'Trainee to Pony Girl', Segment I

Not much feedback. Show pony, to be raced in competition... or work the fields?

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Trainee to Pony Girl

Copyright 2023

by Chris Bellows

“Thank you, Edgar. Strip her down. Then you’re dismissed.”

A leashed Sweet Cheeks finds the command to be curious. She wears nothing, as always. She’s not even decorated... no nipple rings, bells, vaginal insertion. Still Groom Edgar steps behind, unclipping the leash, releasing the wrist cuffs from the reverse prayer position, unbuckling then removing the neck collar.

Sweet Cheeks better understands the instructions. Having worn either masturbation mittens or cuffs and collar for many months, she does indeed feel denuded. And hands! Free to move! 

“Do not touch yourself,” Lady Dyson firmly instructs. “Hands to the back of your head. You’re familiar with the crop as an instrument of correction, but wayward hands and fingers are greeted by the cane.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” arms rising.

Groom Edgar steps to exit, drawing away Lady Dyson’s attention as she closes the study door. There is a moment for Sweet Cheeks to surveil.

The spacious study of the Dyson Farms farmhouse is opulent. Wood paneling of walnut, floor to ceiling curtains of dark red velvet, lush carpeting of deep blue patterned with red equine figures. There is a large desk with two piles of neatly stacked manilla folders.

A bright desk lamp glows, the lighting otherwise dim... with an exception that brings Sweet Cheeks to momentarily gawk before composing herself.   

In a corner, well lit by halogen lights on the ceiling, stands a statuesque woman of color. She is perched on a pedestal, wears nothing, and is hairless, as with all Dyson Farms pony girls. Her skin of golden brown gleams under the lighting. Sweet Cheeks notes the elongated nipples spearing forth and as expected at Dyson Farms, labia minora of brownish pink dangling past the outer lips, seemingly halfway down the thighs. The woman is motionless, hands pressed to the back of her bald head just as Sweet Cheeks has been directed. Yet, what draws most attention is the decorative cables, leading from the ceiling, the ends hooked through ear grommets... as with Sweet Cheeks, metal lined openings punched deep into the cartilage behind the ear hole.  

The bondage is simple yet thorough, held on toes, head forcibly high. Sweet Cheeks tries to glance away, not wishing to stare, but the naked form seems carved to perfection, shapely calves, thighs... buttocks no doubt honed on the wooden horse... miles of treadmill work. The breasts are pony girl breasts... the stretched nipples mounted on rounded mounds but of limited girth, fat tissue yielding to extensive workouts.

Still, the girl is comely... facial features even. And she is permitted eyebrows! Perhaps she is considered stunning to the aficionado of the human equine. And far from the beastly plumped figure of a farm work pony.

“You take interest in Fudge,” Lady Dyson interrupting in moving to Sweet Cheeks’ front.

A hand lowers, palm turned upwards, the arm extending near to the engorged labia of trainee Sweet Cheeks. Sweet Cheeks diverts her eyes back to the chatelaine of Dyson Farms. Dark hair of moderate length, combed back, white blouse of satin, beige jodhpurs, knee high black leather boots. Given a riding crop, the woman appears prepared for a morning jaunt.  

“You’ve been infused. Edgar can be such a provocateur. Enjoying the sensation? Makes a girl feel quite lusty in so brazenly displaying her femininity. And to be reminded of your subjugation with every step you take...”

“I... well... asked Mr. Edgar,” recalling the groom’s suggestion... desiring to show deference.

“So you wanted to appear before me in such a ridiculous manner. Such humiliation for you. Very telling. But your poise and comportment need some refining. Do you see what I’ve done with my hand... where it’s resting?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Well step forth, spread and introduce your cunt to my fingers. Whenever you’re so greeted, offer yourself, let your Master feel you, get inside you.”

Sweet Cheeks’ heart leaps in shock, but she complies, closing her eyes in shame as she basically moves to impale herself, feeling the woman’s palm press to her clitoral hood, two fingers entering her vagina.

“Good girl. It’s like pushing my hand into little pillows... with the saline infusion. And you’re quite wet. You’re aroused. Fudge exciting you? Or being handled... submitting?”

“I... well... this is new...”

“But acceptable to you,” the hand withdrawing, wet fingers sniffed. “Yes, wet and fragrant. You’ll find I like cunts... seeing... feeling... smelling. Step over here. Have a better look at Fudge. Excite yourself.”

Sweet Cheeks is wont to protest, the naked form is attractive but not a source of arousal... or is it? She is not homosexual. Is it the bondage that brings deviant excitement?     

“I have her pose for me several hours per day during office work. Fudge is a show pony... former show pony... winning best in show three years running. As you can see I had her modified for better viewing... the judges like prominent girl parts... and of course exercised and shaped to perfection. Even took the time to sun her... getting the coloring of her skin just right... golden brown. Alluring when oiled and properly posed under the lights.”

