'Trainee to Pony Girl', Segment XVI

This concludes 'Trainee to Pony Girl'. Hope all enjoyed. Perhaps Sweet Cheeks will return to racing... perhaps the knee and ankle injury preclude such and she is relegated to work pony. I will give it some thought.

Meanwhile purchase some stories!

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Idly hanging in suspension, Sweet Cheeks’ sprained ankle is not cuffed. Instead the thigh straps are raised and though the left ankle is restrained... knee bent... foot held high... the right leg freely hangs, toes a few inches above the stable floor. For the first time in being put up in bondage, Sweet Cheeks can move a limb.

Oddly, after many months, being conditioned and acclimated to immobility, the capability of moving about her right leg does not bring any sense of relief. She realizes that tight bondage has come to bring a sense of comfort... her will... sense of self empowerment quashed.

It is best for her....Sweet Cheeks resigning herself to a life of naked exhibition and degradation. To move under one’s own volition is to make decisions... mandating thoughts... to use judgment... renege on one’s dire need for supervision. Why does such modest freedom come to frighten?    

Of course her nipples and labia bear weights... a Dyson Farms pony girl to submit to constant body modification. And Groom Edgar threatens to go to a number seven anal plug. Mercifully he has withheld such.  

Groom Edgar otherwise dotes, assuring hydration, sustenance, supervising bladder relief, patiently holding a basin for her daily bowel movement, and of course tending to the sprain. The close attention, a daily sponge bath, hands and fingers exploring every inch of her nakedness, includes releasing right arm then left arm then left leg to massage and assure the advanced muscling of the extensively trained pony girl remains well toned.

Treadmill work... riding the horse... obviated of course.

Missing is a full diagnosis of the knee injury. The swelling of the sprain must first diminish. Then the leg can be tested, if remaining hobbled Sweet Cheeks to visit a nearby clinic for an MRI.  Meanwhile she must pass the time in apprehension. 

Will she be run again? How is it she so much misses the perverse feelings... the sting of the crop... nipple and labia brought to burn... the pleasure of her vaginal and anal inserts... the satiating sound of her chiming bells?

She can’t help thinking about Butterscotch, the mammoth work pony... with child! Riding bound to her naked back, stretched labia, inner thighs, nipples, all frottaging against her smooth warmth brought unwanted sensuousness. Not able to walk, she felt the work pony’s strength, sensed her acquiescent, well tamed power. Led on a leash... by way of a wicked gag bit to assure instant obedience. Sweet Cheeks cringes with the thought of grasping the enormous pendulous breasts. Did her hands and fingers indeed bring forth lactate? She tells herself it was the girl’s sweat, that she did not. But Groom Edgar forewarned that the work pony was letting down.

Such horridness... a girl being worked in her third trimester!   

Bringing further aggravation there comes Sweet Cheeks’r time of the month. Despite her proclivity, no woman... no matter how deviant of mind... can attune to having a man so tend to her... naked, spread open and restrained.

But this is Dyson Farms.

“You’re menstruating Cheeks,” the words bringing consternation.

“Yes, Sir, I know.”

“So no labia weights today, pretty pony girl.”

Groom Edgar slips a finger between the lengthened labia. In withdrawing he takes the time to bring further embarrassment by holding an incarnadine digit before her eyes.

“You’re messy. Empty yourself for me, then we’ll get you tidied up.”

“I feel... so vulnerable... so violated... when you do this to me, Sir. Your fingers... in a girl’s...”

“In her cunt, Cheeks... to be crass. Yes, I’m fingering your cunt. And this is Dyson Farms... you’re meant to feel vulnerable... and open... for display and examination at all times. And I’m not doing this to you... I'm doing this for you. Girls get sloppy here.”

With the words a finger again slips within and Sweet Cheeks knows to obediently open herself, excretions to flow. Then comes the press of an inserted finger to stop... then to resume... then stop... powerless to perform a most basic function without direction.

Bladder finally permitted to empty, Groom Edgar tenderly swabs about with a warm wet cloth to cleanse menses and urine.

“And you should not feel violated... I’m your groom. There is no part of your body that escapes my attention. Did you know you have a few freckles here?” a finger grazing the small of Sweet Cheeks’ back in demonstration.

The observations brings curious embarrassment. Groom Edgar indeed knows her.

“And a little mole here,” a finger pressing just above the right buttock. “If you were a show pony, I’d need to remove it. But in racing you, the waist belt covers it.” 

