exclaims as the ‘D’ clamp is released.

George takes from his pocket a double ‘D’ clamp, clipping right knee band and left, hobbling to assure extremely limited movement, Sweeney not able to step back down. 

“Not really dear. It’s her hood. Piercing the actual clitoris would detract from pleasure... which is paramount in assuring a pony girl... ah... gives you her maximum output.”

“Well, well, well. George...you finally brought your girl,” a vibrant mother O’Malley interrupts, greeting with enthusiasm.

“Good evening, mom,” the prevenience of George’s moniker hopefully accurate. “Yes this is, Sweeney... a life long...”.

“Possession. I can see you’re proud of her... perching her like that on the table. And she pulls you about your farm?”

“Oh yes. For many years.”

“She’s well muscled... very athletic looking. Jenn, let’s get Doug and Alison away from the ping pong table and George can explain things to us.”

“Sure, mom.”

Jennifer moves to the basement door, calling out to her siblings.

“So a nice steel neck collar... and thigh bands... but no other restraints?”   

“Her thumbs are ringed, holding her hands high behind to the back of her collar... termed the reverse prayer position. And a nose ring of course... and a clitoral hood restraint... but otherwise tetherings are kept to a minimum... it’s a weight thing... when... you know... pulling in harness.”

As he pauses when the O’Malley offspring join their mother, George is cautiously pleased. So far there comes no shock, no admonishment, no objection.

“Wow mom, that is a girl right?” a surprised young Alison exclaims.

“Yes, dear. It’s George’s companion. But it is an apropos question, George. The breasts...”

“Oh, well, as you all know too well, the mammary glands are comprised for the most part of fat cells. And in being run many miles... starting as a young girl... such cells... guess you’d say... did not develop... with the... ah... exercise... special diet... and pills.”

“Pills?”

“Hormones... for proper muscle development.”

“Proper?”

“If you’re going to race... or exhibit.”

“To place her on exhibition, yes, thus the hairless pudendum. She’s squirming a bit... but surprisingly comfortable... standing naked like that,” mother O’Malley stepping forth, fingers grazing over extraordinarily long inner labia dangling to nearly mid thigh.  

“These can’t be normal. In some places it’s a tribal custom to stretch... she from Africa?”

“Yes, many years ago. But it’s also customary to elongate for performance purposes. The lips sort of flop about and that encourages maintaining a good pace. Plus baubles can be attached... some like to bell a girl there.”

George is pleased to see that his words bring a repressed smile as fingers splay the vaginal lips, one digit gliding inward with surprising ease. 

“My nose suggests she’s enjoying. I suppose your olfactory glands have too long been acclimated, George... to... guess I’d politely say... the scent of vaginal secretions. She’s wet. This arouses her. And I can feel some kind of insertion.”

“Yes, And it’s protocol. They’re termed Ben wa balls. Also makes her eager to move about... a stout set when she’s to be walked. A lighter set for when she’s run... but shaped to better tantalize. And as for her scent.... vaginal hygiene... it’s to be... ah... forsaken.”

“Goodness George, every step brings arousal. So she doesn’t wash herself?”

“No, she doesn’t touch herself.”

“And who bathes? Her skin is otherwise perfect... nicely oiled I would say.”

With mother O’Malley’s words, prospective bride Jennifer looks askance, arms akimbo, more or less focused on George’s reply.

“At my apartment... ah there’s a shower... special restraint for her nose ring. At the farm she soaks... you know... for worn muscles after a good run.” 

“So she’s hooked by her nose and simply stands under a shower?” Jennifer inquires with suspicion.

“There’s... ah... a chamois... needed... and soap....” 

“What about the tits,” young Alison also stepping forth, emboldened by her mother.

A hand reaches, fingers gently pinching a nipple and drawing forth, the nub of brownish pink stretching out some three inches. The touch causes the flesh to crinkle and point. Alison appears amazed to see her slight effort bring the length to spear forth.

“Again protocol. Makes her breasts very receptive to... let’s say... encouragement.”

“Encouragement?”

“The crop.”

“She’s whipped?”

“Of course,” George shrugs, the gesture denoting his life long immersion into the world of human equines. “But not severely. Just to correct reluctance or disobedience... elicit better effort.”

'Sweeney & Alison' published

 'Sweeney & Alison' has been published.

29,000+ words. $4.32

Be sure to allow yourself to view explicit content.

https://www.lulu.com/en/us/shop/chris-bellows/sweeney-alison/ebook/product-27g5qn.html?page=1&pageSize=4

Enjoy,

CB

'Sweeney & Alison" Segment I

Happy New Year.

I will be publishing on Lulu shortly.

CB

*****

Sweeney & Alison

Copyright 2021

by Chris Bellows

*****

“Are you comfortable wearing... ah... being covered?”

“It has been a while, George. But that’s not my real concern.”

“For tonight, Sweeney, it’s ‘sir’.... not George. My prospective in laws... well... they need not get the wrong idea about our relationship.”

“That I am owned... and you’re my Master?”

“That they know... it’s... the other...”

“That I suck your penis?”

“Yes. I’m getting married, Sweeney,” Master George reiterates. “I believe Jennie’s in line. I think she’s looking forward to using the crop on your bare buttocks. But her mother... well... if things don’t... you know... let’s sum it up by saying daughters are strongly guided and advised by their mothers.” 

“So I’m to be shown off for your future mother in law?”

“Yes, and Jennie’s brother Doug... and her younger sister Alison.”

“How much younger sir? Not a child?”

“No. Of age... in college. And brother Doug is the oldest... good job... rising fast. I’m sure you’ll make an impression on him.”

“Do you want me to suck his penis?”

“No, Sweeney. And now that I think about it, in addition to me being called ‘sir’, do not speak at all without permission.”

“Like when I was being trained.”

“Exactly. I brought a hood, Sweeney. Perhaps you’ll be calmer and more docile sightless. Immerse you in submission.”

“And this cape?”

“That’s in case of a traffic encounter... like getting pulled over.”

“With a naked pony girl.”

“Exactly. Except if that happens your skills as a human equine need to not be made apparent.”

George exits the interstate highway glancing to his passenger. He notes her somber look.

“You miss the farm, don’t you Sweeney?”

“Yes sir. Serving you in harness... it’s best.”

“We’ll go back in a few of weeks. Though it may still be chilly,” George forewarns.

“I’m sure you’ll warm me sir.”

George smiles and nods, pony girl Sweeney’s words bringing reflection...  

*****   

“It’s... wow... mom... a girl! And she’s...”

“Yes, George. It’s a girl.... but also a plaything for you.”

A youthful George stands staring. He has met girls of course... but all have been Caucasian... and clothed.

“She’s going to stay here?”

“Yes. We... you are going to take care of her. She’s from a very poor African country. It’s hot there... so clothing is typically not necessary. And not always affordable. She speaks no English, George. You’re going to have to teach her... and teach her other things. And just as you’ve been taught to take care of your toys and other gifts I’ve given you while growing up... you’ll need to take care of her.” 

“She’s tall!”

“Yes, and probably underfed. And for sure needs a bath. So why not take her upstairs, give her a bath and I’ll make some lunch and we’ll begin to make her strong.”

“Does she like to run?”

“I think she’ll like to do anything you make her do. But George, keep in mind she doesn’t have to run with you. You can have her run for you.”