'Chained', Segment IV

Josephine Collier enters the many measurements into the website... a German engineering firm catering to the kink community. Not only are the circumferences of wrists, ankles and neck required, but the diameter of the outer most portions of the hands, feet, head and base of his scrotum. 

To be ordered will be bands of tungsten steel, anodized with decorous reflective material. The engineering such that the metal will be industrial in strength yet decorous in appearance.

Miss Josie’s slave girl will be both pretty and readily bound.

With the order, requiring weeks for fabrication, will come a special tool, well designed, more or less a giant set of pliers or vice grips which, with effort, will crimp closed the open loops when slipped over the hands, feet and neck. There will be no tool to reverse the process, opening the hardened steel for removal.

That notion brings wetness. The permanency of the bondage excites. Other than utilizing an acetylene torch, when pinched closed and bolted, thin and also decorative, the bands of one half inch in thickness are not to be removed. 

Jamie is never to deny his... soon to be her... station in life.

Entering credit card information and a box number at a post office miles down the state road, Josie next goes to the waist line measurement. She becomes giddy in her thoughts of corsetting her girl. In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, ladies sought the ideal of an eighteen inch waist. Such brought constant discomfort... even suffering... along with permanently shifting about some internal organs in order to achieve.

All to attain male attraction. Such savagery.

Well Jamie... to become Jami... will not have an eighteen inch corset. But with his current waist line of twenty four inches, forcing him/her to a twenty inch diameter will be achievable... painful yes... but achievable.

The garment is ordered. And such will bring attraction... to her owner.

Every desperate breath will garner thoughts of Jamie’s position... her servitude.    

Items of bondage and indenture ordered, Josie rises from her computer, best to check on her girl.

To the spare bedroom, she has left the shackles in place for the night. Jamie needs to acclimate. And he needs to understand control.... feminine control. Thus in bedding him Josie has decided that a degree of sleep deprivation will soften his mind... make her charge more malleable to her protocols.     

She quietly opens the door of the dim bedroom and peers within. Jamie sits upright on a comfortable mattress, wrists and ankles remaining fettered. But the addition of a thick foam lined prosthetic collar secured by tight cords to the posters right and left assures that he will neither lie down nor even lean to one side or the other.

Awkward, but one can slumber in such a position... eventually. 

“Having trouble sleeping, Sweetheart?” Josie inquires in a matronly tone, noting the eyes are open.

“Can I please lie down?”

“And how are you to address me?”

“Please lie down, Ma’am?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want you to lie down.”

Jamie will need to understand feminine caprice. He will do things and be positioned at his captor’s whim. She is not to explain... need not explain anything.

Josie steps forth to the side of the bed, Hands reach to the shackled wrists, grasping and testing to assure such are well secured and, most importantly, the limited length of the chain leading to the waist chain is such that Jamie cannot touch his penis. There will be no masturbation... no unsupervised masturbation.

“Do you want to fondle yourself?” the blunt question bringing Jamie to blush.

Words come not with the embarrassing question. Jamie struggles to shake his head.

“You became quite erect when I showered you.”

“You... you... you know... you touched me...”

“Yes, you need to be washed everywhere. Being uncircumcised, smegma can be unhygienic.”

Josie smiles inwardly. Cuffed wrists temporarily released from the waist chain, she bound Jamie’s arms high to a bar in the large stall shower, hosed him down then swabbed every inch of his nakedness, both cleansing and getting to better know her boy... soon to be girl. Every inch of his young flesh.    

Then came the razor. A facile task after many years of nursing, preparing patients for intricate surgery, all hair to be removed. The limited growth on his slender legs brought amusement.

“We’ll spend more time with hair removal, Jamie. Tonight was quick... to get you to bed.”

Yes quick, but also giving rise to both inspection and establishing that his body is no longer his.

“You don’t have to do that, Ma’am.”

“Hair is unsightly on a girl... and can be unsanitary. Now go to sleep. If you’re a good girl, in a couple days you can sleep lying down,” a hand reaching to the golden locks to tenderly tousle. 

