Another Morning Ride
Normally a teen of Douglas’s age has some difficulty dragging himself/herself out of bed in the morning. But after introducing him to the inner glee of governing a naked well trussed pony girl, I find in peering out the bedroom window, Midnight is hobbled, harnessed to the light pony cart, bearing the bit with reins in waiting. I quickly don slacks and sweater, knowing that in the cool morning air, my pony girl will be eager to perform for me.
Yes, Douglas the groom has taken to his new responsibility with aplomb, being promised, in time, that it will be he seated on the cart, reins and crop in hand. So for the first time he has removed the speculum which holds Midnight open, unhooked the labial and nipple weights and unraveled the soft strips of cloth which I use to gently enshroud the skin undergoing slow modification. Soon adorning Midnight’s body with such will also be his responsibility, but for now we take one step at a time. Assuring the stretched skin is properly anointed with the special lotion and the nipples and labia are incessantly pulled with the appropriate tension is a skill to be acquired. It will come.
I exit the house, Midnight standing in wait, in the coolness those lengthy nipples serving as a thermometer, hardened and sticking straight out, appearing to be darts aimed at a target.
Douglas hears me approach and exits the barn. We exchange morning pleasantries, me swelling with pride, and Douglas stoops to remove the hobbling strap, then hooks it to the cart. I, of course, work Midnight’s fine chainery, tightening at the hips to remove all slack, watching intently as her ringed nubbin rises with the newly applied tension. Such a prominent display, the hormone swelled organ not to be veiled.
She stirs with the sensation and I smile in satisfaction, knowing that with every step, the motions of her thighs will jostle that most sensitive button of feminine flesh. Yes, with inner labia flopping, clitoris jostling, Midnight will run and masturbate herself to a sexual frenzy, ultimate climax denied.
I sit, utter the command ‘giddup’ and swing, the crop nipping the right nipple, bringing what I know to be searing pain. Midnight digs in, buttocks clenching, thighs rippling, her response instantaneous.
Off we go, to our idyllic clearing, no eggs benedict to be offered. Instead I will partake in that other delight never to be served at home.
With the crop I rhythmically work the buttocks, tapping away to bring not suffering but instead the comfort Midnight feels in knowing she’s totally under the control of an exacting Master. Soon, perspiration beads, and despite the early hour, adrenaline has Midnight laboring with zest.
I do believe she’s as eager as I am to reach the apex, the slim chains working their magic.
Step, step, step, a good brisk jog brings us to our destination. I pull to a halt, leaving some slack on the reins, dismount and quickly hobble. When I slip the bit from Midnight’s mouth, she knows there is an opportunity to speak and wastes not the opportunity.
“Please, Master, I need to be masturbated!”
I smile, repressing laughter, the abundance of moisture flowing down her inner thighs not entirely sweat.
“I think my wife will cool your needs,” reminding that she has an appointment on the wooden pony.
“She scares me sir,” truncating further exchange while I cradle her head and her teeth begin to work my zipper.
“She should. A relentless flagellatrix. Though you should be accustomed to being disciplined.”
“When I needed correction. Now I am obedient... and work hard to please.”
“Well this afternoon you will work hard to please while riding the pony and having your buttocks striped,” I offer with a snort.
Midnight has no immediate response, instead knowing to engulf my penis. She likes my taste. And I offer her a feast, relieving myself, her throat opening to take all. It’s exhilarating power. I hear not a single gulp, and I press to empty myself before pending tumescence impedes the flow.
In finishing, tongue and lips assure neatness, her oral training sublime.
“I will do anything for her to avoid being caned,” she pleads.
“You will do everything for her and be caned. Know your place.”
Her lips return to what it is now a semi firm penis. Fellatio begins, no invitation required. I slowly step back and lower to sit on the large rock we’ve worn to smoothness over the years, my hands continuing to cradle Midnight’s baldness. She follows, continuing to suck, hobbled feet managing two short steps, cart following. Mouth continuously engaged, Midnight knows to also lower herself, lips sucking, tongue swishing.
Exquisite!
Whether or not to take her anally is always a random choice. For some reason on this morning I choose not to expend the energy. I let her suck and suck, enjoying the vista, early Spring spurring the flora, photosynthesis transforming the surrounding hills to green.
Sensing growing excitement, her head bobs with vigor, challenging my grip to orally fuck herself. The sensation overwhelms. I explode copiously, deeply, again hearing not a gulp or suggestion that Midnight cannot accommodate and ingest all I offer, her skills extensive.
Lips purse to again assure neatness. Then Midnight knows to pause, letting me revel in the afterglow. After several moments she lifts her head, adoring a male appendage returning to flaccidity.
“I can orally please her, Master. My last owner was a woman. Perhaps that will quiet her hand,” the condemned returning to discussion of her pending execution.
I smile.
“You’re to be caned. Remember to remain wordlessly silent, though I am sure you will scream. Afterwards I will milk you in reward.”
“Full climax, Master?”
“Of course not.”
“Before Douglas? Please no...”
I laugh wickedly knowing that the intense humiliation of being so spread open and slowly purged of feminine essence is the ultimate narcotic for the masochist... and to have such expunged before a young male... nirvana. Midnight, as with most girls of her ilk, remains confused concerning her proclivity. She objects... but she is in so much need...
