'Trainee to Pony Girl', Segment XIII

Winter at Dyson farms precludes being run outdoors. Still Sweet Cheeks is exercised, hours on the wooden horse... shaping the buttocks... much time on the treadmill... her stamina to be maximized. She languishes nights in suspension, ear grommets hooked, thigh straps forcibly splaying open her sex, weights stretching both labia and nipples of course.

The process of shaping... objectifying for Lady Dyson is continuous.

Odd that she finds herself missing the sting of the crop, her owner’s crisp commands, Sweet Cheeks’ response to commands ingrained and instantaneous.

There is affection for her groom. Sweet Cheeks has come to realize that her body... well... it’s not really hers. The knowing hands and fingers of Groom Edgar inspect, cleanse, explore, massage and palpate everywhere... within her quim... within her mouth... within her anal cavity... the latter earning much attention... her proclivity unveiled. 

She is no longer overly embarrassed when he tends to her during her time of the month. Is it acceptable to have a man care for a woman during her intimate cycle? Not entirely. She blushes... but is curiously grateful for his attention.   

She has come to understand that not only is her nakedness open and on constant exhibition... but her thoughts and feelings as well. Her most secret desires and penchants have been exposed.

Should she curse Dr. Bob? The counseling sessions, thought to be confidential, instead were so well documented and disseminated.

No. She has come to understand it is for the best... that her masochism... her exhibitionism... is... how would she best explain... put to good use?

Perhaps this is why she has missed being harnessed and run, cropped into a lather, brought to her best... bells chiming, labia flopping about, elongated nipples stiff and straight to welcome a snap of correcting and encouraging leather. 

Spring arrives. With the stable kept at low a temperature, making a pony girl eager to be exercised, there is no discomfort in Groom Edgar leading Sweet Cheeks’ naked form into the outdoors despite the cool air. Fully decorated, vagina stuffed, anus plugged, hands at the back of her neck, secured in the reverse prayer position, Sweet Cheeks spies the low, sleek racing cart. Her heart thumps. After many weeks she will again be run outdoors, feel the cooling air, the directing tugs of the reins, hear her master’s voice, show herself off... a body honed to athletic perfection... demonstrate her obedience... her abject submission to a woman’s control. Harnessed, she waits. To warm herself she lifts her feet... right, left, right, left... the slightest motion bringing her bells to ring.

The sound brings strange quiescence.

Finally, Lady Dyson exits the farmhouse, stepping to the porch, crop in hand, pausing to enjoy the sunlight of early Spring. She smiles in seeing her naked steed, harnessed, bells chiming, leg muscles rippling, foot motion communicating her steed’s eagerness to be run.

Seeing the crinkled nipples spearing forth, now stretched to some four inches, Lady Dyson knows the sensitive pink will so much welcome crisp snaps of leather. Though physically painful, it will bring warmth. And emotionally such will manifest the exchange of power.

“Good morning, Sweet Cheeks. You’ve missed me?” Lady Dyson finally deigning to approach.

Bit and bridle in place, Sweet Cheeks wordlessly nods, with enthusiasm, the motion bringing her bells to peel raucously. 

“Yes, of course. You want to perform for me... show off your nakedness, your well subjugated body.”

The words come as Lady Dyson lowers her freed hand, open palm upturned. Showing obeisance, Sweet Cheeks knows to step forth the few inches, placing her mons into the hand in both greeting and symbolic submission. When one then two fingers deftly part the lengthy labia and slip inward, Sweet Cheeks closes her eyes. In welcome? In joy? Reveling in ceding her most intimate anatomy?

In her mind, it matters not. Surrendering herself, she is open to all.

“Yes, your vagina is sopping wet already... and I have not even begun to work you. Is it your Ben wa bell... your decorated nipples... your nice stout butt plug... or you like having you cunny fondled?” Lady Dyson knowingly snickers. “You can leave Dyson Farms anytime, Sweet Cheeks. That you know. Become Susan Cheevers again. You must always keep that in mind. But for now, I’ll warm you up. To the hilltop... only a three mile jaunt... and then a couple of timed laps about the track,” the hand withdrawing, wet fingers held before Sweet Cheeks’ embarrassed eyes. 

