'Trainee to Pony Girl', Segment IX

“Your tongue tires quickly, Edgar.”

Lady Dyson rises from the hooded face of Groom Edgar. Though she prefers the more knowing and attentive oral efforts of housemaid Gabbie, there is psychic joy in the subjugation of the virile intact male. 

Granting the privilege of servicing her sex would be too permissive, therefore every milking session ends in hooding... never to expose herself to devious eyes... lowering the back of ‘masturbation’ chair, and sitting... her bottom covering face and head. Rimming and analingus follow, the sordid deed keeping her groom in his place. Later, in sharing her bed with Gabbie, his/her long tongue and heedful lips will offer ultimate gratification.  

“I think you should exercise it. Gabbie would be appreciative. Perhaps weekly analingus for him. And you can lick that plundered scrotal sac. He’d like that,” stepping to don her panties, jodhpurs and boots.

“I’d... ah... rather not, Lady Dyson,” Groom Edgar remaining sightless and well secured in the chair.

“Well you will. And you’ll begin now,” gesturing for Gabbie to straddle the hooded head and lower himself. “He takes care of you... your prostate. You should return the favor. And it’s good for your silly homophobia. Snipped... no balls... he’s more female than male. You, with all your medical training, are well aware. You need to modify your thinking.”

Lady Dyson smiles triumphantly as the cherubic body straddles and squats, first presenting his empty sac, the loose flesh remaining an erogenous zone. Gabbie giggles, hands lowering to the covered ears to guide the head, mouth and lips.  

Though Lady Dyson very much prefers her dominion over her many pony girls, her mastery of things with a penis can bring delight as well. As she peers at the deflated penis, Edgar not yet returned to chastity, she conspires.

“I’ll make you an offer Edgar... since you’re so much infatuated with the prospects of ejaculating for me. For your next monthly unlocking, Gabbie will sit, you will orally service him and he’ll fellate you... fully... to completion.”

Mouth covered, Edgar cannot reply. But in hearing somewhat energetic slurps, perhaps there is a growing acceptance... his reservations diminishing. Lady Dyson moves to the near wall, a riding crop hanging in wait. She grabs and steps between the well spread and upturned legs and thighs, hand lowering, crop to begin fondling first the hairless scrotum then moving to the penis. She smiles in seeing it stir, somewhat coming to life despite the lengthy milking and slow expulsion of sperm.     

“Yes, Edgar, your homophobia... it’s either eroding... or you’ve been feigning revulsion.”

Gabbie momentarily rises, allowing a lung full of air. Edgar gasps and denies.

“No Ma’am.”

“Oh but yes, Edgar. You’re becoming erect for me. You say ‘no’ but your penis says yes. This will become the only way you’ll again achieve full climax... licking Gabbie’s rectum. And be cheered. Gabbie is very good... his fellatio is almost as accomplished as his cunnilingus.” 

*****

It is morning. Sweet Cheeks hangs in suspension, withholding the contents of her bladder, sensing rumbling in her bowels. She must wait, indoctrinated over the many months to relieve herself only under the close supervision of Groom Edgar. To divert her thoughts of disobediently soiling the stable floor, she wriggles her shoulders and hips, feeling the now sensuous motion of her nipple and labia weights. Curious how she has come to embrace the unending body modifications.   

Finally come footsteps, Groom Edgar entering her stall. She is heartened to see the long narrow basin in hand, inviting relief.

“Good morning, Cheeks.”

“Good morning, Sir.”

The basin is tucked between spread thighs. Sweet Cheeks feels the glee of a penetrating finger, slipping between elongated labia, instantly finding the urethral sponge. Sweet Cheeks knows to open herself, letting her groom take control.

“You’re wet, naughty girl. Been trying to frottage?”

Such a question would formerly bring embarrassment. Now there is realization.... no part or aspect of her anatomy is to be veiled from her groom’s eyes and touch.

“And quite fragrant,” adding to the frank observation as a flow begins and is quickly curtailed, finger pressing.    

“The weights, Sir. They make a girl... well... I guess a little excited.”

“Yes, a girl such as you. And when you try to please yourself by squirming in your bonds.”

The finger releases... presses... releases... Sweet Cheeks aware of the Dyson Farms manner of expressing control... bodily functions subordinated. She hears her excretions ping the basin with each release. Finally allowed to finish, she then knows to move her bowels, the timing exacting, emptying herself there within the allotted one minute.

She begins to perform, the deed most humiliating.

“I hope you slept well. Lady Dyson is going to work you today. A few miles in harness then a timed half mile at full pace.”

“Will I be decorated Sir?”

“Oh, Cheeks, you’d not want to be run in any other manner... listening to your bells. Yes, full decorations... and more”

Sweet Cheeks closes her eyes. Despite the indoctrination, the intimacy stultifies, feeling her sphincter open, the sludge evacuating.

“More Sir?” sordid deed completed to bring relief.

“Yes, Lady Dyson wants you...” Groom Edgar pausing, needing sly words other than ‘to be gaped’. “Ah... she feels you may perform better for her with more insertions.”

“Yes, she likes a girl’s cunt... seeing, feeling smelling. But in being decorated I am already well stuffed, Sir.”

“Not your cunt... ah... not your vagina, Cheeks. She feels an anal insertion may suit you. Moderate.”

Moderate to start, Groom Edgar thinks but dares not add. At some point Lady Dyson will elaborate... that there has been a decision to address her anal fixation.

The basin is put aside. There comes cleansing, Sweet Cheeks’ pink openings wiped with a moist cloth as would a toddler in need of potty training. Such embarrassment... yet so acclimated.