“Yes, before Douglas. I may even have him feather you.”
A stunned Midnight obediently works her lips and teeth to right my zipper. She protests, she objects, but deep within she will enjoy.
Saturday, June 15, 2013
Saturday, June 8, 2013
Midnight - Segment XXI
A Visit
Watching Midnight sweat... watching Midnight struggle... watching Midnight suffer... mesmerizes... son Douglas as a curious and impressionable teen... me as I relive the halcyon days of attaining and enjoying complete sexual control over a human beast.
So we step back and with quiet serenity let time and gravity challenge the dynamism of a pony girl honed, exercised, trained, sculpted, fed and medicated to physical perfection.
In riding the wooden pony, there is never triumph, only slow surrender. All succumb... and such is the case with Midnight as leg muscles begin to quiver, the strain on buttocks and lower back bring slow but moderate tension to the leash holding up Midnight’s nose loop.
Yet I note the plank darkens, the wood fibers absorbing the attestation of the masochist, traces of feminine arousal streaming from her vaginal opening, her elongated lips becoming conduits of odoriferous wet which stains.
“She’s leaking,” a naive Douglas exclaims.
I snicker.
“No son, she’s enjoying,” wondering how long Midnight can maintain her silence before the agony of tensioned nose loop and abraded pink flesh spurs a beseeching cry for mercy.
“Well, you boys enjoying yourselves?” the haughty words those of wife Victoria.
We both turn, wondering how long she has been observing from the barn door. Aware of Victoria’s proclivities, I know the basis for her huffy interruption is not one of disapproval but one of objection for being excluded from the entertainment. She steps forth, boots thudding, head erect, arms akimbo, establishing her governing presence.
I can only imagine the impression to be made upon the vanilla wife of a rancher, a naked, well trussed, human equine being tormented, perspiration mixing with abundant massage oil to make her expanse of black blemishless flesh scream for the attention of wanton eyes.
But this is Victoria.
“Is there not a quicker method of offering discipline? You boys must be quite bored by now.”
Douglas is perplexed. I laugh.
“Exercise, Victoria. Time consuming but effective. I am sure you’ve focused on her buttocks. They didn’t get that large and firm sitting about eating cupcakes.”
Victoria’s regal march continues, bringing her to stand most proximate. Both hands extend and brusquely clasp the referenced saturated globes with notable force, causing Midnight to lurch and jerk her nose loop.
The well worn pony girl cries out, eliciting what I know to be feigned sympathy from wife Victoria.
“You’ve hurt yourself, tsk, tsk,” stepping back, swinging her arm to offer a thunderous slap to hillocks which cannot avoid assault.
This brings another lurch, another cry of anguish as Victoria steps further back, becoming more pensive with assessment.
“Rather simple bondage, Oliver,” she offers after a long pause. “But I’m willing to wager a girl can be well caned when so presented.”
Well, if there were any reservations about introducing son Douglas to our eccentric lifestyle, such have more than adequately been cast aside. And I begin to fear for the continuation of my subterfuge, Midnight not bearing her gag.
After an hour or more of riding the wooden pony, most fortitude has waned. Can Midnight’s concentration withstand both the slow torment of the plank and the quick vicious searing strokes of Victoria’s bamboo laden hand?
“She needs feeding, Victoria. Perhaps later. Plus she’s not gagged... we do have neighbors...”
Yes, but some two miles down the road, aged and hard of hearing. Will Victoria fall for another ruse? Forestall that which most enthuses?
The latter concern does not faze.
“I’ll need her watered. And I’ll want her at full strength. So much more fun breaking a girl that way... bladder opening to capitulate in complete surrender...”
Midnight is thus offered a reprieve for now, for her strength has finally dissipated. Despite the agony to be offered her most sensitive feminine charms, the knees slowly buckle and the wet entrance to her vagina greets the scabrous edge of the plank. She whines like a wounded puppy, but her muscling responds not to the dire need for elevation. It required nearly two hours, but Midnight’s energy is depleted, her fortitude vanquished.
Still I must let her suffer, assuring that the slow dip is not a deception to curry sympathy. So when the buttock muscles likewise surrender and the leash tightens to tension the nose loop, I know it is time. Our wet, well worn, well exercised pony girl is to be returned to her sling.
I step forth and release the adjustable clamps which hold in place the plank, lowering to provide instant relief. Lips of a most humble Midnight begin to move, to thank me, and I quickly press closed with my finger.
“No more moans,” I rebuke, reminding her of the stoic silence I mandate.
So a nearly comatose Midnight is put away wet, returned to her thigh slings with needed assistance, to be later watered and fed after a nap.
“Tomorrow. I have a free afternoon. I’ll want her riding the pony,” wife Victoria speaks, inspecting a wall rack lined with various lengths of bamboo, not seeming to be overly disappointed in having to wait.
Saturday, June 1, 2013
Midnight - Segment XX
More conditioning
I have ordered a new treadmill. But until it arrives, we’ll need to somewhat improvise. I therefor clear away a little used portion of the barn, little used since Mother passed on and her timid estate lawyers quickly disposed of Midnight, deemed an asset not to be listed in the estate accounting.
Since wife Victoria has taken such interest in the enormous yet well shaped buttocks of our pony girl, particular attention needs to be expended in ensuring such continue to be suitable targets for the cane. Such a thoughtful husband am I.
