Led by a leash, Sweet Cheeks narrates.
The matrons of the orphanage... yes kindly... almost all were middle aged... and beyond. I must suppose over the many years there’s not much they had not seen, raising dozen and dozens of girls. Many belligerent, needing attention... some needing exacting attention.
Daily life there was ritualized as one would assume in most institutions. The schedule was precise... and repetitive... waking, bathing, breakfast, schooling, household duties, modest recreational time, dinner, nightly schoolwork. All done together, as a group, despite the differing ages. There were limited funds to have individualized lessons or class work. The rooms... a single class... one dormitory... one shower room... were open and large. Privacy sparse.
And individual interaction amongst the girls was discouraged... talking, playing... limited.
‘Focus’, a matron would admonished when a girl was found tending to anything other than class study, homework or an assigned chore.
Well of course in youth there is distraction. Girls talk... about things girlish... and about boys... though there were none to be seen. And there also comes the distraction of puberty. As I said, the girls were of different ages and developing differently. And in bathing as a group, shower time became a time of exploration... initially visual exploration... the older girls shaping... as young women. And of course in time there would come more than visual exploration... furtive hands and fingers, the older girls turning away in the open showers, ostensibly to cleanse in modesty. But we knew otherwise. In the beginning a girl coming into blossom would stealthily attempt to explore herself. But there was so little privacy and the older girls would devilishly discourage. At the orphanage there was group pressure... stinky fingers earned disdain... unless the fragrance was that of another girl. Yes, the older girls... given to masturbate the younger... a rite of passage.
Yes, with the frustration of burgeoning hormones... we touched. And the matrons of course forbid such ‘wickedness’. In so doing, there came spiteful games among the girls... ‘play with me... or be reported for playing with yourself’.
Curiously, it took little more then such a disingenuous threat to engage in the verboten. Yes, we explored each other.
Yet, as stated, the matrons were a wise and experienced lot. Girls were often caught... and punished.
Groom Edgar seems most interested in the orphanage punishments. Gratefully there were no beatings... other than for the most dastardly of transgressions. Instead a typical punishment came in the form of denial. A meal would be withheld for some simple infractions. But for the more... let’s say... libidinous... infringements... it was clothing.
A first offense... a day without shoes and socks. A second, no skirt... then no blouse... then no undergarments. Total nudity became common, a particularly unruly girl deprived of all covering except a blanket... to be worn in class... during meals. Such could be quickly and easily slipped away... by a rebuking matron gaining a girl’s attention... or by a bratty older girl when things were not well supervised.
The stables in view, a listening Groom Edgar stops. Sweet Cheeks ends her narrative.
*****
Groom Edgar turns. As his free hand lowers, he notes Sweet Cheeks parts her feet, inviting his touch. His palm presses to her bald pudendum. Once again a knowing finger slips between moist labia, slick and welcoming.
“You’re exciting yourself... with your own words, Cheeks. How often were you left with nothing.... other than a blanket?” finger remaining in place.
Having thoroughly read the reams of orphanage psychological evaluations, Groom Edgar knows too well the answer to his own question. Sweet Cheeks blushes. And she very subtly presses forth her hips, attempting further penetration. Edgar smiles. Tales of punishment bringing stimulation? Perhaps watching the work ponies put through their paces?
He withdraws his hand. Cruel?
“I... I... well the older girls... they... well... kept telling the matrons...”
“That you had stinky fingers?”
Sweet sheepishly nods.
“It’s common, Cheeks... for a girl to discover herself. But as I inquired... how often?”
“I... well.... the matrons... were... insistent.”
“That you stop toying. And apparently you didn’t. Toying so often... caught so often... that you frequently went without clothing. And the blanket?”
“The older girls... they would take it away.”
“I ask again... often?”
Sweet Cheeks returns to silence. Groom Edgar goes to her left nipple, fingers teasingly toying in flipping about the nipple cone.
“The matrons... they didn’t get the blanket back to you?”
Sweet cheeks shakes her head, otherwise remaining motionless, seeming to covet the diddling fingers.
“They... seemed upset with me. One said... ‘it serves me right’.”
“And of course you fought for the blanket... to get it back from the older girls...”
No reply, Sweet Cheeks’ head lowered, looking to the ground.
“So you were embarrassed... being naked all the time. Yet you didn’t try... to cover yourself It’s telling... that you went naked.... chose to go naked. For how long?”
“I... I... counted the days... in the beginning. Then... well... there were so many...”
Yes, the evaluations. In the end, such noted that Sweet Cheeks spent more time in complete deshabille then with clothing. Whatever the many infractions, such became chronic... and prominent.
Wanting to be caught? Wanting to be punished? Wanting to remain nude?