The leather tacking is checked, bridle, waist belt, then Sweet Cheeks feels the prongs stress her waist belt as Lady Dyson mounts.

“Haw!” the crop finding its way around the shoulders, the very tip of the right nipple receiving a painful swat.  

Sweet Cheeks digs, muscles exploding, beginning her day in harness... grueling... exhausting... but now so acceptable... so welcomed. She is in her element, suffering under a master’s exacting hands and commands.

But does she indeed suffer? Sweet Cheeks ponders.

The reins direct to the hill path. Sweet Cheeks accelerates then brings her ringing bells in cadence with her footwork. Step, chime, step, chime, she is proud. The warming sun brings exhilaration. The incline increases. Though she labors, air whistling through the bit, the cadence remains steady. Then comes more steepness. The crop hand swings. Then the leather works between her straining thighs. The long dangling labia begin to receive taps... encouraging taps. Sweet Cheeks redoubles her efforts, keeping the cadence despite the challenge.   

Sensing her pores opening, beads of sweat begin to roll. She is in her element she realizes. Open to renounce her servitude at any time, there come thoughts of clothing... covering... not felt in months... and so often denied her at the orphanage. By her choice? 

Well bound in harness, only her feet and legs to move... under strict direction... what would the freedom to move about on her on volition feel like?

Can that happen? Does she want that to happen? To feed herself. Bathe herself. Concern herself with her appearance. Groom herself? Urinate... defecate... without supervision? Cleanse her own menses?

Who would crop her... ensure her conditioning.... run her?

To whom would she exhibit herself?

Thirty minutes, the apex is reached. Such a sense of accomplishment. She has pleased. She knows she has pleased. The reins direct to a rock outcropping. There comes the command to halt.

“Good girl,” Lady Dyson dismounting.

The bit is slipped away. A water bottle is held, straw slipped into Sweet Cheeks’ mouth. Thumb and forefinger of the free hand gently pinch the left nipple at the base near the ring, then soothingly draw to the tip. Sweet Cheeks closes her eyes, soaking up the blissful reward. 

“Such obedience... working so hard to please. Give me a good half mile time on the track and I’ll have Edgar masturbate you. To full climax. Would you like that?”

The thought brings a brisance. Masturbation! Full... so often promised... dangled... teased. But pony girls seemingly always held on the edge of orgasm. In being kept frisky... made eager to perform... the anguish of the crop becomes bizarrely acceptable in countering the unending concupiscence.

“Oh yes, Ma’am,” Sweet Cheeks gushes between deep gasps of air.

“Are you sure? I think the pain of the crop has become a substitute for pleasure. That can happen with girls with your penchant for masochism. Perhaps a thorough caning instead.”

“No please... have me masturbated. It’s... it’s... been...”

“Been since you arrived here. Held in strict chastity... tsk, tsk, tsk. Yes, this is not the orphanage, Sweet Cheeks. We don’t allow naughty fingers to play and then punish... though it seems the punishments there were quite welcomed. But we do reward.”

Water consumed, Lady Dyson stows the bottle then returns her attention. Sweet Cheeks is surprised when the bit, reins attached, is completely removed..

“You’ll walk me to the track. No bit. No guiding reins. No crop. Your buttocks... so nicely sculpted. I’ll relax and watch... and you can focus on your insertions... revel in the sensation of being so nicely stuffed. Yes, a nice slow pace. Then at the track I will run you... hard and fast.”

As Sweet nods, rarely having moved under her own direction at Dyson Farms, there come images of old western movies, a well trained and loyal horse sauntering with his rider lazing in the saddle, no enmity, no inclination to stray... to bolt... no show of animosity. Just subordination... acquiescence to life as a beast of burden.

Lady Dyson smiles, fingers going to the untouched right nipple to similarly soothe and placate.

“Hot,” softly laughing in sensing the heat of excoriated flesh, “you run well under the crop,” the strokes many over the three mile jaunt. “And you enjoy.”