So I have Douglas join me, pushing aside some old furniture and storage boxes to clear a space at the right wall.
“Gee, Dad, I never noticed this plank before.”
Yes, as stated, we’ve sheltered young Douglas from our more debaucherous penchants. Therefore the horizontal one inch thick upturned plank of some four to five feet in length has deliberately been tucked away for years.
“It’s a wooden pony, Douglas.”
My son stares in assessing, not able to ascertain its function. Perhaps we have been overly cautious in keeping it somewhat concealed.
The plank is connected to the wall, protruding at a right angle, currently some two and a half to three feet above the floor. It’s height is adjustable, a clever feature that assured slow torment even as a youthful Midnight grew after acquisition. On the wall are a vertical series of hooks where Midnight’s nose loop was so often secured. It was quite facile to condition those calves, thighs and buttocks by having Midnight straddle the plank, the scabrous edge abrading her pink genitalia, the height adjusted to force her to her toes. I recall Mother lecturing when Midnight was first introduced to the slow unending torment, hour after hour of straining to protect her precious pink parts from more painfully greeting the dreaded plank...
‘Depending on what muscles you wish to work, Oliver, you tie off the nose loop high or low. High forces her to work the calves, low the buttocks... feel.’
A timorous young hand was invited to knead the buttocks of a stooped Midnight, clenched and straining to hold her head and torso high enough so as not to stress her secured nose loop. Yet the leg muscles also labored, the edge of the plank quite rough.
“A Wooden pony?” Douglas’s imagination finally conceding, the purpose of the plank not to be conjured.
“For riding. Keeps a girl in good shape.”
I lead and we return to a suspended Midnight, remaining in the slings of the thigh straps.
“Release her, Douglas,” I softly command, offering my son practice in handling a kept human equine.
He’s learning, pushing the boxes under her feet, unhooking the thighs straps, hobbling with diligence as Midnight knows to bring together her ankles. I hand him the leash, almost forgotten, and Midnight’s nose once again becomes a lever for control.
“Over to the pony, have her straddle it facing the wall and those hooks. You’ll need to release the hobbling strap.”
Midnight of course knows precisely of the protocol, having so often ridden, in her adolescence practically every day. It is therefore with little resistance that she shuffles forth on toes, Douglas offering a challenging high grip on the leash. Our pony girl steps to the plank, Douglas stoops to remove the hobbling strap, and with two more very short steps she moves forward, high on toes, the plank slipping between her thighs.
“Tie off the leash to a ring in the middle, Douglas, have her bend a little at the waist. Yes, that’s it.”
Midnight becomes the picture of tormented subjugation as yoked, naked and tethered her feet work to remain high on toes, her buttocks labor to hold up the weight of her chest and torso, and even the lower back muscles somewhat strain.
“Gee Dad, the height of the plank is perfect,” Douglas notes with enthusiasm, my ruse to veil prior ownership in peril.
“Yes, quite a coincidence,” wondering if the family genes have his pecker hardening as is mine.
“How long will she stand like this?”
I smile with the question, Douglas not fully understanding the thoroughness of his power.
“As long as you want her to stand,” my response coming as I demonstrate to Douglas the need for the attention of supervising fingers to assure that the long pink inner labia are draped right and left of the plank.
Midnight quivers with my touch, the altered strips of flesh remaining wondrously sensitive.
I have ordered a new treadmill. But until it arrives, we’ll need to somewhat improvise. I therefor clear away a little used portion of the barn, little used since Mother passed on and her timid estate lawyers quickly disposed of Midnight, deemed an asset not to be listed in the estate accounting.
Since wife Victoria has taken such interest in the enormous yet well shaped buttocks of our pony girl, particular attention needs to be expended in ensuring such continue to be suitable targets for the cane. Such a thoughtful husband am I.
So I have Douglas join me, pushing aside some old furniture and storage boxes to clear a space at the right wall.
“Gee, Dad, I never noticed this plank before.”
Yes, as stated, we’ve sheltered young Douglas from our more debaucherous penchants. Therefore the horizontal one inch thick upturned plank of some four to five feet in length has deliberately been tucked away for years.
“It’s a wooden pony, Douglas.”
My son stares in assessing, not able to ascertain its function. Perhaps we have been overly cautious in keeping it somewhat concealed.
The plank is connected to the wall, protruding at a right angle, currently some two and a half to three feet above the floor. It’s height is adjustable, a clever feature that assured slow torment even as a youthful Midnight grew after acquisition. On the wall are a vertical series of hooks where Midnight’s nose loop was so often secured. It was quite facile to condition those calves, thighs and buttocks by having Midnight straddle the plank, the scabrous edge abrading her pink genitalia, the height adjusted to force her to her toes. I recall Mother lecturing when Midnight was first introduced to the slow unending torment, hour after hour of straining to protect her precious pink parts from more painfully greeting the dreaded plank...
‘Depending on what muscles you wish to work, Oliver, you tie off the nose loop high or low. High forces her to work the calves, low the buttocks... feel.’
A timorous young hand was invited to knead the buttocks of a stooped Midnight, clenched and straining to hold her head and torso high enough so as not to stress her secured nose loop. Yet the leg muscles also labored, the edge of the plank quite rough.