“So a plug for you, Cheeks. moderate as I said. A number two,” the cleansing hand withdrawing then returning. “Comprised of rubber, firm but somewhat flexible.”

Sweet Cheeks feels the cool slickness of unguent at her gluteal cleft, suppressing a moan of delight as a finger works within and jiggles about.

“A number two, Sir. How many numbers are there?”

Groom Edgar moves from between the spread thighs and upturned legs to stand at Sweet Cheeks’ face and encumbered head. He holds before her an egg shaped lump of black rubber two inches in diameter, one end tampering to a more narrow neck where a flange is attached.

“The set goes to a size twelve. Now, to make this easy for you, Cheeks, press open your sphincter... just as you do when defecating for me.” 

Groom Edger returns to her bottom. Again, such intimacy. Before her training, simply discussing such a subject would bring embarrassment. Now she responds with obedience, replicating the just completed bowel movement to open herself for penetration, sensing little compunction as she feels knowing hands working. The firm rubber greets her anus then slips inward to fill her rectum. As her sphincter contracts about the narrow neck, she again suppresses a moan, veiling of what Groom Edgar is well aware... anal delight.    

“It feels large Sir.”

“You’ll acclimate. And we have inflatable insertions to work your anus... making you more supple here,” the fingers withdrawing, a hand playfully patting her right buttock.

Yes, inflatable... just as was the enema nozzle so often inserted during your punishments at the orphanage... Groom Edgar’s description intentional.

Sweet Cheeks feels the cool moisture of an alcohol swab. Jabbed, her morning hormone injection, she flinches, her weights swinging to resume self induced arousal, the number two plug enhancing her subtle joy.  

“I don’t know if I can run like this, Sir,” realizing when decorated... vagina stuffed as well... the sensations will distract. 

“Oh you will. That’s what the crop is for.”

'Trainee to Pony Girl', Segment VIII

Sweet Cheeks forces herself to end her reverie... the counseling session of orphan Susan Cheevers, a name seeming foreign to her.

‘Sleep... I must sleep,’ again wriggling, sensing the once bizarre now acceptable comfort of the  stretching weights hanging to bring slow modification to nipples and labia.

Yet, her mind pictures the busy pen filling the notepad of Dr. Bob, documenting her thoughts and feelings... so often being punished... finding contrition... yet her fingers in violation again and again. That she found the penetrating enema nozzle to be less than objectionable... that bristles. That such is now noted in files stacked on Lady Dyson’s desk... that brings consternation. That Groom Edgar has also reviewed her files and subsequently discovered her to be curious about anal penetration... gaping a girl... that brings horror.       

Her answer... to the question... how did that make you feel?.. it haunts. Hearing mocking laughter as her bowels filled and filled... the matron’s lecturing words... explaining the punishment to the other girls.

‘See how Susan squirms, girls. Such suffering she brings herself... having her anus stuffed and stretched... her tummy filling. And it’s all beyond her control. She’s helpless. I’ll decide when she’s had enough. And then I may not permit release. I’ll make her hold and hold... and she’ll think about where naughty fingers shouldn’t play. So learn from this lesson I’m offering. No fondling... no frigging... if you do you’ll be here kneeling for me... bare buttocks high... head low... tummy bloating. Now... tell the girls how you feel, Susan.’

‘Please no more, Matron.’

‘She says that girls... the same plea as her last punishment enema. But here she is again. It seems she enjoys this... possibly more then when her fingers play.’     

And her reply to Dr. Bob... ‘there’s something about the vulnerability, doctor, ceding, offering myself to the matron... that she could do with me whatever she wanted... stuff me, stretch me, fill me... humiliate me before the other girls. It’s suffering... but I almost feel it is something that fulfills a need.’  

Sweet Cheeks recalls the doctor’s nod... an affirmation... and the silence as he wrote... then reading back his note as the pen pointedly underlined his writing... ‘something that fulfills a need’.

It brings to mind an exchange with Groom Edgar... her needs... to be nurtured... a hunger to be sated. Then comes to mind her interview with Lady Dyson, Sweet Cheeks learning that she is free to leave Dyson Farms. Yet here she is, well into being trained as a human equine... endless workouts... bound in nakedness... parts pink modified at a woman’s whim... nipples and buttocks cropped... exhibited and examined by precocious boys... excretions closely supervised. And all in chastity, the promise of orgasm being a carrot to be dangled but withheld.  

*****

“Come Edgar. No drama, take off your clothes and sit in the chair. You know how much Gabbie adores intact men... and I too have an affinity for a naked man... when he’s under lock and key.”

Groom Edgar visits the farmhouse. Things to discuss, Lady Dyson explained, and that Gabbie wants to use her key.

“I’d rather not, Ma’am.”

“Always so shy. But you have no choice in the matter. Besides, ‘doctor’,” sneering the term, “you know better than I that the prostate gland needs attention.”

Chardonnay in hand, Lady Dyson leads from her office den to an adjoining room. There the naked housemaid Gabbie awaits, smiling in expectation, standing next to what Lady Dyson has termed her masturbation chair. Really a gynecological examination chair with standard stirrups for the feet and legs. Straps have been added to make her pony girls ‘comfortable’ in bondage while they entertain their Master. And the chair back can be lowered, the ‘patiuent’ positoned to lie supine, legs bent, calves and feet high.  

“Strip and sit, Edgar. I’m sure you’re eager for release... it’s been a month. Don’t have to tell you how to position yourself.”