“You have a hunger, Sweet Cheeks. We know how to feed hungry girls here... your masochism... your exhibitionism... and your thirst... for humiliation. At Dyson Farms... you will feast.”
With the words, Sweet Cheeks hears the commanding voice of Lady Dyson and a snap of leather. She looks to see the approach of the regal woman sitting on a pony cart. Before her trots the naked form of Gum Drop, nipple bells, Ben wa bell chiming in cadence with her busy feet. Despite the cool air of early autumn, she is well lathered, perspiration streaming. Sweet Cheeks cannot help but focus, her eyes at the pony girl’s mons. Bright red strips of inner labia flop about, well exposed and remaining somewhat plumped from the saline infusion.
Groom Edgar smiles, noting his trainee’s fascination.
“That could be you, Cheeks. Work hard for me... accept your submission... yield to your needs... as you did at the orphanage. We’ll shape you, train you,... and as I said feed you... your predilections. You’ll be bound to a cart, worked hard and cropped.”
With the words, Sweet Cheeks watches Lady Dyson continue toward the stable entrance... reaching about the right shoulder of the pony girl, briskly snapping a long crinkled nipple with the riding crop, the dangling nipple bell peeling raucously. Gum Drop stutter steps... but catches herself... responding with renewed effort.
“The pain, Sir...” Sweet Cheeks mournfully notes with a quiver.
“Yes... and the accomplishment... the vanity of exhibiting herself... her body sculpted at her Ladyship’s whim... the sense of perfection... the pride in ceding... capitulating to a Master. Gum Drop is in her element... at her zenith.”
Lady Dyson draws her steed to a halt. Gum Drop’s chest heaves, breathing hard, the nipple bells tinkling with the motion of her breast plate. Groom Edgar steps forth, gently tugging on the leash for Sweet Cheeks to follow. Lady Dyson looks to her groom.
“Fresh air for my new girl, Edgar. Good. Gum Drop ran well. Warmed her up then ran her hard for a half mile jaunt in near record time. Nipples and buttocks well cropped... as needed to attain performance. So a reward... masturbate her... to full climax,” Lady Dyson dismounting and handing over the reins. “And have my new girl watch... and taste.”
The crop extends to tantalizingly graze right nipple cone then left.
“Yes, I remember her reports... from the orphanage. Quite concupiscent as I recall, so much enjoying her punishment. Maybe instead of masturbating Gum Drop you should string her up... with this one. Have them trib. She has not the lips for it yet, but the titties are coming along,” fingers of the free hand going to the right nipple cone and tugging vigorously. “Yes, they’ll frottage... a communal shower and bath.”
“You’d like to watch, Ma’am?” Groom Edgar well aware of her ladyship’s own voyeuristic concupiscence.
“Not this evening. A most humble and well trained tongue awaits. Cropping a naked pony girl... it excites.”
Lady Dyson returns her attention to Gum Drop, idly standing in harness, chest still heaving, tinkling of the nipple bells continuing, gulping deep breaths.
“You’re going to trib. Such a lucky pony girl,” the crop hand reaching to the side, the leather tip flicking the extended nipples right then left.
The sound of leather on sensitive pink flesh brings Sweet Cheeks to grimace, aware of the stab of intense pain. Gum Drop obediently remains still, drawing another massive lungful, chest now heaving in staving the quick agony, air whistling through the bit.
Lady Dyson smiles, then notes the shifting feet.
“She needs her bladder emptied, Edgar. She’s been well watered.”
A smirking Lady Dyson steps away to the porch of the nearby farm house, supremely in charge, reeking of self confidence, turning to view. Groom Edgar ties off Sweet Cheek’s leash then releases Gum Drop’s waist belt from the prongs of the light, sleek racing cart. The pony girl knows to step forth, bending at the waist, facing away, obscenely parting feet and knees in expectation. Despite having so many times performed such an intimate function, she somewhat blushes, feeling Groom Edgar’s left hand grasp a thick tuft of buttock flesh, a finger of the right slipping between the spread thighs, a single digit deftly gliding into her pouch, expertly avoiding the lower Ben wa ball to find the urethral sponge. He presses.
“Be a good girl, for me Gum Drop, Lady Dyson is watching. Open... for now...”
Despite having herself endured the ritual, Sweet Cheeks watches, also blushing in embarrassment as a strong flow of odorous gold splatters to the soil... then abruptly stops... Groom Edgar showing his mastery of the pony girl plumbing. He waits... he waits... smiling in seeing the bare feet twitching in distress.
“Begin again,” his finger evidently easing to permit more flow.
As the splatter resumes, Sweet Cheeks looks to the porch, Lady Dyson cackling with the scene of humiliation.
Such intensity.
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