“A Wooden pony?” Douglas’s imagination finally conceding, the purpose of the plank not to be conjured.
“For riding. Keeps a girl in good shape.”
I lead and we return to a suspended Midnight, remaining in the slings of the thigh straps.
“Release her, Douglas,” I softly command, offering my son practice in handling a kept human equine.
He’s learning, pushing the boxes under her feet, unhooking the thighs straps, hobbling with diligence as Midnight knows to bring together her ankles. I hand him the leash, almost forgotten, and Midnight’s nose once again becomes a lever for control.
“Over to the pony, have her straddle it facing the wall and those hooks. You’ll need to release the hobbling strap.”
Midnight of course knows precisely of the protocol, having so often ridden, in her adolescence practically every day. It is therefore with little resistance that she shuffles forth on toes, Douglas offering a challenging high grip on the leash. Our pony girl steps to the plank, Douglas stoops to remove the hobbling strap, and with two more very short steps she moves forward, high on toes, the plank slipping between her thighs.
“Tie off the leash to a ring in the middle, Douglas, have her bend a little at the waist. Yes, that’s it.”
Midnight becomes the picture of tormented subjugation as yoked, naked and tethered her feet work to remain high on toes, her buttocks labor to hold up the weight of her chest and torso, and even the lower back muscles somewhat strain.
“Gee Dad, the height of the plank is perfect,” Douglas notes with enthusiasm, my ruse to veil prior ownership in peril.
“Yes, quite a coincidence,” wondering if the family genes have his pecker hardening as is mine.
“How long will she stand like this?”
I smile with the question, Douglas not fully understanding the thoroughness of his power.
“As long as you want her to stand,” my response coming as I demonstrate to Douglas the need for the attention of supervising fingers to assure that the long pink inner labia are draped right and left of the plank.
Midnight quivers with my touch, the altered strips of flesh remaining wondrously sensitive.
Saturday, May 25, 2013
Midnight - Segment XIX
Adorning Midnight’s Cunt
The bowl empties, quite the offering of chow. I adjust the pulley cords, deeming Midnight to have had enough rest. She lifts at the waist to hang upright, a standing position except she remains in suspension, soft broad thigh straps holding her inches off the barn’s floor. From my pocket I retrieve the trinkets from the morning trip to the jewelry store.
Missing from Midnight’s well subjugated body... yoked, tethered at the ankles, pierced deeply at the hips... has been the silver chains decorating and highlighting Mother’s clitoral piercing. Her prior owner deemed such to be unnecessary, perhaps affording too much delight. Such is not within my intended paradigm for Midnight. I want her constantly aroused, always on the edge of orgasm, particularly when being run.
I have thus purchased some fine chainery, slim silver links intended for pendants and lockets. Young Douglas watches with fascination as I demonstrate why Midnight’s enormous bud was pierced horizontally and ringed. I thread one length through the right hip ring, across her pubes, through the clitoral ring and back to the hip. There is an inch or two or slack, but the clever clasp holding the two ends is adjustable, a mechanism which permits me to tighten, should I so desire.
A second identical chain and adjusting mechanism is likewise threaded through the left hip ring and the clitoral ring. I adjust to decorate, assuring symmetrical slack as the bright silver festoons across her smooth black lower belly right and left.
“Both pretty and practical, don’t you think Douglas?”
My wide eyed son nods as he stares. The chains, though slack as indicated, serve to make both Midnight’s clitoris and her stainless steel ring much more prominent, calling attention there, should for some reason a viewer not notice the outrageously stretched labia.
Midnight stirs. I do believe her odor amplifies and I am going to have great fun if my baubles make her cunny begin to drip.
“Yes, when I run her, I’ll first tighten these slim silver tethers. Her own motion will cause the chains plus her clitoral ring to oscillate. You are aware that that little nubbin is ultra sensitive, Douglas,” not recalling if my lecture included a discussion of vaginal orgasms versus clitoral.
As I found years ago, it is difficult to determine if and when Midnight blushes, her dark hue masking any telltale rush of circulation. But she does stir a bit, jostling her new chainery. Quivers of joy perhaps?
I do believe she’d like to say something, but I will not afford her the opportunity until next I run her, partake of her oral skills and penetrate that fine tight rectum... another activity which will bring tantalizing stress to her clitoral chains.
The bowl empties, quite the offering of chow. I adjust the pulley cords, deeming Midnight to have had enough rest. She lifts at the waist to hang upright, a standing position except she remains in suspension, soft broad thigh straps holding her inches off the barn’s floor. From my pocket I retrieve the trinkets from the morning trip to the jewelry store.
Missing from Midnight’s well subjugated body... yoked, tethered at the ankles, pierced deeply at the hips... has been the silver chains decorating and highlighting Mother’s clitoral piercing. Her prior owner deemed such to be unnecessary, perhaps affording too much delight. Such is not within my intended paradigm for Midnight. I want her constantly aroused, always on the edge of orgasm, particularly when being run.
I have thus purchased some fine chainery, slim silver links intended for pendants and lockets. Young Douglas watches with fascination as I demonstrate why Midnight’s enormous bud was pierced horizontally and ringed. I thread one length through the right hip ring, across her pubes, through the clitoral ring and back to the hip. There is an inch or two or slack, but the clever clasp holding the two ends is adjustable, a mechanism which permits me to tighten, should I so desire.