As Groom Edgar encircles the top of the right thigh with an absorbent strip of white cotton, Sweet Cheeks begins to tear up. Groom Edgar hears the sniffles.

“What’s the matter, Cheeks?”

“Am I a racing pony? Will I be run again?” thoughts of work pony Butterscotch enveloping her mind. 

“The swelling is almost gone. Tomorrow I’ll let you down and you’ll stand for me. If you can hold your weight I’ll leash you and lead you about a little. One step at a time.”

For some reason the words bring comfort. Languishing in suspension, naked, spread open and menstruating into white cloth to proclaim her time of the month, Sweet Cheeks closes her eyes, assuaging her concern in seeing herself again being led about, a firm hand leading.

Will she again feel Lady Dyson’s directing hand... the snap of leather... the sting on parts pink?

'Trainee to Pony Girl', Segment XV

As Sweet Cheeks waits, the acute pain subsides, turning to dull throbbing as her ankle swells. There is the frustration of being silenced, Lady Dyson assuring the bit is tightly buckled about the back of her head. And the remorse burgeons. Sweet Cheeks would like to humbly apologize. Instructed to walk, she disobediently ran, gleeful in her relative freedom. 

It will not happen again, she wants to plead. But pleading to what end? The strict Lady Dyson will be sure it does not happen again.

Finally there comes the sound of leather on wet flesh. Then into view comes Candy Bar, pulling a cart, Edgar seated and behind, tethered to the back of the cart by reins leading to a bridle, is an enormous girl... nude and no doubt a work pony... hairless as with all Dyson Farms girls... and both tall and of substantial girth.

Sweet notes that Candy Bar is not decorated as is she... no nipple rings or bells... no Ben wa bell hanging between the inner thighs. However, the stretched labia are hideously plumped and of bright pink.

“Took you a while, Edgar.”

“I was infusing Candy Bar. You know a girl can’t fully run with fat lips. And the only work pony not in the fields was Butterscotch. And you know her condition.”

“Yes, going to drop a foal for me. Next month?”

“She’s in the third trimester, yes. But probably due in eight weeks.”

Sweet Cheeks is aghast. With wrists tethered behind as are those of Sweet Cheeks, both chest and belly are prominently presented. The source of girth for the naked pony girl... work pony... breasts full, stretched nipples nearly at her navel, thighs of tree stumps, belly protruding... is not entirely derived from diet.

“Well, she’ll have to do,” Lady Dyson stepping to Candy Bar, crop in hand. 

She lowers the tip, jostling the well exposed gelatinous labia, smiling gleefully as Candy Bar moans in sensing the distant pleasure of so being fondled.

“So a slow ride for me. Slower for you Edgar. Have Butterscotch carry Sweet Cheeks... and tow the empty cart. Needs a new wheel... but it will make it back. I’ll want a full report on Sweet Cheeks... right ankle... right knee. And keep her in the bit... and silenced. When she next uses that tongue... well...” Lady Dyson shrugs with a wicked grin. “It won’t be to speak.”

“Yes Ma’am.”

The reins of work pony Butterscotch are released from the back of the cart. Lady Dyson, having issued orders, mounts the cart and departs, crop flailing right nipple then left. Groom Edgar steps to Sweet Cheeks, stooping, inspecting first the swollen ankle then knowing hands go to the right knee, fingers gently pressing here and there to bring a grimace.  

“Well Cheeks, you’ll not be walking... for now. Ankles heal... in time... but that knee... best get an MRI. And you’re fortunate. Though expensive, Lady Dyson will peel a few hundred dollars from her considerable fortune. Pony girls get the best of care... you know that by now.”  

Attention returns to work pony Butterscotch, Groom Edgar taking the loose reins and guiding proximate to where Sweet Cheeks stands. He pulls lower.

“Down,” the huge figure instantly dropping to her knees and further lowering, forehead pressed to the dusty soil of the path. Knees well parted, the huge buttocks part as well. Sweet notes the gluteal cleft reveals a stretched sphincter, open and seeming to welcome penetration.

Sweet Cheeks also notes both the bloated belly and the plump breasts. The nipples... extended as with all Dyson Farms human equines... graze the dusty path.

“Gag bit,” Groom Edgar comments, “a girl will do anything to relieve pinched tongue and lips. Makes controlling a girl very easy. Do you need to urinate, Cheeks? It’s two miles to the stable... and we’ll need to go slowly.”

