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!
*****
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?
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