Sweet Cheeks finds herself reluctantly nodding in agreement. Then Lady Dyson’s free hand slips within the folds of her jodhpurs, the design making her mons readily available for the head and face of her neutered oral servant Gabbie. She gathers a sample of her own juices. Hand retracting, wet fingers go to the mouth and lips of Sweet Cheeks.

“Lick... enjoy my taste.”

Alarmed yet intrigued, Sweet Cheeks extends her tongue, indeed sampling her master’s taste.

“Yes. Edgar nicely snipped that lingual frenulum of yours. A very long and supple tongue. Perhaps there will be another reward for you.”

Sweet Cheeks knows not how to respond. She should be repulsed, her homophobia roiling. But this is Dyson Farms, she reminds herself in repressing any disgust.

“You’re serving me well, Sweet Cheeks... each day more and more relishing the humiliation... the degradation. You’ll also serve me as does Gabbie. Not as well... not initially anyway.” 

Fingers licked clean, Lady Dyson laughs with the fastidiousness... the eagerness?

The reins and bit are gathered. Lady Dyson again mounts.

“You know the way to the track. You choose the pace. Just take your master for a walk. Show your fealty.”   

'Trainee to Pony Girl', Segment XII

 "How do you feel, Cheeks? You’re trembling. Water not warm enough?”

“Oh Sir, please no more. I’m quite full. It’s... it’s... too much.”

“Just a little more. I know deep within you want to take it for me. How does your anus feel? It’s quite stretched... the nozzle has to be tight and therefore well inflated.”

Dare Sweet Cheeks admit... the sensation... it brings both suffering and joy. 

A hand goes to the bloated lower belly, gently rubbing about... highlighting the distension.

“Sir... please I need...”

“I’ll decide what you need, Cheeks. A little more flow... then I’ll walk you.”

“No. Please. I don’t think I can do that... you know... stuffed and filled like this.”

“But you ran plugged for Lady Dyson. It was only a number two. But I think you enjoyed it... and want to take more. Enemas will help... both physically opening you... and satiating your need.”

Enema bag empty, Groom Edgar’s free hand reaches to the tube and closes the valve. He then  smooths over buttocks sculpted to perfection, the months of pony girl training evident. The trembling continues. Groom Edgar knows it is not distress. Instead the girl is in a masochistic trance... her words of concern in conflict with the nirvana experienced in being so subjugated. Yes, the threat of being walked and displayed... anally penetrated with protruding belly... triggers her exhibitionist paraphilia.

“You’ll not expel here in the stall, Cheeks. Not in the basin. It’s too small.”

“Please Sir, I can’t be walked like this.”  

“But you will,” disconnecting the tube, leaving the enema nozzle in place. “I’ll get your leash. You can show yourself to Gum Drop and Candy Bar. Tell them how good it feels... being anally filled... sphincter stretched... feeling another’s dominion deep within... the intensity of the humiliation. Then I’ll lead you to the washroom, string you up, and you can decide whether to end your colonic... expelling to the drain... or just continue to bask in the glow of being so degraded.”

Groom Edgar steps away, returning with the length of leather.

“You can do this, Cheeks. You want to do it. And if you ask, I’ll take you to the farmhouse before you’re emptied. You can explain to Lady Dyson how good this feels to you. She may have guests. Wouldn’t that feed a need? Putting your anal fixation on display.”

As Sweet Cheeks whimpers, not able to find a reply, the ankle cuffs are released, feet slowly lowering to the stall floor. The thigh straps are unhooked. Groom Edgar notes the trembling is magnified.

“Cunt wet?” dispensing with medical jargon, aware of the delicious combination of dread and joy.

Words not forthcoming, Sweet Cheeks nods. She ruminates... he knows her... body, mind and soul. Once again maestro Edgar is performing in concert, her nakedness a mere instrument for recital.

“Remember... on toes, Cheeks. Always on toes,” slipping away the thigh straps and releasing the ear grommets.     

Leash clipped in place, Groom Edgar leads, Sweet Cheeks follows, the enema nozzle, inflated to the maximum. As would a tail, it flips side to side with every step, lower belly sloshing. Adding to the sensual input, the elongated labia brush her inner thighs... the endless chastity turning her quim to a time bomb nearing explosion. 