Sheepishly, knowing how she is to empty herself, Sweet Cheeks nods.

“Well step to Butterscotch. Try to keep most of your weight on your left leg. Lift your right and press your sore knee on Butterscotch’s back to steady and open yourself. You know how to urinate for me.”

Sweet Cheeks does indeed. But to follow instructions means the splatter will wet Butterscotch. It cannot be helped. Yet, Sweet Cheeks realizes... such is farm life... the girl undoubtedly to be hosed down before being put up at day’s end.

Gingerly, Sweet complies, hobbling forth, raising her right leg, carefully resting her wounded knee on the work pony’s back, knowing to lean forth as Groom Edgar steps behind. Reaching under the muscled buttocks, the Ben wa bell is grasped and pulled back, deft fingers slip into her neglected slit, instantly pressing the urethra. And the process... twice daily... sometimes three... begins.

Sweet Cheeks blushes despite the frequency, having to so perform for a man can never bring complacency. She opens... a flow begins splattering Butterscotch’s left buttock and thigh... then it’s curtailed, Groom Edgar exercising his dominion. Then there comes release... more flow... then the fingers press anew... and then release. Such a humbling protocol.  

“Good girl. Now straddle Butterscotch... as if riding a horse.”

Though enormous... no doubt strong in working the fields... the girl is many months pregnant! Groom Edgar notes the look of concern.

“She’s a work pony... therefore she is to be worked.”

Sweet Cheeks complies straddling the huge form. Despite the wet, partially sitting in her own excretions, the smooth, soft warmth pressing her opened thighs, it feels good. Her stretched labia graze the pony girl’s back. She is mindful of the tribbing... girl on girl frolicking. It brings an unwanted brisance. Sweet Cheeks darest not admit it to herself.

Groom Edgar distracts, releasing Sweet Cheek’s wrists from the back of her neck collar, separating. Then guides her arms left and right down and under the broad chest and breasts of work pony Butterscotch. When resecured together, Sweet Cheeks realizes she and the work pony are one.  

Burden great, it does not end for the work pony. Lastly, Groom Edgar wheels forward the crippled cart and attaches the prongs to Sweet Cheeks’ waist belt. Butterscotch will carry... child, Sweet Cheeks and also pull.

And Sweet Cheeks thought her mission... to be run in harness, bit and bridle... was challenging.  

“Hold her breasts for support, Cheeks. But be aware she’s probably letting down.”

Such indignity!

Groom Edgar again takes hold of the reins, pulling upward with a command. Sweet Cheeks is amazed that the work pony arises from kneeling, forehead off the path, plump but powerful legs laboring with limited effort to stand, stooped forward in bearing Sweet Cheeks’ entire weight.

“Come,” Groom Edgar to lead on foot, turning and resuming the journey down path 5.

Yes, the gag bit is effective, work pony Butterscotch instantly following. Sweet Cheeks, breasts pressing the shoulder blades, extended labia frottaging the small of the back, senses unwanted stimulation despite her injury. Every step jostles her Ben wa insertion... and there are no strokes of the crop to distract the from the erotic thrill.

'Trainee to Pony Girl', Segment XIV

Wrists cuffed to the back of her neck collar, Sweet Cheeks otherwise enjoys freedom of motion for the first time in months. Though hitched to a cart, master Lady Dyson in tow, she can go anywhere, the outback acreage of Dyson Farms large, the paths many.

She steps. Her bells ring. She senses equine pride, determined to keep her feet and the Ben wa bell and nipple bells in cadence. Sans a directing hand on the reins, Sweet Cheeks will show off... not only her fealty but her new found ability... the ingrained discipline. Without being regularly cropped... nipples and labia... Sweet Cheeks can sense her insertions... vaginal... anal. Yes the devious Ben wa ball titillates with each step, ensuring her feminine juices flow like a wellspring.  Her butt plug has increased in size. Another source of pride... her sphincter stretched such that a number six slips within, Groom Edgar needing limited effort.

A slow pace, with her conditioning the effort is facile. Thus it is not enough. There is no challenge. She barely needs to take a breath, lung capacity vast. The late morning air of early Spring cools. In her nakedness the residual perspiration of the daunting three mile uphill jog brings a chill. Needing warmth, she increases the pace... slowly... the bells... such must ring sonorously... impress Lady Dyson.