The words ‘blackmail’, ‘extortion’ come to mind. But Edgar must face his circumstances. Having been accused of molesting young girls during physical examination, he needed some $200,000 in bail money. He surrendered his medical license rather than contest the matter, crumbling his finances. When he decided not to appear in court and face the many charges, skipping out on bail, he became easy prey for the likes of Lady Dyson. Impoverished and on the lam, he accepted an offer he could not refuse. Room, board, high pay... deferred into a controlled bank account... controlled by Lady Dyson... in exchange for his services. With the added proviso that he additionally surrender control of his masculinity. That to be placed in an ineluctable chastity device.      

“Am I going to get off?” Edgar bluntly inquires.

“You mean will I allow Gabbie to bring you to ejaculation. No, of course not Edgar. Why should a woman like me ever permit male ecstasy. You’re to be milked... slowly... make that otherwise useless strip of man flesh ooze into a dog bowl. But keep your glands primed.”

An obedient Edgar reluctantly disrobes. It’s a monthly ritual, knowing to place his hands to the back of his head and lend himself to inspection. Lady Dyson steps forth, free hand lowering, sensuously palming the steel encased penis and scrotal sac burgeoning with male essence. Edgar closes his eyes, feeling Lady Dyson’s thumb tenderly rub about. 

“Expensive, but well worth the money. Well crafted tungsten steel and precision surgery. It must be so frustrating for you, tending daily to so much feminine pulchritude in the stables and your little pecker can’t even stiffen to lend tribute. Have you ever tried to pull out, Edgar?”

The design of the chastity deice is standard... with modifications insisted upon by Lady Dyson. Having read of the ability for some males to ‘pull out’, disobediently slipping a flaccid organ from beneath the control ring, she had such surgically embedded under the skin at the four, eight, and twelve o’clock positions around the pubes. Other than a reversing surgical procedure, once the steel mesh cock cage is locked in place, the male phallus is not to be touched. When unlocked, the cage can be removed... hygiene and occasional relief for milking... but the control ring stays. It is part of Edgar.    

“No Ma’am.”

The hand releases, rising to sensuously diddle the left nipple.

“Do try. I’d like to watch that sometime. Now sit. Gabbie wants to suck your cock and idolize the erection he can no longer achieve.”

Resigned, it is Edgar’s turn to endure the humiliation he daily bestows on the bevy of Dyson Farms pony girls. He sits, feet in the stirrups, Lady Dyson to watch, taking a comfortable chair opposite.

“After reading your latest briefing on Sweet Cheeks, I reviewed again the psychiatrist’s reports from the orphanage.”

As Lady Dyson speaks, Edgar knows to surrender himself to his keyholder, idly sitting while Gabbie works the many straps... wrists, arms, ankles, thighs secured. Though climactic relief will not come, he knows that a prostate milking will offer hormonal release... spurring a flood of dopamine and oxytocin... terminating the jitters brought by endless chastity. For that he is grateful. And he is indeed aware of the need for prostate stimulation. Just not by another male. Though castrated... a male all the same.   

Restrained to the point of near immobility, Gabbie slips the necklace from his neck. Edgar closes his eyes with the ignominy of feeling dainty manicured fingers work about his male package. Then comes the sound of a click and the steel is slipped away. It is Edgar’s turn to be put on display...objectified... feeling his long neglected manhood instantly begin to engorge, celebrating emancipation.

“The laser hair removal was well advised, Edgar. Besides obviating the need to shave there and avoiding irritation, it provides for a cute display. You have a nice cock... of moderate size... but nicely shaped... well cut.”

Gabbie puts aside the key and cock cage then returns to kneel between the well parted thighs, hands cradling a plump scrotal sac. A prodigious tongue extends, voraciously licking the upstanding shaft. Then the lips open... mouth engulfing... the stiffness taken notably deeply. Edgar both moans with the unwanted pleasure and grimaces in disgust. 

“Oh, Edgar. Such silly homophobia. Gabbie has no balls... no longer a man... and he certainly can’t harden like you. You need to learn to share,” Lady Dyson chuckling and sipping her Chardonnay. “No ejaculation, Gabbie,” she forewarns. “A little deep throating to prime him, then some ice and fill the dog bowl.”

“Must it be like this,” Edgar protests.

“Yes. Penance Edgar. Think of those young girls you fondled... lying on an examination chair just as you are. Wonderfully ironic... the form of retribution.”

Gabbie’s head bobs, fingers smoothing over the hairless scrotum. Then, fellatio skills apparent, he abruptly withdraws, sensing pending eruption. Lady Dyson outright laughs, ultimate ecstasy denied, erection waggling about... appearing to be a puppy begging for a treat.

“Bitch!” Edgar uncharacteristically effusive.

“I assume you’re referring to my maid. He does have an uncanny awareness of the male reproductive process... can feel the ejaculatory muscles begin to tremulate. Now, let’s talk. Can’t think of a better time for a discussion and attaining a man’s attention than when he’s being milked.”

With the words Gabbie withdraws, returning with a bag of ice and the required dog bowl. Needing to be numbed, penis flaccid, Edgar gasps, Lady Dyson again laughs, the ice bag applied,

“Concerning Sweet Cheeks, Edgar. Your latest report. Her seeming fascination with gaping... Cream Puff made forever opened for ease of penetration. I went through the psychiatric reports once again. The girl more or less volunteered herself for punishment enemas. It could be said she deliberately put herself in violation of the rules... earning more than one high colonic. For most, the first would be the last... behavior thereafter modified.”           

“Ahhh,” Edgar’s discomfort apparent, Gabbie’s left hand pressing the ice bag, the fingers of his right working below the control ring, massaging the perineum and searching for the anus.