A second identical chain and adjusting mechanism is likewise threaded through the left hip ring and the clitoral ring. I adjust to decorate, assuring symmetrical slack as the bright silver festoons across her smooth black lower belly right and left.
“Both pretty and practical, don’t you think Douglas?”
My wide eyed son nods as he stares. The chains, though slack as indicated, serve to make both Midnight’s clitoris and her stainless steel ring much more prominent, calling attention there, should for some reason a viewer not notice the outrageously stretched labia.
Midnight stirs. I do believe her odor amplifies and I am going to have great fun if my baubles make her cunny begin to drip.
“Yes, when I run her, I’ll first tighten these slim silver tethers. Her own motion will cause the chains plus her clitoral ring to oscillate. You are aware that that little nubbin is ultra sensitive, Douglas,” not recalling if my lecture included a discussion of vaginal orgasms versus clitoral.
As I found years ago, it is difficult to determine if and when Midnight blushes, her dark hue masking any telltale rush of circulation. But she does stir a bit, jostling her new chainery. Quivers of joy perhaps?
I do believe she’d like to say something, but I will not afford her the opportunity until next I run her, partake of her oral skills and penetrate that fine tight rectum... another activity which will bring tantalizing stress to her clitoral chains.
Saturday, May 18, 2013
Midnight - Segment XVIII
Training a Young Midnight
“Always hold her head high, Oliver. You want her looking like a proud pony girl.”
Mother hands me a long slim pole, my end wrapped in leather to accommodate the grip of my left hand. It slims at the end, some eight to ten feet from where I stand, offering much flexibility. There a short cord dangles with a clasp on the free end.
A naked, nubile Midnight stands in the corral area yoked. Hairless, I have worked for a week to please Mother and remove every stand of hair, attack every follicle with harsh smelling depilatory lotion. She is glum in being made bald, considering herself unsightly. Little does she realize how appealing is her animalistic and vulnerable presentation.
Nipples normal, Mother not yet beginning to elongate, youthful labia somewhat dangle, the stretching there presumably begun in her native Rwanda. Despite the deepness of her black skin, one can quickly ascertain that Midnight is blushing. She is outdoors... made to present herself... fresh air wafting about her oiled naked flesh, the cool breeze awakening every nerve ending, emphasizing her exposure, announcing to the world her demeaning servitude.
With her instruction, Mother moves and clips the clasp to Midnight’s nose loop. She then stoops and removes the short hobbling strap, the use of which I have returned.
“Up, up, Oliver. You want her on her toes.”
I raise my hand slowly and gently, with the past week of handling Midnight, well aware of the extreme sensitivity of the nose binding. Midnight’s face follows of course. And yes, head back, forehead skyward, indeed on toes, the presentation is one of pride.
“Very good. So today some pony girl dressage, Oliver. Tidy up her footwork, acclimate her to a controlling hand and the sting of the whip, melt away some of that youthful baby fat, strengthen the legs, thighs and buttocks...”, my regal Mother in her element.
About the corral area, Mother has set up a half dozen cones and some low wooden bars, not quite knee high. A simple obstacle course, Midnight is to be run through it in a preset pattern... step past left cone, step past right cone, jump, step past left, step past right, jump, etc. It is my role to stand in the middle, the length of the controlling pole such that I need only take modest steps as Midnight circles me, the broad radius dictating much exertion, responding to my commands, tugs on the dressage pole and snaps of the whip.
Mother has had me practicing with the slim nasty single tail. I am reasonably confident I can apply pain without breaking the skin. Marking a girl, as Mother explained, can be detrimental to her value.
‘Her flesh will keloid, Oliver. Do be circumspect.’
So in my right hand is a threatening long single tail, the crack of the whip more for psychological governance, a tug on the dressage pole more than adequate for dressage and strict instruction.
Mother nods and we begin. I am as much of a dilettante as Midnight. But I soon take to another segment of Mother’s avocation, making a girl, denuded of all covering by my hand, run and jump, run and jump, up on toes, run and jump.
The guided route seems random... over two hurdles, back over one, over the next three, back over two, etc. but we repeat and repeat the same route. Over time, the challenge is to have the pony girl memorize the task such that I can offer slack on the dressage pole and she will exercise herself.
Failure to precisely follow the route brings tug on the pole... a snap of the whip.
I learn that the obstacle course Mother sets will change. Tomorrow will be a different configuration. Midnight’s training will begin anew, to again learn, respond to my directing left hand while she memorizes another seemingly random pattern, my excoriating right hand at the ready. Yes, she will adjust her footwork and her response will conform to the mandates of my hand.
Thus there is not only a physical challenge but, as we circle for well over an hour, a mental one as well. Discipline, concentration... on me, ingraining a sense of pride and accomplishment in pleasing me.
“Always hold her head high, Oliver. You want her looking like a proud pony girl.”
Mother hands me a long slim pole, my end wrapped in leather to accommodate the grip of my left hand. It slims at the end, some eight to ten feet from where I stand, offering much flexibility. There a short cord dangles with a clasp on the free end.