All the paths leading downhill, Sweet Cheeks chooses one to not only bring Lady Dyson to the track but offer good vistas as well. She wants her master to enjoy. Within a quarter mile, Sweet Cheeks feels a hand. Her right cheek... fingers tenderly smooth over the rippling muscling, the skin soft yet thin, subcutaneous fat at a minimum with the many miles of treadmill work, hours riding the wooden horse.

Yes, Lady Dyson enjoys the view... but not the terrain. As stated, the buttocks... so nicely sculpted. Lady Dyson will relax and watch.

Within a mile, Sweet Cheeks decides a quicker pace will demonstrate her conditioning. Her exhibitionism begins to blossom.

‘I am naked... bound... trained... disciplined... body well sculpted... conditioning sublime!’ her thoughts reveling in sensing the refreshing wind created by her own footwork.

Yet, the path becomes precarious. With the idyllic view there comes a narrow segment, a gully of moderate depth to the right. With the euphoria of the vaginal twinges, no stinging crop to counter the steady pangs of pleasure, Sweet Cheeks throws caution to the mild wind of Spring time. There comes miscalculation in the footwork... a slip of the right foot. This brings the knee to buckle. The cart veers, the wheel goes off the edge of the path. Lady Dyson senses the danger, stepping from the seat of the cart despite the pace. She stumbles but catches herself. With the cart empty, Sweet Cheeks can more readily restore control, not tumbling into the gully. She stops. But the damage is done.       

“Steady girl,” Lady Dyson’s voice calm as she approaches “Steady.”

Sweet Cheeks feels pain. Nothing like the tolerable sting of a correcting stroke of the crop. Her ankle... twisted. Of more concern her knee... buckling to the side with the misstep, such motion for sure to damage the ligaments. A sprain... worse... a tear?

Tears come. But in the world of the human equine, there is no pity. Pushing athletic performance brings risk... and with it possible injury. As Sweet Cheeks wails in agony, she is shocked to see Lady Dyson retrieve the bit and reins from the cart.

“Don’t move,” she commands.

Docility ingrained, Sweet Cheeks obediently stands, tears flowing yet opening her mouth to accept the bit. 

“Enough words for you, pony girl,” tying off the attached reins to assure her human equine cannot bolt.

Lady Dyson steps back, arms akimbo, a woman of authority. She assesses. The right wheel rim is warped, spokes bent. If the cart is to make the return journey to the stable, it would need to be pulled slowly, no rider to encumber the wheel. 

“See what happens when you’re not closely supervised. I directed that you walk me to the track. You trotted... too fast... choosing a dangerous path. And too much enjoying your insertions, I suspect.”

With that Lady Dyson steps forth her hand again lowering, palm up. Though in pain Sweet Cheeks obediently steps to greet, humbly offering herself... her quim... for knowing palpation.

“Yes, quite wet. I should have been cropping you... kept your attention away from pleasing yourself,” two fingers slipping inward to greet and push about the Ben wa ball

Lady Dyson releases Sweet Cheeks’ waist belt from the prongs of the cart. Then one hand resumes the pleasing attention to her mons and the other begins stroking the nipples as well. Though teasing, no ultimate ecstasy to come, Sweet Cheeks is grateful, her master knowing to stimulate a flow of endorphins to counter the pain.

“Can you stand on your foot... full weight?”

Sweet Cheeks so tries. She grimaces, not able to fully support herself.

“Probably sprained. But your knee is more critical.”

Lady Dyson withdraws her soothing hands to retrieve a cell phone from her pocket. She presses, then speaks.

“Edgar, we’ve had an accident. Path number 5, about a mile down from the top of the hill. Sweet Cheeks is injured, the cart not rideable. Hitch Candy Bar to a cart to take me back to the stable and bring a work pony for Sweet Cheeks. She cannot walk.”

Stowing the phone, Lady Dyson returns her attention to Sweet Cheeks.

“You need to be kept well bound and strictly supervised, Sweet Cheeks. Never again off the reins. See what happens.”

The tears continue... not only of pain, but remorse. She will not show off her speed and stamina... not today. And she will not be masturbated... finally brought to full climax.

“Edgar is a doctor, as you know. He’ll handle you. But keep in mind, in many cases horses with your type of injury are destroyed... shot. As a pony girl... you’ll just hang in suspension... and hopefully fully recover.”