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.”
No comments:
Post a Comment