"Chained', Segment III

Josie Collier sits before a roaring fire sipping a glass of Merlot. As she thinks of the day’s events, particularly the culmination, a booted foot slides forth, the toe gently prodding the left bare buttock of her captive.

Such amusement. With young Jamie finally ceding, he removed everything, completely baring himself to her. She took her time, more inspecting and examining his nakedness than locking him in restraints. Right ankle, left ankle, the connecting chain just long enough to allow him to shuffle and prance... but of course not fully run. That would auger thoughts of freedom... that he could move about without sensing a woman’s control.

Left wrist, than right wrist, that connecting chain is shorter. There will not be... cannot be... any ill considered arm motion... such as throwing a punch. Unnecessary... more for emotional bondage than physical... there is a chain encircling the waist. Attached at the front is a very short chain leading to the chain of the wrist restraints. At the back a slightly longer chain hangs vertically, attached to the ankle chain.

Jamie can move... slowly... cautiously... but feel a woman’s power with every step.  

Well chained, Josie released the cuff attaching him to the SUV. She then tweaked his nipples in a demonstration of his helplessness and gave the command to prance the final two hundred yards to the house. She followed driving the SUV, bare buttocks... so cute and girlish... rippling in the headlights.

Young Jamie entered his new world well bound and without a stitch.

More twinges come as Josie thinks about it.   

An arm lowers, a hand grasping the shunned shirt, tossing into the blaze. Jamie needs warmth. What could be more ironic than to be comforted by a bonfire of the last evidence of living as a male.

“Are you awake, Jamie?”

“Yes.”

“That’s ‘yes Ma’am’ in your new home. I’m no longer your Aunt Josie.”

“What... who are you?”

“That’s ‘who am I, Ma’am’. More or less your owner.”

“Owner?”

“Yes. I’ve always had this thing... slavery... having a girl serve me... sexually and otherwise.”    

“But I’m not a girl.”

“For now. But that will change. How you think... how you act. You no longer have to maintain pretenses, Jamie... of being a boy... being a man. It’s just the two of us. No one knows you’re here. No one will look for you. You’ll be trained... conditioned... to serve.”

“I don’t want to do that. I’m not a girl.”

“We’ll make some... let’s term them adjustments. Your hair is already long. Not much more needed there. There will be some modifications... nothing extreme. I won’t tattoo you... or brand you.”

Josie pauses to smile, seeing her charge shudder, the threat of permanent marks striking fear.

“But something to remind you... always... of your role. I see you’re not circumcised. We’ll need to change that.”

More quaking... more glee for the new owner.

“Don’t worry, I’ll use something to quell the pain. But not entirely. It’s best that you watch what a women of resolve and determination can do to a boy. And feel the loss of course.”

Some ten years as a surgical nurse, Josephine Collier is too well aware of the simplicity in trimming the male foreskin. 

“It will temper your masturbation habit... for a while. Thereafter you’ll learn to bring yourself off differently... while I watch... and supervise.”

Having learned that young Jamie is sexually retarded for a boy in his late teens... no girlfriends... instead finding the opposing gender to be ‘strange’... engendering a new and different method of achieving gratification will be an effort... but not impossible. It’s like rewiring the pleasure centers of the mind. After all, an astute Josie Collier single handedly rewired the house.

“But such will be a reward... for good behavior... for obedient behavior.”

“Why me?”

An appropriate question. Josie hesitates, sipping her wine while contemplating a reply.

“Your mother. She was more than my roommate in college. She served me... sexually and otherwise. And as I said, you look like your mother.”

“You’re sick!” captive Jamie becoming insolent.

“No, I’m wealthy. That makes me eccentric. And being otherwise homeless and impoverished, makes you in need... of a woman’s care and guidance.”  

Josie tosses underpants and socks into the fire.

“You can go back to Brookline, Jamie. Just not to your home. The rent was past due when your folks got into the accident. There’s no inheritance to be had. I had to contribute to the funeral expenses. Things weren’t too promising for you when your mother and father were alive. And now?”

Slacks join the blaze.

“And if you were to go back, you’d need clothes. What you were wearing is now keeping you warm. How are your feet by the way?”

“Sore.”

“Prancing barefoot on the dirt and gravel can hurt. Your choice to leave. I’d lend you a skirt and blouse. But I have no shoes that would fit.”

