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?”
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