“Gum Drop... then Candy Bar... and you can tell me if you’d like to show yourself off to Lady Dyson.” 

*****

“Being walked like this... it’s... it’s... so... strange!”

“Strange good... or strange bad?”

“I’m so full... and I can’t...”

“Of course you can’t, Cheeks. To purge is not your decision. I’ll decide when you are to empty your bowels for me. I think Gum Drop and Candy Bar were greatly amused... a well shaped and conditioned pony girl with a nice plump belly.”

The exchange of words comes as Groom Edgar leads, Sweet Cheeks follows, from the stall of Candy Bar where she has been put up for the night in suspension.

“But you do have one decision I will grant you,” heading to the washroom where Lady Dyson’s steeds are known to trib and entertain. “And I think, nozzle well inflated, that you’ll hold the enema for me... just long enough for a visit to farmhouse... and Lady Dyson.” 

“No... please, Sir. Not like this.”

“But you so exhibited yourself at the orphanage. Kneeling before the other girls while you received a punishment enema... and quite frequently... according to the reports.”

Groom Edgar stops the parade of two, turning to face his charge. A free hand lowers, palm pressed to the hairless mons, one finger slipping between the extended labia.

“You’re so wet, Cheeks. And quite fragrant. Yet you decline more thrill. The farmhouse is nearby. And as I said, Lady Dyson may have a visitor. You can show off... revel in your fixation... your fixations, I should say. So exposed... so humiliated... objectified... filled as a vessel... stretched opened and plugged at a man’s behest. And there’s nothing you can do about it... helpless... vulnerable. Yet most importantly... you don’t want to do anything about it.”.   

The trembling resumes. Sweet Cheeks bows her head. Groom Edgar wriggles his finger within her vagina, knowing the pony girl is in thought.

“She would be pleased... Lady Dyson?”

“She will find amusement. You will find satiation... quirky... but satiation.”

In silence, Sweet Cheeks nods. Groom Edgar withdraws his hand and finger and turns to lead. 

“What do think the psychiatrist would have to say about this, Cheeks? A life long quest... for... for something. Perhaps you have found it here... at Dyson Farms.” 

Groom Edgar decides to end the ordeal, physical duress maximized, Sweet Cheeks’ mind barraged with thoughts of her depthless needs... for exhibition... for humiliation... for submission... for the need to please. Subterfuge ending, he leads in silence to the shower area. Lady Dyson would no doubt to be appreciative of the display but unlikely to tolerate the sloppy release of a massive enema... not in her farm house. 

“Squat... over the drain. But there will be a time when you’ll want to so humbly perform for Lady Dyson. Better perhaps to squat once again for the enema matron from the orphanage. Maybe she can visit us sometime.”

The words bring no response. Groom Edgar smiles to himself... such pleasant memories for Sweet Cheeks. 

'Trainee to Pony Girl', Segment XI

Accustomed to being returned to the stables with nipples and buttocks afire, Sweet Cheeks feels the burn as well at her stretched inner labia. Lady Dyson proved to be a martinet when running a pony girl for time. Yes, the crop slipped between pounding thighs, the tip flailing upward to work a girl’s most sensitive parts. Such incentive to perform, Sweet Cheeks dashing about the track, sucking oxygen, throat inflamed, lungs bursting, running with abandon with her only thought to perform and avoid more flicks of leather.

Whereas Lady Dyson explained the efficiency of excoriating the nipples.... minimal effort, maximum pain... to be thrashed below... however light the strokes... brought agony... and fast legwork. Proud of her ability to coordinate the ringing of her bells with her footwork, Sweet Cheeks’ strained output brought a cacophony... the chiming out of synch.

For some reason this brought mental stress. And in the return trip from the track, Sweet Cheeks trots and resumes her focus, concentrating, each footstep resulting in sonorous chiming... nipple bells... Ben wa bell. It is sure to please Lady Dyson... and therefore it pleases her.

There come strokes to the buttocks, quite tolerable, Lady Dyson well aware that the skin of the nipples and labia are scorched. Such gentle taps are reminders, Sweet Cheeks to fully understand... as to who is in charge... who is vulnerable... and who is to cede to her Master’s dominion.            

