Lungs afire, air whistles in being sucked past Sweet Cheeks’ bit. The crop stings right nipple then left, spurring even more effort. Then the leather begins tapping the bare buttocks, the strokes modest and in cadence with the chiming bells. It’s a final dash, Sweet Cheeks grateful to see the stables in sight.
She can do it, she tells herself... don’t falter... legs not to fail... please her Master. Thoughts and images of work pony Cream Puff fill her mind, bringing great incentive.
She cannot work the fields!
Finally there come tugs on the reins. The crop withdraws. Sweet Cheeks knows to slow finding curiosity in the warmth. Despite the cool autumn mid afternoon air, her skin is alive and on fire. Brought to a walking pace, her breathing slows, large gulps to replenish spent oxygen. She obediently focuses on restoring the rhythm of the bells, the treadmill training evident.
She knows to prance, knees high. A proud pony girl... and she indeed feels proud.
“Whoa,” the command coming at the stable entrance, Groom Edgar stepping out to greet.
He smiles. Sweet Cheeks tries to return, futile with mouth stuffed with rubber.
“Quite the excursion, Lady Dyson.”
“Took a long rest at the fields. Showing off Sweet Cheeks. She enjoys being placed on exhibition. She’ll deny it... but her cunt can not,” Lady Dyson snickers in dismounting and handing over the reins. “You’ll find her to be quite wet... and I don’t mean the perspiration.”
“She ran well?”
“A reasonable start. But don’t masturbate her. Instead... scrub her down with one of the other girls. I want to see her trib. Use Candy Bar, this one seemed fascinated with that penis you grew on her. It will keep her frisky for the next workout. Three miles treadmill work tomorrow. More if you think it’s needed. Fully decorated... this one likes a stuffed cunt. I’ll run her again the day after.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Have the girls completely naked. I need a nice glass of Chablis. I’ll be back to watch.”
With that Lady Dyson strolls off. Though Sweet Cheeks is disappointed... her long day’s grueling effort described as ‘reasonable’... she is heartened to have her reins in the hands of he she has come to idolize.
The waist belt is released from the cart’s prongs then unbuckled. Groom Edgar gently pulls on the reins leading into the stable building.
“No masturbation... but you can trib! Lady Dyson is very kind.”
Other then ignominiously emptying herself and being decorated... vagina filled with trinkets... the sentient opening of Sweet Cheeks has not been touched... and certainly not with the intent to bring full orgasm.
Though distant in her mind, after no many months in training, she remembers the youthful ecstasy... her mind returning to the orphanage... naughty fingers so frequently toying... the orgasms many... and so frequently being punished as a result. Denuded, given a blanket for covering and nothing else. Then that simple covering would be stripped away... bringing quirky excitement, her fingers returning to her sex. It became a cycle... bringing more punishment... the enemas... openly administered before her cohorts.
Why did that arouse?
The bridle is unbuckled, the bit slipped away, snatching Sweet Cheeks from her reverie.
“Candy Bar could use a special bath,” Groom Edgar kindly offers. “You may speak.”
“She ran me to the fields, Sir. It was horrible. A work pony girl was watered. Then there were these boys... and Lady Dyson... she...”
“Calm yourself, Sweet Cheeks. You are not to let yourself become upset with anything your Master does. What happens happens.”
Groom Edgar leads to the large special stall where months ago Sweet Cheeks was bathed with Gum Drop. Embarrassing, there came horripilation in having a man watch the mutual pleasure, smooth warm bodies frottaging together. And now? Is there to be acceptance? Groom Edgar’s touch is welcomed... his viewing amusement as well?
It’s Groom Edgar she tells herself. Please him... show off... and enjoy.
And Lady Dyson?
She commanded she be naked for tribbing. Should Sweet Cheeks be gladdened to once again be relieved of her collar and wrist cuffs?
Led under one of the trapeze bars, the cables beckon. Hooks are slipped through the ear grommets. Groom Edgar steps to the wall to pull. Trapeze bar rising, Sweet Cheeks is forced to her toes... feet parted... always parted
“Get your cunt ready for some fun, Sweet Cheeks,” returning, hands going to her pudendum, fingers grasping the bell.
Without need for direction, Sweet Cheeks knows to cough, the PC muscles to somatically relax. Bizarre how she has come to let a man work about her most intimate anatomy, feeling gentle tugs as the Ben wa balls slowly slide down her birth canal.
“Again.”
She feels the devilish lower ball, filled with heavy liquid, slip past her entrance, the larger ball slowly being worked downward.
“My, my Sweet Cheeks, you are wet indeed. And we’re not only developing leg muscles and a nice rounded gluteus maximus but your pubo coccygeus muscles have taken a liking to nesting a nice big ball of steel,” Groom Edgar chides. “Let go girl.”
Sweet Cheeks knows to offer another cough. She hears a ‘plop’ and her sheath is emptied. She blushes. A girl just can’t acclimate to having a man’s fingers working there... idolized or not, she tells herself.
“Good girl. Now this will hurt, Cheeks. Lady Dyson is persistent with the crop,” hands going to the breasts.
Having endured the many quick flicks of leather for mile after mile, Sweet Cheeks has spent the past few moments basking in the resulting glow, her long pink strips heated to a pleasant warmth, baked as with fine pastries, seeming to celebrate day’s end. But now... to be touched! The sensitivity!
“Please no ,Sir.”
“But we must. Can’t have your titties ringing all night.”
“Can you just remove the bells?”
“No. Later we’ll get you some ointment and put your nipples back in stretching cones.”
“But they’re so sore, Sir... and quite long,” Sweet Cheeks pleads.
“Never long enough... for Lady Dyson.”
Deft as always, fingers go to work... gratefully fast. The left nipple is pulled to a grotesque length, the nub made thin, the threaded ring twisted then slipped away. Though quick, the action brings a gasp... the suffering noted..
“Take a deep breath, “Groom Edgar forewarns, right nipple to endure as well.
Another gasp, right nipple ring removed, Groom Edgar steps away.
“You may urinate while I get Candy Bar. No need for neatness. The floor is well drained. Then a nice bath... warm water, soap... and you can go tittie to tittie... belly to belly... thighs to thighs... cunt to cunt.”
The notion both enthuses and disturbs. There stirs homophobia. Sweet Cheeks pictures the knowing hand of Groom Edgar, lifting the clitoral hood, bringing into the sunlight of the corral a hormone modified clitoris. She saw... will she feel?
Bound by her ear grommets, Groom Edgar’s suggestion brings need, Lady Dyson watering often during the long workout. Sweet Cheeks further parts her feet and presses, knowing any otherwise forbidden sloppiness will easily be hosed away.
Nothing.
She presses again, determined to open and relieve herself.
Nothing.
There comes consternation... realization... that with the months of training, she... her system... has been conditioned to so perform only under supervision... a finger pressed within... her urethral sponge to become a valve for a man’s governance. Hanging in suspension she has trained herself to withhold... to wait... sometimes hours... for the insertion of her groom’s finger... and his permission.
She needs him... her groom... to perform a most basic anatomical function... she needs his guidance!
Then comes to mind her bowel movements, also well supervised, Groom Edgar’s caring hands required to wipe herself. Is that bodily function no longer under her auspices?
What is happening?
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