“What about my running shoes?”

“The first things thrown on top of the logs. Much too masculine for you. So you’d need to get to the main road barefoot... in a skirt and blouse... then find a ride and talk your way back toward Boston. But best spend the night and try in the morning when it’s warmer.”

Josie hears whimpering, reality setting in. Homeless and orphaned, young Jamie is coming to grips with his level of dependency on the woman who had him strip naked and then placed him in bondage. And that dependency is total. Everything he needs is now hers to bestow.

“Roll over on your back, Jamie. Show me your penis... what you think makes you a man.”

Jamie hesitates. He knows he is in no position to defy. But her words come not as a command... but more an invitation.

“May as well begin to acclimate to exhibiting yourself to your superior,” Josie prodding with her boot.

Reluctantly, Jamie rolls. Josie smiles in hearing the clatter of the many links... all locked in place by her hand. Then she finds shyness was not the entire source of the delay. The tip of Jamie’s uncircumcised penis glistens, the foreskin partially retracted, the shaft somewhat engorged.

His ignominious display of pending erection brings thought. Something has spurred sexual excitement!

She has the right boy... girl!

“My, my, Jamie. Good thing that waist chain is tight. Otherwise I’d need to take precautions. Furtive masturbation is prohibited in this house. I’m sure you’re too bashful to tell me what prompted this,” arm extending, fingers going to gently fondle the underside of the firming penis.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am.”

“Oh, don’t be sorry,” noting the oh so slight grazing of her finger brings full erection. “You’re showing respect for your captor. A good first step. Devotion will follow. And I don’t think I’ll be needing to lend you a skirt and blouse for any trip back.

“Let’s get you measured, fed and bedded.”

'Chained', Segment II

The SUV turns onto a narrow road. It’s rough. Though paved, the shoulders have crumbled, potholes from the previous winter not repaired.

“Not much incentive to keep these side roads maintained,” Josie notes. “Tax dollars are tight up here. And few people to complain about the bumps and cracks.”

Jamie assumed that Collier Preserve was nearby, having left the state highway. His assumption proves wrong... more miles pass at a snail’s pace. 

“No one lives within miles,” Josie narrates. “The logging company had a power line put through years ago. But for that you’d be living off the grid. Cooking over a wood stove. Bathing in the pond... when not frozen over. But the seclusion is good... for the soul. You could run around naked and nobody would notice.”

Another mile or two, the SUV turns again, passing through a delapidated open gate, a crooked sign, the lettering for ‘Collier’ quite faded.  The road is a mess... and narrow, the trees and brush encroaching on the right of way.

‘Someone lives here?’ Jamie thinks to himself.

Further and further the SUV creeps, Finally in reaching the top of an incline, some two hundred yards ahead a house comes into view. The condition of the structure is surprising, presentable as opposed to the crumbing gate, Collier sign and decrepit right of way.

“I’ve spent a lot of time on maintenance... finally got the place looking like it’s lived in,” Josie pulling to a stop. “Maybe it’s best... no.... it will be best... if we set the right ambiance for you here at Collier Preserve,” Josie opening her door and stepping out.

She goes to the back, releasing a latch to lift the broad hatch door of the SUV. Reaching within there comes the rattle of chains. It’s a gambit she realizes. But Jamie is slender, a boy a few inches shorter... and many pounds lighter. He’s mentally not prepared to engage in conflict... certainly not hand to hand combat. Plus all the carpentry, in addition to harvesting and splitting firewood for the winter, has added bulk to a frame one would never consider overly feminine.

All she has to do is shackle one wrist... in a quick surprise move. After that... everything falls in line.

“I have something I want you to wear for me Jamie... come.”

Another reference to wearing something for a woman who he’s known as a distant aunt, visiting his deceased mother once or twice per year. More curious than annoyed, Jamie opens his door and steps to the rear. In approaching, Josie extends her left arm as if offering something. When Jamie reacts, extending his in turn, Josie grabs it and in one swift continuous move, her right hand comes from behind her back and snaps in place a cuff about his wrist.

She smiles in noting it is slim, almost effeminate, Jamie behind his age group in terms of masculine development.