Groom Edgar comes into view at the stable entrance door. His image fosters a sense of relief. The day’s exertion is to end. Sweet Cheeks will be suspended, bathed, watered, fed, weighed, measured and massaged. There will be soothing ointment for her blistering pink flesh... gently applied and worked in by caring hands and fingers, a touch she has come to crave. Yes, the objectification of her body is acceptable... nothing... no part of her anatomy... not subjected to inspection, palpation... and modification.

Indeed, grooming completed, the rubber cones will be sucked in place... nipples and labia... and weighted for the night... the stretching never to end. Hopefully the ointment will beforehand put out the fires.

“A good run, Lady Dyson?” Groom Edgar reaching to the bridle to take hold of the reins.

“Adequate. But she responds well to the crop. Do take care of her nipples. And you’ll find her labia will require attention as well.”

Lady Dyson dismounts stepping to join Groom Edgar standing at Sweet Cheeks’ front.

“A larger anal insertion, Edgar. I would say a number four... if not a number five. It seems her punishment enemas at the orphanage have somewhat opened her.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

With the observation, Sweet Cheeks senses shame. The counseling with the psychiatrist again comes to mind... her admission... ‘something that fulfills a need’. Acknowledged in confidence, it now seems the whole world will know of her proclivity. Indeed, the flange of the butt plug is for sure visible in being wedged between her cheeks... announcing her fixation to all.

Sweet Cheeks’ thoughts are distracted as Lady Dyson slips away her bit, normally the task of Groom Edgar at day’s end.

“And she needs tongue work, Edgar. You’ve snipped her,” fingers brusquely entering the pony girl’s mouth to capture the appendage and pull into the view. “And it’s somewhat supple... but it needs strengthening... and lengthening,” Lady Dyson smirking. 

“Yes, Ma’am.”  

“Not likely she’ll ever lick me as well as Gabbie. But a good pony girl should be conditioned to pay proper homage.”

“Of course, Ma’am. Any reward?” 

“You mean should she be masturbated? No. She’ll need to perform better for me... and I want her kept frisky. Feather her to near climax and be sure to measure her clitoris. And no tribbing.”

With that, Lady Dyson strolls off to the farmhouse.

“Well Cheeks, adequate... that’s not good enough for Lady Dyson.”

“Yes, Sir. I’m sorry. But can you... you know... use the ointment?”

Such a heartfelt plea for fingers to work her most intimate parts. There is no feminine shyness in the life of a pony girl, Groom Edgar thinks to himself, noting that indeed the long strips of flesh are of bright red.

“Of course Cheeks,” reaching to detach the prongs from the waist belt, freeing the pony girl from the cart. “And this evening... how about a nice deep colonic irrigation for you. Relax you... and ready your sphincter for a number five anal plug. You can hang in your stall and slowly fill.”-

The words spur thought, Sweet Cheeks berating herself for finding that the suggestion is oddly enticing. Was such as enticing at the orphanage? The matron lecturing, belly bloating, being exposed to so many eyes? No, she tells herself. Submitting to the care of her idolized groom... her body brought to yield, her dignity surrendered... that entices.

“If you think that is best for me, Sir.”  

*****

Decorations removed, Sweet Cheeks hangs in her stall, body weight born by cuffs at her upturned ankles and thick padded straps about her thighs which also serve to assure she is spread open. Wrist cuffs at the back of her neck collar, ear grommets hooked, ceiling cables steady her head and immobilize. Nipples and labia gratefully coated with pain relieving ointment, she feels fingers tugging at the flange of her anal plug.

“Press yourself open for me, Cheeks. Even though it’s only a number two, your sphincter is gripping... like a drowning man holding a lifeline, ha, ha, ha. Imagine you’re moving your bowels for me.”

Sweet Cheeks closes her eyes in shame, the ignominy of filling the morning basin to be replicated. Yet she obediently presses to open, feeling the bulbous lump of rubber slowly slide out, aided by her groom.

Next the fingers smooth about her gluteal cleft, more unguent applied. Within moments her sphincter is invaded anew, an enema nozzle, the sensation too familiar.