The objectification is noteworthy, show pony Fudge presenting herself perfectly still, not even her eyes blinking, staring at the blank wall.   

“Note the sheen of the skin. I had her defoliated... regular shaving can roughen the epidermis. So she’s been chemically depilated. The entire body... head included. But not the eyebrows, of course. That’s not good for exhibition. The judges score against that. And as you can see, my houseboy Gabbie has oiled her. I like to see my show pony glow... under the lights.”

Lady Dyson reaches forth, fingers going to the left nipple, thumb and forefinger rolling about the lengthy strip of sentient brownish pink. The tantalizing finger work does not bring a notable reaction.

Sweet Cheeks is both repulsed... yet oddly aroused... by the exhibitionism... the objectification of the naked female form intensified by the narrative. And her nose detects feminine fragrance... not her own. The show pony finds thrill in her Master’s touch.

“I’m going to inseminate and breed her. One of the field hands will happily donate. Other than hands and fingers, we don’t permit vaginal penetration here at Dyson Farms. It’s the turkey baster for her, ha, ha, ha.

“Good girl, Fudge,” the hand lowering to likewise roll about the labial flesh. “So Fudge’s show days will come to an end... a nice big belly... Edgar to induce lactation. Then maybe have her drop a second foal... if not I’ll have her work the fields. Yes, all good things come to an end.

“We need to talk,” finally turning away and stepping toward her vast desk, gesturing for Sweet Cheeks to stand at the front edge. “I’ve followed Edgar’s daily reports,” sitting and gesturing to the left stack of manilla folders. “Your modifications are progressing, buttocks nicely sculpted. You’ve been run on the treadmill... built stamina, been broken to the bit and bridle, acclimated to the reins. You’re no longer 120 pounds of fat and gelatinous flesh, Sweet Cheeks. You’re now 135 pounds of muscle... firm... and well developed where a pony girl needs muscle.

“Part your feet...” the words sharp, Lady Dyson interrupting herself. “Open your thighs. I want to see those long plumped lips jiggle about. And you’ll enjoy the feel.”

Sweet Cheeks immediately complies, the motion causing her feminine parts to brush her inner thighs. She blushes with the frisson of delight... labia jiggling indeed. 

“So... a decision. Replace Fudge, putting you on exhibition... possibly win a prize or two... or put you in full harness and begin further developing you for competition.”

Lady Dyson sits back in her large padded leather desk chair. The pose brings forth the fullness of her breasts... normal breasts, Sweet Cheeks notes in envy... the roundness tenting her blouse... not flattened through extensive exercise.

“You may speak.”

“I just can’t be a work pony, Ma’am. It’s... it’s... horrible.”

“Yes, my working beasts... it’s grueling. But a pony girl is even worked harder in harness. Speed, endurance... run for miles... under the crop.”

“But not... well... I can’t be with the field hands.” 

“They’re required for the farm’s heavy lifting. There is some muscling you just can’t develop on a girl. But what in particular bothers you about the field hands?”

Sweet Cheeks turns to reticence. Lady Dyson leans forth, a hand reaching, a finger tapping the right set of manila folders. 

“The psychiatrist’s reports... from the orphanage. I reread. You may or may not be aware that I am a major benefactor of the orphanage. Matter of fact I may be the only benefactor. For my generosity I receive these monthly reports on every girl. Also I strongly recommend to the orphanage matrons a regimen of punishments for transgressors. You’re very much aware of what that entails. You spent much time enshrouded in nothing more than a blanket... when the older girls let you keep it.”

Sweet Cheeks sheepishly nods, surprised to learn of the psychiatrist’s reports. She of course recalls the many meetings with the erudite doctor... the questions... the discussions. Being covered in nothing more than a blanket during some talks prompted much conversation.  But she had assumed such was part of the process leading to adoption, not to be disseminated elsewhere. Ironically, it comes to mind that perhaps indeed such led to adoption... at Dyson Farms.

“So we get to know the girls... how receptive they are... to... well... being stripped naked and brought to submission... to be blunt. I’d say one in ten catch my attention. And the fact that you now stand before me, not only in the nude, hands obediently clasped behind your head, but having requested that you endure the ignominy of having your girls parts infused for attraction... well... it seems I interpreted these reports most acuminously.”      

The embarrassment surges. Sweet Cheeks has been deceived. Should she correct herself... that the infusion was not her request but instead the suggestion of Groom Edgar? Yet, can she deny the lustful twinges offered by her swollen lips bring not a quirky thrill?

“So I’ve selected well... and it’s fortunate for you... to have your penchants not only understood, but addressed and nurtured. Understand, in time, all my pony girls move to the barn and work the fields. It’s a more leisurely pace, no need for speed and endurance. With no show judges to impress, shape and conditioning matter not. They’re kept quite subjugated, as their proclivities require. And they’re put under the penis. Big black cock... to taste... to feel pulsing between their cheeks.”

