More months. As Groom Edgar noted, in hanging prostrate the stretching can advance. Nipples and labia encased in rubber, thin cords are entwined and of course weighted... Groom Edgar gleefully calling out each increase... the ounces many.
Sweet Cheeks idles away much time staring in the mirror... . nipples becoming longer and longer... will her labia dangle to her knees? Yes, thoughts of her modification... the slow yet steady progression... haunt her mind.
Daily the nipples rings are donned... the Ben wa balls are inserted. She is let down, leashed and led to the treadmill. Her endurance grows... not only in miles... but the ability to move about with her vagina stimulated... enduring the manipulating Ben wa balls... her bells chiming.
Early in her training, he recalls seeing Gum Drop returned to the stable... the mixture of sweat and vaginal juices about her inner thighs. Does she now feel pride in being similarly brought to a lather?
Then comes another big step. In understanding at some point she will be made to perform for Lady Dyson... there will come the ultimate assessment. Groom Edgar removes the rubber cones... nipples and labia... then stuffs her vagina, tugs at her nipples to slip in place the nipple rings, lowers her feet and releases the canvas straps about her thighs.
He speaks as he unhooks the ear grommets, the final step in daily emancipation.
“Another step, Cheeks. The bridle... and some time in the bit,” holding before her an entanglement of leather. “You need to learn to move about responding to a directing hand... steady now,” the words soft yet firm.
Wrists held high... as always to the back of the neck collar... Sweet Cheeks cannot resist as the mass of straps goes to the top of her head, then knowing fingers unravel to encase, straps down the sides right and left, under the chin, below the nose, patches of leather... blinders... to the right and left of her eyes... all buckled in place at the back of the head.
More bondage, Sweet Cheeks realizes. So tight... so many straps... so confining.
“I can’t see very well Sir,” the leather partially impeding her vision.
“Yes, it is rigorous, isn’t it? But it sends the right message... who is in control. And you really need not see much... when in harness... just trot, cantor or run... and of course respond to tugs on the reins. Now for the bit... open...”
Sweet Cheeks obeys, a hand deftly slipping a broad, stout length of rubber between her lips. It buckles about the back of the head as well to hold in place, eyelets at each end to accommodate leather reins.
“Your cunny feel okay? I went to a larger ball.”
Sweet Cheeks nods, feeling indeed duress at her cervix, seeing the reins clipped in place.
“So let’s take a walk. Head up, shoulders back... show your pony girl titties. And keep your bells ringing... in cadence with your feet. And respond... to the reins... right... left... and instantaneously. Naughty girls get the crop... and I don’t mean the little taps to counter the twinges in your wet cunt,” Groom Edgar’s, free hand indeed gripping the instrument of correction.
Groom Edgar leads. Sweet finds the bit most uncomfortable... painfully pinching her tongue if not following with precision. To the outdoors, the sensations and input again begin to overwhelm... proper posture... bells to chime in tempo with her footwork... turning right then left as Groom Edgar tests her response to the controlling reins. Shoulders back, she reminds herself, noting in her peripheral vision that the cool air has turned her elongated nipples into tiny spears.
And then come the twinges... the pangs... the vaginal moisture turning to slickness.
Why? With the somatic reaction she can even smell herself. Can Groom Edgar?
She has many times been led naked, wrists bound, at the end of a leash. Now, head in bondage, limited sight, she realizes her subjugation is advancing... not able to fully see where she is going... having to trust her groom with the reins. Oddly she hopes for further advancement... to pull... fully harnessed... to please... not only her groom but her ultimate Master.
“I’m going to move behind you, Sweet Cheeks. Just walk... don’t look about... and shoulders back... we like to see nice standing tittles here. Respond to the reins.”
There comes a pause, Groom Edgar stepping behind, pulling the reins back and over her head. Then for the first time, Sweet Cheeks understands... fully... the continuing effort to modify the precious pink of her vulva. The crop slips between her thighs, snapping upwards to gently... yet painfully... apply a quick stroke to her stretched labia..
She lurches, finding herself stepping forth with eagerness... as intended... her most sensitive girl parts to avoid any need for further encouragement.
“Good girl.”