“Thinking about the orphanage, Cheeks? Naked and on all fours, head down, buttocks high, your tummy to fill. It’s only me with you... no audience to watch you being punished. Is that disappointing for you?”

There comes a hiss of air, the nozzle expanding.

“Or was it punishment? So often submitting to the matron’s degradation. Such a need that required fulfillment. Did it feel good to you?”

“I... ah... don’t know, Sir. It did not matter. I had no choice.”

“You could have behaved, Cheeks. Stilled your fingers, particularly when you were already under reprimand. So naughty of you. No, you had a choice. Just as you had this evening. Recall my words... suggesting a high colonic... phrased in the form of a question. It was not a directive. And your reply?”

Groom Edgar’s words bring spinning, Sweet Cheeks’ thoughts fomenting with the realization... his words... her reply... ‘if you think it is best for me, Sir’.

Deciding on silence, no response to be formulated, there comes curious despair when Groom Edgar steps away momentarily leaving her alone. Does she indeed miss the audience of her mocking, tittering cohorts? Such a perverse thought.

Groom Edgar returns, enema bag in hand. He hangs high from a stanchion, connecting a tube to the enema nozzle.

“Nice and hot for you, Cheeks. And since it’s not for punishment, I’m going to slowly fill and have to you retain. Which means the nozzle must be well inflated to be secure. And since you have no one to view your debasement, perhaps I’ll walk you bit... with a nice full belly. Show you to the other pony girls. Perhaps a stroll to the farmhouse. That would certainly fulfill a need... wouldn’t it?”

The words bring horripilation, such humiliation to exceed anything offered at the orphanage.

“Please no, Sir.”

“You’ll so much enjoy, Cheeks. So arousing for you. If I check your cunt... your vagina... I’ll bet it’s secreting for me.”

Sweet Cheeks again closes her eyes, her shame blossoming. He knows me... knows my penchants... my proclivities... my needs... she realizes. Then comes a reply which is instantly regretted... but for some reason she cannot forestall. To be taken as an admission! 

“There’s no need to do that, Sir,” acknowledging in that she can feel her own wetness.     

Groom Edgar chuckles, hand squeezing to bring more hissing of air. Sweet Cheeks feels the conflicting sensations... discomfort... and unwanted delight... the nozzle further expanding. A valve opens. There comes the ebb of warmth... to both fill... and fulfill.

'Trainee to Pony Girl', Segment X

Fully decorated, tacked, anus impaled, Sweet Cheeks waits hitched to a racing cart, arms tethered behind, wrists high. Though the sun shines brightly, the cool air of late autumn brings a chill. Shoulders forced back, her elongated crinkled nipples spear forth... her naked flesh covered in goose bumps.

Though she finds doubt in being able to properly perform for Lady Dyson... insertions bringing pangs... her quim twitching... she is eager to be run... needs to be run. She thinks about Lady Dyson’s riding crop, curiously realizing it will bring the comfort of heat. 

Needing to stay warm, Sweet Cheeks shifts about her feet, bringing her bells to chime, the lower Ben wa ball tantalizingly shifting within her quim, extended labia brushing her inner thighs.

What is happening to her? So much looking forward to the humiliation of being run naked... parts pink to endure excoriation! 

Finally Lady Dyson exits and steps to the porch of the farmhouse, smiling in seeing her steed impatiently waiting, hearing the bells ring. She pauses to survey, then leisurely steps, boots crunching the compacted soil, crop tapping the palm of her left hand.

“Good morning Sweet Cheeks,” left hand lowering, palm up.

Sweet Cheeks knows to move her feet, parting her thighs in welcome, her pubes to be quickly fondled in greeting. The hand presses to the clitoral hood, a finger alacritously slips between the loose labia and briefly diddles within.

“You’re already wet. Looking forward to being cropped... or being anally plugged excites?”

Bit in place, Sweet Cheeks cannot reply. For that she is grateful. How can she describe the inner conflict... humiliation leading to unwanted arousal?

“Your cunt speaks for you, pony girl. Yes, I’ve been reviewing your reports again. What did you say to the psychiatrist about your punishment enemas... in being stuffed, stretched, filled and humiliated? That it seemed to be something that fulfills a need?”