Lady Dyson notes the latter words bring her pony girl to shudder... in repulsion?  

“So... being put under the penis... such seems to bring concern.”

Sweet Cheeks nods.

“Yet you’ve offered to service Edgar’s cock. Oh don’t be surprised that I’m aware. He reports everything... as I demand of him,” a hand again patting the left pile of folders. 

“It’s... well... different. He said that pleases...”

“And you want to please your groom. Of course. Well, that’s not going to happen... not that way. Edgar is a servant. I decide how and when he is to be ‘pleased’... as you term sucking a man’s cock.”

With that comes a knock on the study door. Lady Dyson looks at her watch.

“That will be Gabbie... my maid... my houseboy. You can show yourself to another set of eyes,” Lady Dyson snickering in knowing so well of Sweet Cheeks latent joy. “Come in, Gabbie.”

There come more Dyson Farms eccentricities as the study door slowly opens. Joining the three women is a fourth... or so Sweet Cheeks initially assumes. For stepping within is a diminutive figure with long flowing hair and extensive facial make up... extensive to the point of gaudiness. There are scintillating ear studs. The hands cradle a long slim basin of metal... Sweet Cheeks recognizing it as a replica of that held between her thighs for morning excretions.

“It’s time, Lady Dyson,” a soft high pitched voice informs, “for Fudge,” the maid nodding to where the show pony remains perched.    

“Yes, Gabbie. Make it quick. I’m interviewing the new pony girl.”

As the form steps forward, Sweet Cheeks notes the lack of clothing, the form hairless and completely naked... but for high heeled shoes... nudity seeming to be de rigeur at Dyson Farms. But what draws more focused attention is a tiny penis flopping about between soft plumped thighs. And nothing else to discern gender! 

“As I said... maid ... and houseboy,” Lady Dyson explains in seeing Sweet Cheeks gawk.

In stunned silence Sweet Cheeks watches as Fudge further parts her thighs ever so slightly, and small, well manicured hands work the basin between. Sweet Cheeks, all too familiar with the ritual, knows what is to come next... stepping behind, left hand holding the basin close to the mons, a finger of the right slipping between... no doubt finding the urethral sponge in order to control the expected flow.

Experience apparent, the scene of capitulation... surrendering a most intimate function... unfolds... Fudge opening, maid/houseboy Gabbie taking control... the basin filling in spurts.

“It’s wonderfully demeaning for her, wouldn’t you agree, Sweet Cheeks?”

There comes a pensive nod, the flow interrupted... permitted to resume... then interrupted anew. Finally the governing finger withdraws to permit completion and the basin is slipped away. Then the housemaid circles to the front, lowers his head and licks clean the pudendum, seeming to savor the extended labia.

For the first time Sweet Cheeks detects motion, the oral caress no doubt bringing a brisance.

“Enough Gabbie,” Lady Dyson sharply admonishes. 

Gabbie turns and strolls to the door, careful with the filled basin. Returning to Sweet Cheeks, Lady Dyson advises.

“I know you’re focused on searching for Gabbie’s missing balls... but note her necklace... and the attached key.”

Indeed, Sweet Cheeks, finding herself visually examining, raises her gaze, spotting the jewelry and hanging key.

“It’s for Edgar. I reward him... mostly once per month... having Gabbie unlock him. His homophobia rages... rather amusing to observe... but as a typical male... he can’t help but request... ah... let’s term it... attention.”

“A key? But he wears no restraints,” Sweet Cheeks’ brazen comment bringing a snicker.

“Oh, he’s restrained. Just not apparent to you. He’s restrained where a man most needs to be.”  

Having spent her formative years in single sex education... limited contact with the male gender... the naivety of Sweet Cheeks comes to light.

“The fields hands... I indulge their urges...and it keeps my working ponies focused and properly degraded. But Edgar... no. When he lost his medical license and faced jail time and a myriad of lawsuits, I intervened. My generosity came with a price... his skills as a groom... his loyalty... and his submission... ceding his masculinity and his virility. Having a dozen or more cunts to play with... as I said... to see, feel and smell... it’s empowering to also have unfettered control over a phallus... a fully functioning phallus.”

Though Sweet Cheeks is perplexed, she decides to return to silence, speaking spontaneously considered to be pert.    

“So, You’ll not be pleasing my groom. That’s one of Gabbie’s responsibilities. Do you need her to come back with the basin by the way?”

Sweet Cheeks indeed has a need, but finds it best to demur.

“Good. Are you aware that your psychological evaluations include photos?”