“What... what is this?”

“Something appropriate to introduce you to your stay at Collier Preserve.”

Jamie stares at the cuff, his eyes following the attached chain to the back of the SUV. The links are not large but the shiny steel is for sure not to be snapped.

“So Jamie, you and my car are now one. I can get back behind the wheel and more or less drag you to the house. Or you can let me properly dress you,” giving the latter words a sarcastic enunciation, “and you can take your first hike.”    

Josie, sensing twinges in discussing Jamie’s masturbatory habits, now feels moisture in her loins. She senses the thrill of power.

“But it will also be your last hike. Girls don’t enjoy hiking... remember?”

Josie steps back, arms akimbo, letting Jamie assess. Realization is required. She of course does not want to drag Jamie behind. She needs him to realize that he must take the first step on his own volition. Subsequent steps will readily fall in place.   

Jamie gives the chain a tug. Some ten feet slide from the back of the SUV. Then the links become taught. Tugging again, Jamie understands that he and the SUV are one. Anything more than a walking pace and he will indeed be dragged.     

“What... what... do you want me to wear?”

Josie smiles, stepping to the back of the SUV she opens a box. There comes more rattling.

“These,” holding up a more elaborate set of shackles.

Though flustered, Jamie’s mind races. Already partially mobilized and for the most part at the woman’s mercy, she could easily add the restraints, his ability to resist limited.

“But you’ve already... you know... got me hooked to the car.”           

“As I said, I want you to hike. And I want you to hike completely naked,” the firm words uttered matter-of-factly.

Jamie’s mouth opens... eyes widening. The kindly woman, thought to be taking him under her wing at a time of grief, is now commanding. Jamie’s mind becomes more focused, the funeral, the shock of his parents untimely demise, cast aside. The present becomes more clear. Josie further clarifies.

“No one knows you’re here. No one knows you left the funeral parlor with me. You have no living relatives, and while I’ve been kind enough to introduce you to your new life your parents friends have spent the afternoon feasting at your parents’ repast. Certainly not thinking about you.”

Josie leans into the back of the SUV right hand grasping a cutting tool.

“This is a box cutter. You can either strip for me, or I’ll tear your clothing to shreds and you can trot along while I drag you to the house. You’ll find I am a person of rituals. And one of the most important is that you submit to me... and do so by either being naked or wearing what I want you to wear. The ritual begins here and now. You’ll enter my house with nothing. Other than these,” left hand rattling the set of shackles.

Speechless, Jamie stares at the mass of metal. 

“The sun is setting and it’s getting cold, Jamie. You may prefer to do this in the dark. But it matters not. No one will see you but me. And you’ll soon acclimate to that. So let’s begin now. If I have to use the box cutter there could be damage to more than your clothing,” presenting the sharp blade to his face.

Yes, Josie fully understands that she could physically overwhelm the boy, rip his clothes to shreds. But she prefers acquiescence... the mental and emotional response to her power and control more important than demonstrating her physical strength.

“You’ll need to... you know...” Jamie holding up his cuffed right wrist.

“No. That stays for now. Unbutton your shirt, slip out your left arm then slide the shirt up your right arm and onto the chain. I’ll take care of it after you’re naked and better shackled. Begin your new life, Jamie. You’re going to learn to like being in chains. That means you’ll be safe... and protected... and all the worries you’ve had to think about... where and how to live without your parent’s guidance... all the challenges you’ve faced in your young life and will be facing... are no longer of consequence. You just have to serve... me.”      

More pause. Josie lets the boy mull over his situation... the temperature plunging with the disappearing sun. Cold will counter continuing indecision. 

Jamie focuses... the present challenge is all that needs consideration. And thereafter?

Yet there is the concern of baring himself to a woman for the most part unknown. He has not even exposed himself to his mother in the past few years. But how is it his shyness can remain? 

There comes to mind visits to his doctor’s office, mother insisting on annual physical examinations. Disrobing, the young nurse handing him a dressing gown, smiling at his bashfulness, did such not bring a quirky thrill? Did such not prompt a busy hand when returning home?

Glumly, Jamie concedes, fingers going to the buttons of his shirt.