With the query, Lady Dyson smirks, hands rising, thumbs and forefingers gently pinching nipples right and left. She jostles to make the nipple bells chime, then laughs, masterful in objecfying a girl.

“Your interest in my gaped work pony gave you away, Sweet Cheeks. Overall your anal fixation is of little concern to us here at Dyson Farms. What is of concern is that we have not been addressing all your needs.”

Nipples released, Lady Dyson steps to the side and mounts. Sweet Cheeks feels the weight, the prongs tugging at her waist belt. Why does she feel sanguine... knowing that her nipples and buttocks are about to feel the sting of a flailing crop?    

“”Haw!” the directive coming with crop nipping right nipple then left.

Sweet Cheeks digs in, muscles clenching, feet pounding, bells ringing, sensing the addition of the number two butt plug. Gratefully she warms, oddly trying to divert her thoughts in avoiding an orgasm... so much needed ... yet not wanted... not while performing... not while trying to please her Master. Should she falter... stutter step in the growing ecstasy... her racing career would end before properly beginning.

She berates herself, speaking so freely with the orphanage psychiatrist, divulging the quirky sense of fulfillment in kneeling, naked, exposed to all as she was anally impaled, the enema nozzle slowly inflating, her colon filling, the admonishing words of the matron. Yes, her so termed punishment did not bring contrition but instead... well... what did it bring?   

Cropped to a steady but quick pace, Sweet Cheeks brings the bells in cadence with her steps, thankful that feeling the pain of the crop on her bare buttocks distracts from the pleasure. One mile, two, the reins guide, responding nimbly to tugs right and left. In time a sense of pride further diverts her thoughts... she is pleasing... her accomplished performance satiates. The sensations of the vaginal and anal insertions are cast aside.  

There comes an incline. The cart slows, the crop vigorously works the buttocks in response. Air whistles past the opening in her bit. Then comes the ultimate in both encouragement and humiliation. The crop slips between her pumping thighs and snaps upwards. It is a moderate stroke but nips the flopping labia. Sweet Cheeks redoubles her efforts, the deft hand of Lady Dyson causing her Ben wa bell to loudly peel... seemingly in protest.

Finally, reaching the apex of a broad hill, the crop withdraws, there come tugs on the reins. Sweet Cheeks slows then draws to a halt.

“Good pony girl,” the words of inspiration coming by rote.

Lady Dyson dismounts. Sweet Cheeks is amazed in sensing beads of perspiration, her exertion countering the cold.

“How do you feel?” Lady Dyson loosening the bridle and slipping away the bit.

“I can do more,” a gasping Sweet Cheeks replies with pride.

“I mean with the insertions... cunt stuffed... anus impaled.”

“I... ah... well... “ Sweet Cheeks searching.

“Edgar told me he’s starting you with a number two anal plug. Perhaps you can do more,” Lady Dyson mirthfully suggests.

“It’s... distracting,” Sweet Cheeks reluctant to divulge her joy. 

“But you ran well for me. I think moving to a number three would be counterproductive, pony girl. A number four at least... possibly a number five,” Lady Dyson once again taking right nipple and left into her thumbs and fingers.

“I’d... ah... rather not,” though gasping in pain finding the temerity to disagree.

“Concerned... that I’ll have you gaped?”

Cream Puff comes to mind, her yawning opening... anus grotesquely stretched... seeming to beckon deep pegging. Sweet Cheeks shudders in envisioning the most subjugating modification. Lady Dyson feels the somatic reaction.

“Avoid working the fields. Run well for me. And we’ll address your anal fixation. We know how to handle girls here... girls with proclivities... and predilections. But if I want you gaped... you’ll be gaped.”

Sweet Cheeks finds herself nodding, mentally capitulating.

“Now, Edgar says he snipped your tongue. Has he been working it for me?”      

Working it for Lady Dyson? The question perplexes!

“No Ma’am.”

“That needs to be addressed as well. I’ll remind Edgar. Let’s get you watered and back on the trail. To the track. Now that I’ve warmed you up I want a timed half mile from you. A fast half mile.”