“Calm yourself and listen, Edgar. Good boys get an extra treat. Fill the bowl and I’ll have Gabbie hood you. You know what the means.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“I’ll be running Sweet Cheeks often, assessing her racing capability. You’ve been measuring her clitoris... reaction to the hormones?”

“Yes, Ma’am. Only one millimeter to date.”

“Good. Every pony girl’s body responds differently. Too big and it precludes showing her... pony girls with a penis attract eyes... but not the votes of judges. But to race her, she needs stamina and muscle... so the injections are necessary. But this anal fixation. The psychiatrist was quite emphatic in one of his reports, counseling her immediately after an enema punishment session. Quoting Sweet Cheeks... concerning earning frequent mandated visits to the orphanage locker room shower... she said it’s ‘something that fulfills a need’.”

Edgar lurches, feeling penetration, one finger then two slipping past his sphincter, deftly finding the neglected male gland. Lady Dyson smiles.

“Your penis is already drooling, Edgar,” viscous fluid streaming into the bowl from a now flaccid phallus. “I don’t want you unlocked more than once a month, but in between you must be soaking your underwear. Perhaps some doses of anti androgen between milkings will help,” Lady Dyson teases, chemical castration well known to the former doctor.

“No thank you, Ma’am.”

“Well... back to Sweet Cheeks... an anal fixation... and something that fulfills a need. Her masochism and exhibitionism are more than apparent. The one report where she attended her counseling session attired in a brief towel... the limited size selected by her... only to let it slip away such that she knelt before the psychiatrist completely nude... says a lot. Do you recall reading of it?”

“Vaguely,” Edgar gasping with the assiduous finger work within.

“Very good, Gabbie. He’s already expelling sperm... effluent nicely cloudy.”

Edgar looks to see Lady Dyson is correct, glands secreting the seed of life.

“After the girl evacuates her bowels for you, you wipe her clean of course.”

“Yes, Ma’am. Standard protocol... to bring humiliation... to degrade.”

“And her reaction? She objects?”   

“No, Ma’am. Well... at first, yes. Now she thanks me for the attention there.”

“All these things... so much evidence. You must be aware, Edgar... of another need... one we have not addressed.”

“She does not want to be a work pony, Ma’am. The pegging...”

“So no penile penetration... yet an affinity for enduring an inflatable enema nozzle... which fulfills a need. Begin gaping her. And as to pegging? Who knows what a girl of her predilections truly wants. She can be gaped... and raced... and be prepared to be put under the penis when it’s time. We do have to a address girl’s needs here at Dyson Farms... all of them... keep her happy.”

With the command, Lady Dyson rises.

“He’s oozing clear, Gabbie. Milked clean. Good job. Now hood him and lower the chair back. Time for his treat,” Lady Dyson slipping off her boots and unbuckling her belt.  

'Trainee to Pony Girl', Segment VII

Exhausted, physically and emotionally spent, Sweet Cheeks hangs, subtly stimulating herself, moving hips and shoulders. Tightly held in the bondage of the cables and broad straps at her thighs, her action brings the weights of her nipples and labia to swing about. The sensation has come to soothe. Though she knows the rubber encasements further stretch her sentient pink flesh, her psyche has surrendered. She will appear as her Master and groom desire... resigning herself to the look of the Dyson Farms pony girl. 

Thoughts of gaping... Groom Edgar’s frank words... lubrication and patience... ‘insertion after insertion... large... stout... larger... more stout’, cannot leave her mind. Such efforts must have been required for Cream Puff to be gaped. As Groom Edgar described the process, the work pony’s purse string muscle indeed did not seem to retract. 

Finally slumber overtakes, her thoughts leading to dreams... a youthful Susan Cheevers returning to the orphanage...

“So while being punished, you played with yourself again, Susan. Such a stench... your hands... your fingers.”

“I could not help it Matron... they took my blanket... the older girls... and... well... things... when they do that I feel this need...”

“Perhaps that’s why they do it. Knowing you’re weak... no will power... so easily tempted to fondle yourself. Well you know where to report. I’ll make the announcement.”

“Must you, Matron... must the others... you know... be there...”

“Of course. Not much of a deterrent for the other girls if you receive your enema in secret. And it’s best for you... the degradation. Ever think that is why you do these things, girl?”

Shaking her head in denial, the matron smiles wryly.

“You’re to be cleansed... at least internally. Since the psychiatrist is here today, perhaps with your counseling you can be mentally cleansed as well. And we’ll not have you embarrassing the man. After your punishment enema you’ll be given another blanket... no clothing of course. You’ll need to earn that... with appropriate behavior. But do hold on to the only covering we permit.”

“Thank you, Matron.”

In her dream, Susan Cheevers... Sweet Cheeks... sees her bare form sauntering in dejection, hearing over the orphanage loudspeaker of her pending punishment, all girls to gather in the gymnasium shower room.

It’s a basement chamber, thankfully windowless. Yet such is of little comfort in knowing of the many witnesses to her subjugating punishment. Then comes laughter, seeming to echo in the orphanage hallways, her punishment proclaimed for all.

Matron termed the public exhibition a deterrent... it would seem more like entertainment.

Susan reports, the enema matron kindly yet firm.

“Oh my, into my hands again. And no blanket... not a stitch. Where did you leave it this time, naughty girl?”

“They took it from me Matron... the older girls.”

“So you say. But none of the girls own up to it... and none of the girls report seeing it taken from you, tsk, tsk tsk.”

The matron, points to the middle of the large shower area.

“You know how I want you.... hands and knees... head down... buttocks high. You can wait like that for the other girls while I prepare. I’ll need to make this memorable for you, Susan... otherwise you’ll be back... again and again.”