“Good girl.”

'Chained', Segment I

New story, inspired by some books written by author Sam Beattie. Well done stuff, Female Dominant/male submissive, non consensual D/s. Heavy bondage. But the theme of each book is repetitive.

I suspected that 'Sam' must be female, her descriptions of the male protagonist being fondled she terms as 'abuse' (guys getting off don't think of it that way) and the forced cross dressing scenes are described in a level of detail which most guys lack.

Sure enough my suspicion was confirmed when I encountered a story written under the nom de plum 'Samantha J Beattie'. Similar theme, similar writing style.

Well, enjoy.

CB   

***** 

Chained

Copyright 2023

by Chris Bellows

“Do you know who I am, Jamie?”

“You’re my Aunt Josie.”

“Yes, your mother referred to me as your aunt. But we weren’t truly related. We are... were... close friends. Went to college together.”

The remembrance brings pleasant thoughts to Josephine Collier... ‘Aunt Josie’. Yes when Josie terms the relationship ‘close’, it was more than an emotional bond. Many nights of entwined nakedness, dormitory room locked, the halls quiet as most classmates dated on weekend nights.

“We packed your things quickly. Did you tell anyone at the funeral where you were going?”

“No. I don’t know where. I didn’t know you were taking me back to the house.”

“It’s a long drive. Northern Maine. Since I was at the funeral it’s more convenient for me to take you now rather than come back.”

Josie returns to silence. She can’t help thinking that ‘taking’ Jamie has been so easy and so unnoted. Neighbors and friends are at the repast. Few if any know Josie, she won’t be missed. And they will conclude that Jamie’s absence is due to unfathomable grief and the need to be alone.

Once clear of the Boston area, the drive goes smoothly, little traffic. Josie decides to leave young Jamie to his thoughts, the tragic death of his mother and father... a car accident... for sure still overwhelming his mind. So overwhelming that he has not realized he’s essentially been kidnaped.

Yet, that’s not entirely the case, Josie’s subconscious counters. There are no living relatives to care for Jamie. Legally she could apply to be foster parent and probably be so appointed without objection. But why go through the time and legal expense... young Jamie left to the vagaries of the welfare system while living in some state run youth hostel in the interim.

No, the six hour drive to the seclusion of the Maine forests are best for him, she further justifies to herself. He’ll be away from an empty house... memories not to burden. And beyond the clutches of government bureaucracy.

“It gets cold there... colder than Brookline,” Jamie jarred from silence by the roadside sign ‘Welcome to Maine’.

“Yes it does.”

“Didn’t pack any winter stuff.”

Josie smiles. There was not much packed at all. What little was thrown into a small canvas pouch was more for show than for covering.

“You’ll have what you need... at my house. I have some things for you to wear for me.”

To wear... for her? The phraseology Jamie finds curious. Josie notes the perplexed look, her arm reaching, a hand going to the youthful golden locks and gently brushing about. The boy looks so much like his deceased mother.

“You look like your pretty mother, Jamie.  And you’re  going to look very pretty for me.”

*****

Nearing Bangor, Josie knows there will be fewer places to stop, gasoline stations and fast food restaurants sparse. She pulls off the interstate highway.

“Need fuel. And while we stop, why not walk over to the McDonald’s and get a burger or something.”

Pulling to the pump, Jose grabs her wallet and exits the SUV. Inserting first her credit card then the nozzle she slips a ten dollar bill from her wallet.

“Come Jamie. Get some food,” waving the bill. “We have three more hours so be quick about it.”

Jamie exits the car. He is glum. Such tragedy. But he is also in need. He takes the ten dollars and turns to the nearby restaurant. Soon out of sight, Josie opens the rear door, grabbing the small bag of clothing. 

‘There’s no going back,’ she thinks to herself. ‘Not for me... and certainly not for Jamie,’ tossing his clothing into a sizable rubbish barrel.           

Jamie returns, not noting the missing bag. While eating, the pump clicks off. Josie returns to the driver’s seat. Back to the interstate.

“Not much around,” Jamie notes, munching on his cheeseburger. “Except trees.”