A naked, nubile Midnight stands in the corral area yoked. Hairless, I have worked for a week to please Mother and remove every stand of hair, attack every follicle with harsh smelling depilatory lotion. She is glum in being made bald, considering herself unsightly. Little does she realize how appealing is her animalistic and vulnerable presentation.
Nipples normal, Mother not yet beginning to elongate, youthful labia somewhat dangle, the stretching there presumably begun in her native Rwanda. Despite the deepness of her black skin, one can quickly ascertain that Midnight is blushing. She is outdoors... made to present herself... fresh air wafting about her oiled naked flesh, the cool breeze awakening every nerve ending, emphasizing her exposure, announcing to the world her demeaning servitude.
With her instruction, Mother moves and clips the clasp to Midnight’s nose loop. She then stoops and removes the short hobbling strap, the use of which I have returned.
“Up, up, Oliver. You want her on her toes.”
I raise my hand slowly and gently, with the past week of handling Midnight, well aware of the extreme sensitivity of the nose binding. Midnight’s face follows of course. And yes, head back, forehead skyward, indeed on toes, the presentation is one of pride.
“Very good. So today some pony girl dressage, Oliver. Tidy up her footwork, acclimate her to a controlling hand and the sting of the whip, melt away some of that youthful baby fat, strengthen the legs, thighs and buttocks...”, my regal Mother in her element.
About the corral area, Mother has set up a half dozen cones and some low wooden bars, not quite knee high. A simple obstacle course, Midnight is to be run through it in a preset pattern... step past left cone, step past right cone, jump, step past left, step past right, jump, etc. It is my role to stand in the middle, the length of the controlling pole such that I need only take modest steps as Midnight circles me, the broad radius dictating much exertion, responding to my commands, tugs on the dressage pole and snaps of the whip.
Mother has had me practicing with the slim nasty single tail. I am reasonably confident I can apply pain without breaking the skin. Marking a girl, as Mother explained, can be detrimental to her value.
‘Her flesh will keloid, Oliver. Do be circumspect.’
So in my right hand is a threatening long single tail, the crack of the whip more for psychological governance, a tug on the dressage pole more than adequate for dressage and strict instruction.
Mother nods and we begin. I am as much of a dilettante as Midnight. But I soon take to another segment of Mother’s avocation, making a girl, denuded of all covering by my hand, run and jump, run and jump, up on toes, run and jump.
The guided route seems random... over two hurdles, back over one, over the next three, back over two, etc. but we repeat and repeat the same route. Over time, the challenge is to have the pony girl memorize the task such that I can offer slack on the dressage pole and she will exercise herself.
Failure to precisely follow the route brings tug on the pole... a snap of the whip.
I learn that the obstacle course Mother sets will change. Tomorrow will be a different configuration. Midnight’s training will begin anew, to again learn, respond to my directing left hand while she memorizes another seemingly random pattern, my excoriating right hand at the ready. Yes, she will adjust her footwork and her response will conform to the mandates of my hand.
Thus there is not only a physical challenge but, as we circle for well over an hour, a mental one as well. Discipline, concentration... on me, ingraining a sense of pride and accomplishment in pleasing me.
Saturday, May 11, 2013
Midnight - Segment XVII
Food and Exercise
Whereas a brisk three mile run may seem like adequate exercise, for the likes of Midnight, it is more or less a warm up. Her well chiseled and honed form did not develop languishing in suspension.
So, after breakfast and completing a quick trip to the local jewelry and drug store, I show Douglas how to prepare Midnight’s slop and explain her demanded daily regimen.
“Midnight burns lots of calories, Douglas. She requires high levels of protein and complex carbohydrates. Limited fat, modest sugar.”
My words come as I stuff the blender with a gallimaufry of nutritious foodstuffs, adding a vitamin drink for moisture. There are also added a few droplets of that acquired at the drug store. A prescription for testosterone has been refilled. Ostensibly for me, it works wonders on Midnight, the female limbic system much more susceptible to the common male hormone. Had we not depilated her years ago, hair would grow in abundance. Instead it’s her clitoris that transforms. I like the thought of growing a little penis on her.
“That’s really good food, Dad!” son Douglas surprisedly exclaims.
“Nothing but the best for our pony girl,” flipping the switch for the blender.
“But you’re ruining it!” the whirring blades turning the concoction to an unrecognizable grayish mush.
“For Midnight, food is to be functional, never something to enjoy. Hopefully the blending transforms the taste, hate to think she would identify anything... or find enjoyment,” my grin one of wickedness.
“So observe. There’s no magic recipe. Just stuff the blender, throw in some form of liquid and mash it until it becomes revolting.”
I pour into a bowl and grab a spoon.
“You’ll also need to supervise her exercise and you may find entertainment in an hour or two of dressage training.”
I lead from the kitchen... out the door... back to the barn with Douglas following... my seed planted.
“Dressage, Dad, what’s that?”
“The term comes from the French word, translated as ‘training’. In equine terms, horse and rider are expected to perform from memory a series of predetermined movements. The purpose is to develop, through standardized progressive training methods, a horse's natural athletic ability and willingness to perform, thereby maximizing its potential as a good riding horse.”
Douglas pushes open the barn door. We step within. The gaze of both pair of eyes immediately falls on our hanging pony girl. Not having weighted her elongated pink charms, she once again squirms in suspension, attempting to frottage her labia against her spread inner thighs.