In Sweet Cheeks’ dream she sees her lithe pubescent form lower, the cool bringing conflicting thoughts. Nipples crinkling, she is chilled... for now... the cavernous chamber of concrete and tile radiating little heat. Yet should she wish for warmth, knowing that it will come from being internally filled, her bowels to slowly fill with heated soapiness?

She trembles. In hearing footsteps she cannot bring herself to look up... peer into the gloating faces as her cohorts assemble. Instead she closes her eyes, listening as the girls snicker and the matron prepares. Not her first infraction... impudently breaking more rules while being punished for breaking rules... wayward fingers not to be stilled... a young Susan Cheevers knows there will come interminable suffering.

In time there will be release, bowels to gush. Yet there will come a second filling... possibly a third. And the nozzle... inflated... with deliberation... the slow expansion so much augmenting... 

Sweet Cheeks stirs from her dream. She awakens. She has disturbed herself. The enema nozzle... the insertion.... the penetration... large, stout... becoming larger and more stout... the hand of the matron squeezing... air hissing... hand squeezing... air hissing.

‘Please, no more, Matron,’ the laughter of her cohorts seeming to drown out her plea.           

Gaped... at the orphanage... is that what prompted the horripilation in noting Cream Puff’s yawning opening?

Again the words of Groom Edgar come to haunt... whether he will report their conversation to Lady Dyson. His response echoes... ‘of course I will Cheeks. You’d not want it any other way... to have yourself exposed... your body... your thoughts... your penchants. That which secretly excites’.

In the darkness, a conscious Sweet Cheeks feels twinges... those which attracted young toying fingers... now frustratingly held in bondage. She feels moisture within her loins... able to smell her own arousal. Her dream... it is ostensibly a nightmare in reliving the horror of being publically cleansed... bowels filling then made to gush. Yet instead she is wet, once again wriggling in her bonds, utilizing the weights of nipples and labia for self stimulation, desperately trying to finish what the evening of tribbing began.  

Deep within, gaping... extensive anal penetration... excites! And such disgusts... or does it?

What hath the orphanage wrought? What hath she wrought upon herself? Were the punishment enemas coveted?

In attempting to return to sleep... rest needed after miles of being run in harness... Sweet Cheeks tries to console herself. She recalls her monthly counseling, the psychiatrist most paternal, never admonishing despite the frequent sessions while being punished... a blanket her only covering.    

“Come in Susan, come in,” the orphanage providing a splendid office for the sessions... homey, appearing to be the den study of a wealthy magnate.

Tightly gripping her only covering, Susan tiptoes within, managing to awkwardly free one hand to close the door. The carpet is plush... bare feet reveling.

“I see you’re being punished again.”

“Yes Sir.”

“Well just remain standing for now... we’ll figure out something. No blanket?”

“I... ah... came from the gymnasium and the matron... ah... she had no blanket.” 

“So a towel.”

“Yes Sir, she told me to take a towel... for covering.”

“So she did not give you a towel... you took it.”

“Yes, Sir.”   

“It’s rather brief... a small towel... requiring both hands to provide modesty... and a firm grip. Were there larger towels?”

“I... don’t...”

“There were Susan... weren’t there.”

A near naked Susan Cheevers glumly nods.

“But a small towel... requires effort to cover yourself with it.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The counselor, sitting in a large leather chair, leans and takes a pad and pen from the dark wooden desk. He jots some notes leaving Susan Cheevers... naughty Susan Cheevers... to stand.

“So you came here from the gym... athletics?”

“No Sir.”

“But your hair is wet. So you showered?”

“I... ah... was cleansed.”

“You may as well tell me about it, Susan. I suspect you were punished again, apparently deserving more than the removal of your clothing. You’ve appeared before me a number of times with only a blanket... and now you’re wet... with only a towel... selected to be limited in size.”

“May I sit, Sir?”

“Not on the furniture with wet hair,” a hand gesturing to the carpet.

Susan Cheevers lowers herself, more awkwardness coming as the towel flips about, flashing her youthful charms. The notion of exposing her pink parts to a man would normally bring distress. But the doctor... Dr. Bob... is so kindly... and understanding... not viewed as provocative. Still in being nearly nude in the presence of a fully clad man there come the twinges... and no possibility of digital relief. In noting his patient struggling, hands not able to adjust the garment to cover both her breasts and mons, Dr. Bob smiles... and advises.

“You should have chosen a larger towel, Susan. You knew you were coming to see me. Cover yourself as best to can. But do make yourself comfortable.”

The hands work, assuring her thighs and pubes no longer flash, but to relax and continually hold up her brief garb and cover developing breasts is ungainly. Dr. Bob notes the efforts, the pen again jotting. In completing, he looks up, seemingly ignoring the show of nipples and pubescent hillocks.

“So no athletics... no shower... but you’ve been cleansed. Tell me about it.”  

Susan realizes... the announcement... of her punishment... ‘enema time... all orphanage girls to gather in the gymnasium shower room’. With males being infrequent visitors at the all girl facility... overt proclamations are regularly made without gender consideration. 

He must have heard! Dr. Bob so confirms.

“A girl was punished today... within the last hour or two. An announcement was made... all girls to the shower room... a punishment enema to be administered. And here you are, Susan... scant covering... and wet hair.”

“I... yes... was punished.”

“I am told it’s the highest level of discipline here at the orphanage. No corporal punishment... the matrons were are very considerate. So bad girls simply go without clothing... and very bad girls are cleansed.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“It’s very uncomfortable Sir.”

“As it should be... it’s punishment after all.”