Sweet Cheeks cringes. She is of course aware of the photo sessions, every girl appearing before the camera twice per year. Ostensibly to document growth and development, the matrons agreeing to assist some scientist in a study on the subject, it now comes to light, just as with the psychological evaluations, such have been otherwise disseminated.   

“Yes, your Ladyship, I was photographed.”

“Do you recall the poses?”

“Yes,” the reply forced past a growing lump in her throat.

“And how you were dressed.”

Sweet Cheeks glumly nods.

“They were... the photos... for research.”

“So you were told... and in way such were. But for more than anatomical research. The photographer, she gave you a choice didn’t she?”

“Yes, Ma;’am.”

Lady Dyson reaches to the right pile of folders, taking one from the top. She opens. She smiles.

“And the choice was?..”

“Well, she said it would... ah... help the research... ah... if I was willing to take my clothes off.”

“And you did... and then posed. Do you think the other girls so volunteered... to help the research?”

“I... I... don’t know.”

“Someone else was in the room... with the photographer.”

Stated as a fact not a question, a somber Sweet Cheeks nods.

“Oh, why so sad? It was the psychiatrist observing. And you later talked about it... were counseled... after each photo session. His reports indicate a willingness. But it says here you disagreed with him when he pointed that out. So you posed naked then convinced yourself it was not under your auspices. Your thoughts?”

“It seemed... well... like the right thing.”

“Such as violating the rules... then parading about in nothing more than a blanket... when not taken from you.”

Lady Dyson holds up a photo. She has of course selected one of the most lurid... some dozen photos taken during each semi annual session. Sweet Cheeks peers then closes her eyes in shame.

“They made me.”

“They did not. Just as the matrons did not make you break the rules. Why not so pose for me. I have no camera. But I can use my cell phone if that would lend some support or encouragement.”

Sweet Cheeks moves not, the recollections roiling.

“Go ahead. You may take your hands from your head. It appears you enjoyed using your hands. Touch yourself. Pretend you’re again at the orphanage... the photographer... the psychiatrist... the need for photos... the need for you to degrade yourself...”

Sweet Cheeks goes into a trance, reliving the harrowing twice yearly sessions. Research... she tells herself. But was it research.... and was it truly harrowing? 

Hands lower, Sweet Cheeks steps back from the desk to the center of the large room. The feel of the lush carpeting brings joy to her bare feet. The room seems to warm... just as in the makeshift studio at the orphanage. No discomfort in taking off her clothes. She begins, hearing in her mind the instructions of the photographer, her mature voice kindly yet authoritative.

By rote, almost as a dance routine... posing so many times during her years at the orphanage... Sweet Cheeks begins. Told not to smile, the various initial stances seem to come as a warm up, being conditioned. Then become more salacious... feet spread... wide then wider... arms to the side... then to her chest, cupping young breasts... the camera clicking. The photographer was masterful, ingraining obedience and compliance... the poses assumed without thought... without consideration that a man was in the room observing. Hands lower to the pudendum, fingers splay the labia... now plump and infused... inner pink... moist... gleaming for the camera lens. Click, click, click. Sweet Cheeks turns, she bends, hands to the buttocks, fingers working to open the gluteal cleft... her love nest opens... more pink... more intimate girl parts... click, click, click. She can hear the camera... hear the voice... words of compliment... of encouragement... such a good girl... so nicely offering herself... for exposure.  

Next, Sweet Cheeks lowers, the carpet welcoming. On her back, knees to her chest, the voice of Lady Dyson momentarily brings Sweet Cheeks from her trance.

“Stay like that, Sweet Cheeks. And tell me how you feel... assuming such an obscene pose. Twinges... where a girl covets twinges? Your fragrance is telling. Part your lips again. No toying. Show me your cunt.”

Lady Dyson arises from her desk, moving to stand over the indecent display. Sweet Cheeks remains still, as directed, enraptured, fingers touching the swollen labia. It is oddly pleasant.

“So you were made to take off your clothing and pose. And I have made you pose as well. Yet the ‘trauma’ is such that your titties are crinkled in arousal and you’re almost drooling on my rug. And your thoughts?”

Sweet Cheeks, having been returned to the photos sessions, is now returned to the counseling of the psychiatrist.

“I didn’t want to do it... do this.”

“Yes. And yet you did it... and you’re stimulated. We have a role for you here at Dyson Farms. You may think we’re physically restraining you... forcing you into such subjugation. But you’re mentally compelled, Sweet Cheeks... emotionally in need... a captive of your own proclivities.” 

Lady Dyson returns to her desk. 

“You may stay like that... if you wish, Do not touch your clitoris,” the ending pose lurid and most revealing. “Now let’s talk details,” noting that Sweet Cheeks arises not. “For me to race you will require... ah... more development. And some tongue work. You’ll need the ability to pay proper homage to your Master. Orally. And that isn’t Edgar.”