More naughtiness.
“Another reason to keep her well spread Douglas. Note how she attempts to bring self gratification. I’m sure you will note the odor.”
Yes, the barn reeks, despite having hours ago offered Midnight a long cleansing with redolent soap. The scent of lavender has been overwhelmed by the redolence of her stimulated vagina.
I slip away the hood, offering Midnight a ‘tsk, tsk’, as mild rebuke. More severe admonishment or punishment is superfluous. After all, her libidinous actions only frustrate herself. She’ll never bring herself to ultimate climax while well bound and held open.
Handing son Douglas the bowl, I instruct.
“Slow and deliberate. She’s famished and will want to gobble. But remember, you are always in control.”
Midnight brazenly glares at me, knowing not to speak but signaling that indeed an empty stomach demands sustenance. So the feeding begins, one leisurely spoonful at a time, me nodding when a second, third and fourth offering is deemed appropriate, the timing so much augmenting both Midnight’s frustration and her owners power over her.
“Dressage, Dad. Midnight is a cart pony, not ridden,” Douglas’s curiosity bidding a continuation of our conversation.
“Oh, yes. Well for Midnight, the form of dressage is best having her prance through an obstacle course, the timing, the moves, the direction dictated by a trainer, practiced and practiced until memorized. It hones the foot work, acclimates her to being controlled plus inures obedience, not to mention of course conditioning legs and buttocks.”
My words bring reflection, recalling my introduction to Mother’s form of pony girl dressage many years ago...
Whereas a brisk three mile run may seem like adequate exercise, for the likes of Midnight, it is more or less a warm up. Her well chiseled and honed form did not develop languishing in suspension.
So, after breakfast and completing a quick trip to the local jewelry and drug store, I show Douglas how to prepare Midnight’s slop and explain her demanded daily regimen.
“Midnight burns lots of calories, Douglas. She requires high levels of protein and complex carbohydrates. Limited fat, modest sugar.”
My words come as I stuff the blender with a gallimaufry of nutritious foodstuffs, adding a vitamin drink for moisture. There are also added a few droplets of that acquired at the drug store. A prescription for testosterone has been refilled. Ostensibly for me, it works wonders on Midnight, the female limbic system much more susceptible to the common male hormone. Had we not depilated her years ago, hair would grow in abundance. Instead it’s her clitoris that transforms. I like the thought of growing a little penis on her.
“That’s really good food, Dad!” son Douglas surprisedly exclaims.
“Nothing but the best for our pony girl,” flipping the switch for the blender.
“But you’re ruining it!” the whirring blades turning the concoction to an unrecognizable grayish mush.
“For Midnight, food is to be functional, never something to enjoy. Hopefully the blending transforms the taste, hate to think she would identify anything... or find enjoyment,” my grin one of wickedness.
“So observe. There’s no magic recipe. Just stuff the blender, throw in some form of liquid and mash it until it becomes revolting.”
I pour into a bowl and grab a spoon.
“You’ll also need to supervise her exercise and you may find entertainment in an hour or two of dressage training.”
I lead from the kitchen... out the door... back to the barn with Douglas following... my seed planted.
“Dressage, Dad, what’s that?”
“The term comes from the French word, translated as ‘training’. In equine terms, horse and rider are expected to perform from memory a series of predetermined movements. The purpose is to develop, through standardized progressive training methods, a horse's natural athletic ability and willingness to perform, thereby maximizing its potential as a good riding horse.”
Douglas pushes open the barn door. We step within. The gaze of both pair of eyes immediately falls on our hanging pony girl. Not having weighted her elongated pink charms, she once again squirms in suspension, attempting to frottage her labia against her spread inner thighs.
More naughtiness.
“Another reason to keep her well spread Douglas. Note how she attempts to bring self gratification. I’m sure you will note the odor.”
Yes, the barn reeks, despite having hours ago offered Midnight a long cleansing with redolent soap. The scent of lavender has been overwhelmed by the redolence of her stimulated vagina.
I slip away the hood, offering Midnight a ‘tsk, tsk’, as mild rebuke. More severe admonishment or punishment is superfluous. After all, her libidinous actions only frustrate herself. She’ll never bring herself to ultimate climax while well bound and held open.
Handing son Douglas the bowl, I instruct.
“Slow and deliberate. She’s famished and will want to gobble. But remember, you are always in control.”
Midnight brazenly glares at me, knowing not to speak but signaling that indeed an empty stomach demands sustenance. So the feeding begins, one leisurely spoonful at a time, me nodding when a second, third and fourth offering is deemed appropriate, the timing so much augmenting both Midnight’s frustration and her owners power over her.
“Dressage, Dad. Midnight is a cart pony, not ridden,” Douglas’s curiosity bidding a continuation of our conversation.
“Oh, yes. Well for Midnight, the form of dressage is best having her prance through an obstacle course, the timing, the moves, the direction dictated by a trainer, practiced and practiced until memorized. It hones the foot work, acclimates her to being controlled plus inures obedience, not to mention of course conditioning legs and buttocks.”
My words bring reflection, recalling my introduction to Mother’s form of pony girl dressage many years ago...
Saturday, May 4, 2013
Midnight - Segment XVI
Binding Midnight
One more lesson before stepping to the house for a hearty breakfast.