“That’s why I like it up here... and you will too. And there will be more trees... and less ‘much’,” Josie quips.

Two more hours, and Jamie finds Josie to be correct. There is nothing. Finally pulling off the interstate, the SUV continues north on a state road, two lanes.

“You have a girlfriend, Jamie?” Josie needing to know just who and how much he will be missed. 

“No, not really.”

“You like girls? They must like you,” the long blond hair for sure to be found attractive.

“They’re... you know... kind of strange.”

Josie mulls over the observation. Spoken as would a boy of prepubescence... though not the case... young Jamie for sure must have the urges of surging hormones.

“So no one to call... no one to write to.”

Jamie shakes his head.

This may be easier than she imagined. The family home was rented. Jamie’s mother, being an old friend, frequently fessed up to being near broke. So an estate administrator won’t be seeking the prospective heir to a small fortune. Instead with limited funds, he’ll merely tidy things up quickly. There will an assumption concerning Jamie’s whereabouts... that someone took him under their wing... but no driving need to find out whom. And more importantly where.

Northern Maine. State parks... vast acres of logging land. Some camp sites. And much seclusion.

“So no girlfriend. You must masturbate,” Josie deciding to be more and more brazen as she approaches Jamie’s new home.

“I... I...” Jamie in shock, words not coming.

“Don’t be shy about it. All boys do it... though it’s not healthy.”

And girls too, but disclosing that would tend to bring a degree of comfort. She does not want that.

A few miles in silence, letting Jamie percolate.

“Does your penis spit stuff... when you masturbate?”

Stunned, Jamie can do no more than nod.  

“Well, we can’t have you spewing that nasty stuff in my home. At least not wherever you want. So we’ll need to... guess I’d call it... monitor your habit.”

Jamie bows his head. Josie does her best to cloak her smile. Deeper and deeper into the woods.... deeper and deeper into her clutches.

“So when you do that, your penis gets hard... and you stroke it. And you think about things.”

Another sheepish nod.

“What is it you think about?”

No reply. It seems even if Jamie could formulate the words, such would not pass through his tight throat.  

“You’ll be telling me. There will be much time at the Collier Preserve... much time together.”

More miles pass. An apoplectic Jamie notes there is now nothing other than fir trees. Nothing to prompt a change in the sordid subject matter. Finally his search for conversation leads to the unfamiliar term ‘preserve’. He inquires, his voice barely heard.

“A preserve is land a person owns, Jamie, but eventually gives to the government... kind of as a park. In my case when I die. But it remains wild... no development. I inherited it... more than one thousand acres. Beautiful... untouched since they logged it over one hundred years ago... and will forever remain unlogged.”

“But you can use it... like for hiking and stuff?”

Josie smiles, detecting the boy’s affinity for the outdoors.

“Most girls don’t enjoy hiking. But you’ll enjoy the view from the house.”

Jamie is perplexed again. His Aunt Josie infers something. Whether or not girls enjoy hiking... how is that pertinent?   

Silence resumes. Jamie feels a chill, wrapping his arms about himself to bring warmth. It’s mid September. In Brookline, Massachusetts the temperature remains most comfortable even though autumn nears. Here in northern Maine, having driven some three hundred miles, the setting sun brings cold.

“I can’t remember if you threw a jacket in the bag,” he comments.

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll have something to cover you... at the house,” Josie smiling that whatever was in the bag is no longer of consequence.

“How long... you know... will I be staying here? I was supposed to start at the community college.”

“You won’t need to think about college, Jamie. Anything you need to know you’ll learn from me... and some books and instructional videos I have.”

“What kind of books?”

“Cooking... etiquette... cosmetology... stuff girls like to learn.”

Again the inference.

“What’s cosmetology?”

“Beautification. You’ll learn to look pretty for me.”

More confused than concerned, Jamie responds... as would a boy.

“Think I’d rather go hiking.”

“No you wouldn’t. You’ll hurt your feet.”

“These running shoes are pretty comfortable.”

“I’m sure they are. But you’ll not be wearing them. Sort of a house rule.”

Josie again smiles to herself... wonting to add... ‘you won’t be wearing anything of your choosing’. 

'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!

*****

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.”