*****
It’s a new day. Sweet Cheeks hangs in her stall, surprising herself in adapting to the awkward sleeping position, fully suspended from a half dozen cables, some three feet above the stable floor, legs bent, ankles held high, thighs encircled in comfortable foam lined straps, head held immobile by hooks through her ear grommets.
In waking she twists about, only slight motion permitted. But it is enough to cause the weights of her nipple and labia cones to begin swaying about, intensifying the pulling sensation on her most precious girl parts.
Why is she doing that, she asks herself? Enhancing the slow and constant process of body modification. Masochism... she recalls early days in the orphanage, knowing that infractions would bring the denial of clothing... to be denuded... only a blanket for covering. Yet, time and again there came infractions... the need for punishment... the need to exhibit herself... the quest for humiliation?
Clothing surrendered, did she truly fight... resist... when an older girl whisked away her blanket... walking off and leaving her in the nude. Did she report the assault to a matron?
She told herself... and tells herself anew... that she did not want to make trouble with an older girl. Yet, in retrospect, she berates herself. To report the girl would bring punishment to her as well. Another girl in deshabille... to distract from her own exhibition... to no longer be the center of deriding attention Was that her warped reasoning?
She thinks of Groom Edgar’s words... his paternal advice... concerning her hunger... her thirst... Dyson Farms to offer a feast.
Am I being fed? Predilections nurtured...
There comes the urge to pee, such need to be subdued, the floor not to be soiled, instead Groom Edgar to supervise. To date she has obediently withheld. Avoiding punishment? Or does the ignominy of having a man’s finger control a most basic function appeal to her twisted psyche.
There is also the ritual of bowel movements... to defecate on demand... or endure a suppository... or worse. Could such be an enema? Such was a specialty of a certain matron at the orphanage... administered with the others girls observing. Such was intended to be a deterrent... that particular punishment greatly exceeded the subtly of being denied clothing.
“Good morning Cheeks,” her thoughts interrupted, Groom Edgar entering her stall.
“Good morning Sir,” noting he holds in his hand the morning basin.
Despite the mental trauma of having to perform, a warm feeling comes over her. Is it because the man will address her desperate need... bladder brimming? Yes, but there’s more, she tells herself. Groom Edgar, putting aside the physical attraction to his manly good looks, has become the father she never new... so caring... so tender. Yes, as promised, all her needs are met. She has not a care... other than to obey... and perform.
He asks for so little in return, the thought occurs. Nothing for his diligence. In being so open to him, his hands and fingers palpating everywhere... even inside her... exploring her vagina in reporting to her ladyship that she is breeding material... there has come dependency. And during menses... such understanding... seeming to feel her embarrassment... encircling her upper thighs with cloth... conventional feminine hygiene denied... ignoring the awkwardness... the white cotton strips becoming incarnadine in proclaiming her frailty.
There was sharing... forced to participate in a woman’s most delicate time of the month. Bared to him at all times, Sweet Cheeks comes to understand... there is a bonding. All that she has... is his...
“Keep in mind the new protocol,” a finger tapping, pinging the metal basin.
Groom Edgar steps behind. Fingers diddle, parting the dangling labia cones, one digit slipping inward to find the urethral sponge.
“Urinate for me first, then I want you to move your bowels for me... one minute to completion.”
Sweet Cheeks closes her eyes in shame. It’s not possible for a girl to fully acclimate, she tells herself. But as she presses to begin a flow, the curiously acceptable feeling of surrender comes over her. Cede, she tells herself... please her Master... perform.
And indeed a flow begins, then the controlling finger presses, and again comes the strange thrill of having a man direct such a private function. Though she knows to relax, what Groom Edgar calls her urethral sphincter open, the flow ceases under her Master’s knowing finger and the urgent need to fully empty herself rocks her cerebral cortex.
Moments go by, the finger finally releases, the flow resumes.
“Good girl,” the finger pressing again, flow curtailing. “And work your bowels for me. There’s to be a regimented schedule to adhere to. For morning bathing I have more than you, pony girl. Once fully trained, this has to become clock work.”
The finger releases. The bladder empties. The finger slips away. Sweet Cheeks begins pressing at her abdomen, basin waiting for more.