Midnight has been well cleansed inside and out. I watched with paternal pride as Douglas began to take comfort in his governance. Releasing the enema, the excretions gushed to the table top where under my instructions, Douglas waited, spray nozzle in hand, and quickly rinsed all down the drain. Then he doused the nakedness, Midnight seeming to acclimate. If a cat, she would have been purring as soap and a soft chamois laved everywhere... except for her cunny.
Yes, I admonished Douglas, never, ever was a pony girl to benefit from hygiene there.
‘You’ll come to enjoy her smell, Douglas... it embarrasses to no end... and she takes comfort in that.’ divulging more secrets of the masochist.
Still Douglas reveled in handling her, commenting as do most on the amazingly firm blemishless black epidermis and the taut muscling beneath. I encouraged him to take liberties, express his ownership... feeling, caressing, kneading wherever he so chose.
Midnight was in her element and unfortunately the wetness of the bath cloaked what I knew to be a sopping wet vagina.
Massaged then oiled, just as when standing on the auction block, Midnight glows, bringing more awe, Douglas not only again feeling and palpating her entire body, but partaking in the visual delight of her shining blackness, slowly turned to a masterful piece of sculpture, exhibited for our viewing pleasure.
It is now time for her nap.
“Hobble her, Douglas, always,” my words coming as the ankle restraints are released from the short chains of the cleansing table.
The short strap joins her feet. The yoke is released from the clever stanchions and lastly I unhook her leash. Handing the controlling length of leather to Douglas, he guides her from the cleansing table to where she is to be suspended. There I show him the procedure for securing her from the overhead ropes... the waiting boxes, broad straps and the cords of the pulley to be attached to her yoke.
“When you want her to sleep, slacken the cords from the pulley. She can thus lean and lower herself to rest prostrate. Always assure her entire body, feet included, are off the floor. It is important to imbue helplessness. Make sure she is well spread as well, such assures the humiliation she craves, having her cunny always open for inspection and access.”
Douglas nods, quite the willing student. Task completed, we both step back and observe the fruit of our labors. Do I detect tears? Of shame? Of frustration? Of the humiliation she so desperately demands?
“She’s crying , Dad,” Douglas also noting. “Why?”
I step behind and without effort deftly slide two fingers into her wide open inviting sex. The simple penetration causes motion. As her naked form gently swings to and fro in suspension, I hold up the drenched digits before Douglas. He just smiles, the imputed knowledge of her arousal answering his own question.
My son is a quick learner, he realizes Midnight is happy.
I hood our pony girl then adjust the pulley cords, her torso lowering to permit slumber.
“Let’s eat.”
One more lesson before stepping to the house for a hearty breakfast.
Midnight has been well cleansed inside and out. I watched with paternal pride as Douglas began to take comfort in his governance. Releasing the enema, the excretions gushed to the table top where under my instructions, Douglas waited, spray nozzle in hand, and quickly rinsed all down the drain. Then he doused the nakedness, Midnight seeming to acclimate. If a cat, she would have been purring as soap and a soft chamois laved everywhere... except for her cunny.
Yes, I admonished Douglas, never, ever was a pony girl to benefit from hygiene there.
‘You’ll come to enjoy her smell, Douglas... it embarrasses to no end... and she takes comfort in that.’ divulging more secrets of the masochist.
Still Douglas reveled in handling her, commenting as do most on the amazingly firm blemishless black epidermis and the taut muscling beneath. I encouraged him to take liberties, express his ownership... feeling, caressing, kneading wherever he so chose.
Midnight was in her element and unfortunately the wetness of the bath cloaked what I knew to be a sopping wet vagina.
Massaged then oiled, just as when standing on the auction block, Midnight glows, bringing more awe, Douglas not only again feeling and palpating her entire body, but partaking in the visual delight of her shining blackness, slowly turned to a masterful piece of sculpture, exhibited for our viewing pleasure.
It is now time for her nap.
“Hobble her, Douglas, always,” my words coming as the ankle restraints are released from the short chains of the cleansing table.
The short strap joins her feet. The yoke is released from the clever stanchions and lastly I unhook her leash. Handing the controlling length of leather to Douglas, he guides her from the cleansing table to where she is to be suspended. There I show him the procedure for securing her from the overhead ropes... the waiting boxes, broad straps and the cords of the pulley to be attached to her yoke.
“When you want her to sleep, slacken the cords from the pulley. She can thus lean and lower herself to rest prostrate. Always assure her entire body, feet included, are off the floor. It is important to imbue helplessness. Make sure she is well spread as well, such assures the humiliation she craves, having her cunny always open for inspection and access.”
Douglas nods, quite the willing student. Task completed, we both step back and observe the fruit of our labors. Do I detect tears? Of shame? Of frustration? Of the humiliation she so desperately demands?
“She’s crying , Dad,” Douglas also noting. “Why?”
I step behind and without effort deftly slide two fingers into her wide open inviting sex. The simple penetration causes motion. As her naked form gently swings to and fro in suspension, I hold up the drenched digits before Douglas. He just smiles, the imputed knowledge of her arousal answering his own question.
My son is a quick learner, he realizes Midnight is happy.
I hood our pony girl then adjust the pulley cords, her torso lowering to permit slumber.
“Let’s eat.”
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