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...”
No comments:
Post a Comment