“I mean to talk about it.”

“As it should be. It must be quite humiliating for you.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Would you like to show me... how you’re positioned?”

Susan Cheevers rises from sitting on her haunches, shifts about, assuming the mandated position, kneeling on all fours, doing her best to cover her back and raised buttocks with the towel. It remains draped over her back as she goes to her elbows, forehead to the carpet. She cranes her neck to see the pen scribbling.    

“Very telling, Susan, I asked if you’d like to show me... not show me,” softly chuckling. “But do stay like that... you seem comfortable. Careful not to let the towel slip away.”

Susan feels chagrined, misled... word games.

“So you were being punished... denied clothing... and further punishment was deemed necessary. Would you like to tell me about the infraction?” 

“No, Sir,” not falling for another subterfuge.  

“I see the way you’ve parted your knees... by rote. Did you do that for the matron? Opening yourself... to be penetrated?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“She asked you?”

“No... I... just... well...”

“It was not your first was it, Susan? Your first high colonic?”

“No, Sir,” the reply reluctant, Susan becoming more and more sheepish.

“So... the infraction... not to be discussed... was committed... while already in punishment.... and knowing full well of the consequences... aware that you would be sent to the shower room. There to kneel on all fours... obviously naked... to spread yourself open... and...”

“She....the matron... you know... inserts... a hose...”

“A nozzle,” Dr. Bob clarifies.

“Yes, and then there’s... ah water... and you know...”  

“Of course.... warm and soapy water... filling you... with so many watching. It must be intense for you. But is there contrition?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And yet you remain recalcitrant. The nozzle... would you like to tell me about it?”

“It’s... large... and you know... gets larger.”

“No, I don’t know. You mean it expands.”

“Yes, Sir. It inflates. Matron... well... she likes to make it memorable... that’s what she says.”

Susan shifts about. The exchange becoming stressful, she arches the small of her back, as if in  welcome to matron’s imaginary nozzle. Her motion causes her only covering to slip to the carpet, leaving her bare... head low, buttocks high, thighs parted, gluteal cleft yawning... her pose both sultry and obscene. Gratefully, head to Dr. Bob, she is not exposing her sex... not while he remains sitting. But in imagining him rising from his chair, the twinges begin anew. She freezes, for some reason she can’t bring herself to lift her arm, twist about and restore her covering.

“Do you need some help, Susan?” Dr. Bob not moving as well.

“It’s the towel, Sir.”

“Yes, it slid away. Inadvertently?”

“No... I mean... yes... I mean I guess I don’t know, Sir. I moved.” 

“You did. Do you feel it’s best that you not move again?”

Susan closes her eyes in shame, the pen jotting again.

“I suppose not, Sir.”

“Then stay like that,” the directive soft but firm. “And tell me... the nozzle... it expanded... obviously inside you. It opened you... you submitted to your superior... her hand. How did that make you feel?” 

'Trainee to Pony Girl', Segment VI

Cleansed, brought to near orgasm, Groom Edgar tenderly dries Candy Bar, avoiding  the stripe marks of Lady Dyson’s cane. Few but sharp and agonizing, the woman proved to be masterful in forestalling ultimate orgasm. 

“I need Gabbie’s attention,” Lady Dyson finishing her wine in departing. “And don’t finish the girls, Edgar. Leave them on the edge. They’ll better perform for me... as you know.”

Groom Edgar nods, knowing that her Ladyship is equally aroused, the ‘attention’ of the feminized Gabbie being his/her tongue and lips.

Sweet Cheeks is dried. Both pony girls are cuffed at the wrists, arms returned behind the back.

“Stay,” Groom Edgar superfluously commands Sweet Cheeks, ear grommets remaining secured, head held high.

Candy Bar is lowered. As she is returned to her collar, Sweet Cheeks notes in her peripheral vision that the enormous hormone modified clitoris protrudes well beyond its covering hood, the vestigial penis engorging to a small erection. She is horrified to think the daily testosterone injections will do the same to hers.

Leashed, Groom Edgar leads away. Within moments he returns, collaring Sweet Cheeks.

“You’ve had a pleasant end to a trying day, Cheeks,” the groom assuming tribbing with another pony girl to be welcomed. “You’ve pleased Lady Dyson.” 

“Oh Sir... it’s... it’s... too much.”

The trapeze bar is finally lowered, ear grommets unhooked, feet fully returned to the tiling of the special stall. In relief, Sweet Cheeks draws in a large breath.

“So, dancing with Candy Bar does not bring a thrill. You’ll need to stow your inhibitions, Cheeks. Until Lady Dyson wants you masturbated that’s as close to orgasm as you’ll be permitted to come. Most of the pony girls crave being strung up to trib.”

The collar is leashed. Groom Edgar leads, Sweet Cheeks knows to obediently follow... prancing on toes of course. To her stall, Sweet Cheeks sees the broad canvas straps hanging in wait. Such bring a sense of complacency. After the many months at Dyson farms she is conditioned... the singular form of bondage now acceptable... signifying safety, comfort, and the end of a grueling... sometimes horrifying... day. 

She meekly steps between and parts her thighs, the ritual of being restrained to begin. 

“Get you suspended, fed, your evening hormone dosage and then weighed, measured, and massaged. And some ointment... for your buttocks and titties,” the experienced groom knowing of the crop’s excoriation.

Within moments Sweet Cheeks helplessly hangs, thigh straps, cables to the cuffs of her upturned feet, head steadied by the cables of her ear grommets. She gently swings about feeling the air of the stable waft at the wide spread entrance to her mons, labia dangling in invitation to touch.