Nothing happens. Squirming in desperation, Sweet Cheeks again feels the tight cones flop about, closing her eyes in concentration.
“You received enemas... at the orphanage,” Groom Edgar comments, Sweet Cheeks chagrined to feel the invading finger now teasingly grazing her well exposed sphincter.
“Yes, Sir,” surprised with his knowledge.
“Intended not only for internal hygiene... but as punishment.”
“It was... it was... most degrading, Sir.”
“One would think a girl would try her best to avoid such potential trauma. Colonic irrigation can be stressful. Was it made stressful for you, Cheeks?”
The finger continues teasing, Sweet Cheeks clenching closed her gluteal cleft, bondage precluding any ability to otherwise counter the sensual touch. Such adds to the humiliation, her now sculpted buttocks seeming to invite more attention. But it is her Master, she tells herself in consolation.
Will he administer an enema? So stressful in enduring such from the stern orphanage matron, would feeling Groom Edgar’s fingers.... being anally penetrated by him... be acceptable?
“It was... was... well... the matron... she was... thorough.”
“Yes, thorough. So it was stressful.... high... slow... forced to withhold, no doubt. Warm water can be soothing though. But cold... well... now... there’s punishment. Cramping... aching... such a distressing wait... for the bowels to warm the mixture. I imagine in punishment the nozzle was large... and well inflated. Wouldn’t want a naughty girl expelling before being fully punished.
“Tell me now Cheeks... was it cold?”
Sweet Cheeks nods, the discussion bringing memories... on all fours in the large open orphanage shower room, the matron lecturing, the nozzle expanding. And then the flow... seemingly endless... and yes... chilled... and the matron’s words...
‘Notice how she squirms, girls... notice how her belly slowly fills. Such suffering... yet she’s here before me again... naked and on all fours... to be internally cleansed.... so much needing correction... to be disciplined. Does the girl choose this... to be so punished? So humiliated?’
With the recollection, Sweet Cheeks not only remembers the words but the ostensibly kindly hand brushing over her bare buttocks, highlighting her submission.
As comes the barrage of words, memories and Groom Edgar’s frottaging finger, Sweet Cheeks senses movement, the basin to receive again.
“Good girl, Cheeks. Performing for me within two minutes. But you’ll be doing so quicker... though I think you find the threat of colonic irrigation to be of quirky attraction. Is that so?”
Groom Edgar knows the answer to his own question. Yes, the reports of the orphanage psychologist once again prove revealing, bringing emotional bareness. In detailing the attraction the young orphan found in enduring such abject discipline, bloated bowels expelling to the shower room drain, Groom Edgar is well aware of her penchants... her needs.
“Would you do that for me... ah... to me, Master Edgar?”
Groom Edgar smiles, the Freudian slip not getting past him.
“Warm water for you, Cheeks. But I’d insist you take much... give you a nice full belly.”
The words bring a quiver. Is the somatic reaction one of fear.... or delight?
“Thank you Sir... you know... for caring for me. I’d... I’d like to do something... for you... sometime.”
“Just be a good pony girl. Please Lady Dyson and you’ll please me. You’re ready to be harnessed and run, Cheeks. Initial training to end. Ready for the next phase.”
“I don’t want to be a work pony, Sir. I saw them... so... beastly... and what that one girl did... with her mouth.”
“Fellatio, Cheeks. It’s expected. Lady Dyson wants the field workers to be happy... as you know.”
“Yes Sir, you said it makes a man feel physically better, and inures a sense of hierarchy. Would that make you happy, Sir? As I said. I’d like to do...
“No. That’s not poss... well... it won’t happen. Now I need to tend to the other girls,” Groom Edgar disposing of the filled basin. “When I return I’ll get you decorated... and this morning we’ll harness you. Time to do some pulling.”
Should Sweet Cheeks inquire about being pegged? Is that how she can make Groom Edgar happy... happier? She thinks of the matron’s enema nozzle, inserted... so gruffly... then pumped larger... and larger. She suffered... yet she could do that for him... he who takes such care.
Sweet Cheeks realizes her thinking is muddled... that she so much wants to please him. Why? A derivation of the training regimen?
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