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.
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