Spread open, she feels so vulnerable. Yet it is Groom Edgar tending to her... to her needs. So knowing... so caring. She is languorous.

Groom Edgar playfully pushes her naked form, causing her to idly swing about, then steps away. Within moments he returns with a tray... food bowl and a syringe.

“So her Ladyship brought you to the fields again,” returning Sweet Cheeks’ thoughts to the day’s excursion. “And you saw some boys?” prompting conversation as the first large dollop of mush is presented.

“Yes Sir. They were watching... as the work pony was being watered... that’s what this field hand called it. But his penis... it was in her mouth!” 

The words coming with emphasis, Groom Edgar smiles.

“A more genteel term for toileting a girl, Cheeks. Quite demeaning... to so partake in a man’s... or woman’s... excretions. It’s... well... best for them... the work ponies. Keeps them in their place... humble... and ready to... ah... work... and to please of course.”

The bowl is emptied in silence, Sweet Cheeks ruminating, veiling her horror. Next Groom Edgar moves between the parted knees. Sweet Cheeks lurches with the quick jab of the hypodermic needle, the twice daily dosage of hormones. As fingers rub her buttocks to sooth there comes to mind Lady Dyson’s extensive lecture, the trio closely observing... even fondling... a woman’s most coveted anatomy.

“She invited them to inspect... Lady Dyson... the boys,” Sweet Cheeks bemoans. “And explained... certain things.”

“And this bothered you... or excited you?”

The query returns Sweet Cheeks to silence. He knows me... she thinks to herself... my body... my mind... my thoughts... that which thrills... that which she doesn’t want to thrill... but does.

“They inspected the work pony... or you?”

“Both Sir. She explained the difference... between the overweight work pony... Cream Puff... and me... being trained to compete. They felt me... my skin... my muscles... all over.”

“Yes, Cream Puff. Quite a fatty. When it came time to plump her, she took well to my diet. And you being so well muscled, the boys must have had quite a lesson. But this disturbed you, Cheeks? Being so exposed... so open to examining eyes... vulnerable to another’s touch?”

No reply.

“So I imagine your thoughts... mind returning to the orphanage... so many advertent infractions... clothing surrendered... relegated to a blanket... to be taken from you... with no protest... no resistance. It thrilled you... and you hated yourself for it.”  

Yes... he knows me! Sweet Cheeks decides to change the subject.

“The work pony... Cream Puff. She was gaped... that’s what Lady Dyson termed it... her... you know... sphincter.”

“So that disturbed you as well,” Groom Edgar’s soothing fingers shifting to the wide open gluteal cleft, diddling about the rose bud opening. “It makes pegging... let’s term it... more tolerable... and agreeable... once a girl is properly conditioned... emotionally. It’s degrading... to be taken anally. And that... well... for girls of a certain ilk... becomes welcomed. To gape is to invite... anal penetration... physically.”

“And the work ponies... they welcome it?”

“They have no choice. And in a way... they do not want to have a choice. To want to be sodomized... appear to want sodomy... well... to overtly enjoy being pegged... superficially that would convey a level of deviance. ”

“I would not welcome that, Sir.”

“Of course not, Cheeks. Just as you wanted not to be stripped naked... forced to parade about the orphanage in the nude. And there were those added punishments. For you as a very naughty girl... a deep enema... while other girls watched. You did not welcome that... did you,” a statement not a question.

With the words Groom Edgar begins working his index finger into the tight opening. Sweet Cheeks sighs, berating herself for finding joy in his knowing touch.

“To be gaped takes time, Cheeks... and lubrication... and patience... and insertion after insertion. Large... stout... larger... more stout. Your sphincter would be worked and worked. The purse string muscle would retract after each invasion... but more slowly... and less so as it learns to cede... ultimately surrender to that which enters. And finally, it would gape for your Master. Such humiliation... to yawn open and beckon penetration. But alas... that’s the work pony regimen.”

Groom Edgar smiles in feeling Sweet Cheeks shudder. In fear? In the thrill of being entered... sensing such degradation? She more than imagines, she vicariously feels. The intensity rattles her psyche.  

“Your report... Sir... the daily missive to Lady Dyson. You’ll tell of this? Our words? What we’ve talked about?”

“Of course I will Cheeks. You’d not want it any other way.... to have yourself exposed... your body... your thoughts... your penchants. That which secretly excites...”     

'Trainee to Pony Girl', Segment V

Groom Edgar returns leading Candy Bar on a leash, no pony girl to ever move under her own volition. Collared, arms tethered behind in the reverse prayer position, Sweet Cheeks peers, seemingly looking into a mirror. The girl’s image is her own. Bald, limited breasts, extended nipples protruding, flat stomach, the muscles rippling, powerful thighs furling with each tiptoed step.  

To the second trapeze bar, the ear grommets are hooked, Groom Edgar stepping to the wall pulling a rope to raise the bar, bringing Candy Bar to her toes as well and forcing the pony girls to stand pressing against each other face to face.

Sweet Cheeks feels the girl’s warmth, her smoothness, sensing rise both homophobia... and arousal. Nipples press to nipples, belly to belly, the thighs graze against each other. Then Candy Bar shows her many years of equine training... and forced chastity She extends her tongue... notably lengthy... to begin licking Sweet Cheeks’ face... a pony girl greeting.

Groom Edgar laughs.

“Such a randy girl, Candy Bar. Lady Dyson will be here soon. Save it. Calm down for now... then put on a nice show for her,” Groom Edgar advises stepping behind Sweet Cheeks.

Despite the mental trauma, Sweet Cheeks is relieved as her wrist cuffs are released and unbuckled then her collar unbuckled and removed as well. She can move her hands! But she knows not what to do.

“Hands to your hips for now, Sweet Cheeks... no touching. Did you urinate for me?”

“No Sir.”

“Bladder shy after all these months?” Groom Edgar laughingly inquires.

“I... I... couldn’t... you know... without you.”

“Without a directing finger. Yes, that’s happens... more bonding,” the words coming as a knowing hand slips between the thighs, a finger working inward, finding the urethral sponge with celerity.

“Psst, psst. Open yourself.”

“But... Sir... Candy Bar.”

“You’ll spray her, no doubt. But she’s easily rinsed. You’re both here to be bathed after all.”

Sweet Cheeks berates herself. Bladder indeed brimming, why is it there comes a sense of relief with her groom and idol entering her, taking control, the daily ritual bizarre yet mandated. Now mandated by her own mind? Not able to urinate without feeling him inside her?

Urinary tract indoctrinated to ceding its function, a flow begins... to be cut off... to renew... to curtail... to finally allow full relief.

Candy Bar... splattered... feet wet... neither moves nor protests. Such sordidness is acceptable... expected?   

Deed completed, Groom Edgar moves to Candy Bar, removing her collar and cuffs as well.

As demanded... the girls are naked, their only covering gone. 

It is an odd feeling, cuffs and collar coming to signify care and supervision. Why is there a sense of comfort in being bound? Sweet Cheeks asks herself. And now to be able to move...her arms... her hands!

She notes Candy Bar places her hands on her hips without need for direction, apparently well versed in the tribbing exhibitions. And such remain there as Groom Edgar goes to the spray hose, turns a valve, adjusts the flow to comfortable temperature and without fanfare begins dousing the combined nakedness. Candy Bar squeals, Sweet Cheeks basks in the warmth, her day long, her nakedness coated with  perspiration, the irritating salt of her pores sprayed to the drain. It feels so good! 

Soaked, as the hose is cast aside, Lady Dyson enters, wine glass in left hand, a length of rattan in the right.

“Naked, naked, naked,” come enthusiastic words. “Well girls... pony girls... do enjoy my treat. You may embrace. And Edgar... a little higher with the bars.”

Groom Edgar silently moves to the ropes. Candy Bar, the term ‘embrace’ of significance , lifts her hands from her hips and reaches behind Sweet Cheeks. Wet bodies hugging, Sweet Cheeks is appalled. Yet it feels so good after months of chastity, Groom Edgar’s hands and fingers... worse Lady Dyson’s crop... being the sole source of touch.       

“Your arms, Sweet Cheeks, hands to Candy Bar,” Lady Dyson politely commands, the rattan tapping her buttocks to bring a stab of pain.

As Sweet Cheeks obeys, she feels more tension on her ears, the bar rising as does Candy Bar’s, forcing even more proximity. But of more distress, Candy Bar opens her thighs. The girls will scissor, recalling Edgar’s description of tribbing. And sure enough, Candy Bar finally speaks.

“Dance with me. You may as well enjoy, Sweet Cheeks. And entertain your Master.”

Candy Bar begins the ‘dance’, vigorously wriggling and rubbing her flesh to Sweet Cheeks, in a way stealing her naked warmth. More appall comes as Sweet Cheeks feels the enormous clitoris- turned-penis stabbing her thigh, large and now well engorged in arousal.

“She watches,” Candy Bar whispers, though there is no doubt those in charge can hear the words. “Doesn’t that turn you on? Bring yourself off. Help me get off,” the latter words pleaful.

With that, there comes a whoosh of bamboo. Sweet Cheeks for the first time feels the true fire of the cane, her relatively static naked body not amusing her Ladyship. She lurches.

Having spent a good part of the day under Lady Dyson’s crop hand, Sweet Cheeks realizes the stroke was of moderation... a mere warning. She begins to gyrate, finding sick joy... but joy all the same in the forced girl on girl frottaging.

“Yes, dance, pony girl. Rub your tits, your thighs. I can smell your excitement... your secretions. I cropped you into a good lather. Your cunt betrays your need. Now please yourself!”

The message of the cane received, Sweet Cheeks wriggles. Meanwhile Groom Edgar returns his attention, standing at the right side, soapy bucket of water and chamois in hand.

Symbolic, Sweet Cheeks realizes. After all, the ruse for Lady Dyson’s libidinous show is a communal cleansing. But as Groom Edgar begins to swab naked flesh, there comes more warmth. The slipperiness abets, Candy Bar rubbing, squealing, wriggling. And her licking resumes... lips, nose, the appendage long enough to lap her missing eyebrows. Sweet Cheeks glances to Lady Dyson, sipping her wine, such a smug look of condescension in mandating Sapphic embrace, the whippy length of rattan threatening.

Arousal peaking, despite the reluctance, there comes a sense of surrender. Sweet Cheeks begins to dance in earnest, the slow grinding of her wet soapiness against Candy Bar’s accelerating, Groom Edgar’s chamois enhancing the sensuality, feeling the firm nubbin of Candy Bar’s clitoris seemingly attempting to penetrate her thigh. Moments turn to minutes..         

And then, ultimate ecstasy broiling, climax pending, Lady Dyson signals, raising her cane. 

“That’s enough. Edgar, a nice rinsing spray for my concupiscent pony girls. Make it cold... ice cold.”

Obedient response instantaneous, the hose returns. A frigid flow blasts. The squeals and lustful moans of carnal delight turn to shrieks of distress. Arousal plummeting, the show ends.  

“Oh, you girls seem cold. Some caning to those nice firm buttocks will warm you.”