The Cleansing Table
There is really no need to secure Midnight to the low, well drained washing table. She thrills with her ablutions after a good long run in harness and would willingly endure.
Still, there are my rules. She is to be held immobile, at all times in thorough restraint, unless pulling the cart or other vehicle of conveyance. It makes her eager to be run.
“Over here, Douglas. You’re going to give Midnight a good cleansing,” patting the top of the slab of stone.
Beveled, drained, plumbing fixtures above, the elaborate cleansing table, a slab of marble with some special features, beckons a sweaty well worn pony girl.
At one end, left and right, are adjustable stanchions designed to hold in place the ends of Midnight’s yoke. At the opposing end are short chains, well secured to the marble, to be clipped to Midnight’s ankle restraints.
Thus as I direct, Midnight knows to mount, kneel, lower her head to align her yoke into the stanchions, and part her feet. As always, I want her spread open, revealing all, imbuing a sense of vulnerability as her buttocks part and the long labia dangle between forcibly spread thighs. Within moments, the yoke is secured as are her ankles, making Midnight one with the table. Her leash is tied off above, holding steady her face and head. Then the bit is slipped out, Midnight knowing to remain silent as I furtively press a finger to my lips.
Douglas becomes a little squeamish when I announce that thorough daily cleansings begin with a long deep and soapy enema.
As stated, Mother spared no time and money in caring for her property, for those she owned. The formidable table and stanchion configuration is quite an investment. Midnight’s yoke can be lowered to mandate the proper posture. I thus show Douglas how to work the adjustable stanchions and within moments Midnight kneels in a most obscene and revealing pose, head and shoulders low, spread and open buttocks high. The tips of the long nipples abrade the cool marble and I smile in seeing the long pink nubs crinkle and harden.
We fill the enema bag... soap, warm water. I have an ulterior motive for the deep colonic we are going to administer. Midnight’s colon remains filled with my seed, the evidence of sodomy needs to be purged.
I note that Midnight begins to quiver. All the years of intense degradation and she remains so wonderfully shy about being handled by men she does not know. I thus mandate that Douglas do all the touching, including well greased fingers working that tight but well used sphincter.
“No gloves, Douglas, it’s too impersonal and it’s best you and Midnight get to know one another... intimately,” my words coming as index and middle finger plunge deeply where my penis so joyously reveled.
And so the morning jaunt comes to an entertaining end, watching a helpless Midnight quiver as Douglas clumsily stuffs her rectum with an oversized enema nozzle, the valve is opened and the slow torment begins.
“Just ignore any moans, Douglas. Deep within she enjoys...”
Saturday, April 27, 2013
Saturday, April 20, 2013
Midnight - Segment XIV
Douglas the Groom
Having left a note on Douglas’s bedroom door, he greets us at the barn door. I smile to myself... no hesitation for this normally obstinate teen. Last night’s many lessons have indeed piqued prurient interest in our newly acquired beast.
It’s warmer in the mid morning sun, and whereas I was able to work Midnight into a good sweat in the early morning cool, her sudoriferous form now exudes rivulets which stream to her calves and feet. I crop the buttocks with zeal, the thwack of leather on wet skin sure to further impress young Douglas. The cart lurches, attaining top speed. And so I drive Midnight at an unsustainable pace for the final quarter mile, Douglas observing with awe.
Yes, at six foot two, 190 pounds of pure muscle, a yoked Midnight makes an impression with those stretched nipples jutting forth and the elongated labia flopping wildly between rapidly pumping thighs.
I sometimes wish I could both observe and be the flagellant working her into a lather.
I pull the cart to a stop and direct, the first day of ‘Douglas the groom’s’ training.
“Hobble her, then take the reins,” tossing to Douglas the short ankle strap.
The first step is facile. But then I must explain that the reins must drawn from the cart and back through the eyelets on the plastic yoke, leaving such looped through the ends of the bit and the nose restraint.
I dismount and demonstrate.
“Be very gentle, Douglas, besides the bit pressing her mouth and lips, the nose loop penetrates her sinus cavity, thus applied tension irritates a myriad of nerve endings,” reaching forth to tweak my son’s nose.
“Ow! Dad!”
“Just so you understand. Handling the nose loop... and anything attached to it, offers instant and thorough control over her. You must be appreciative... as appreciative as her.”
Douglas nods, his eyes watering from the untoward pinch of my fingers. Rather brazen of me, but the point is made. Do not thoughtlessly apply suffering. Pain is to be applied for a reason.
“Now take the reins, one in each hand. That’s it, now just a simple tug left then right...”
Douglas complies and for the first time in his life experiences the exhilaration of controlling the subordinate human beast. Remaining attached to the cart, Midnight’s face diligently follows Douglas’s slow draw to the left then back to the right.
I smile with the dismayed look on Midnight’s face, a well trained and experienced pony girl having to respond to the neophyte. Yet she has no choice. And I am willing to bet that a simple splay of those labia and quick diddle of her vagina will reveal the wetness which betrays her true reaction to a controlling hand. It arouses.
“Now draw her into the barn, Douglas. Hold her head high. Always demand good form from a pony girl. Slowly now, remember you’ve hobbled her...”
Douglas raises his hands.
“Higher, bring her up to her toes. Pony girls look more obeisant on toes. She will be more respectful of your governance... be more obedient... use your power.”
More comical foot work, as on toes, Midnight is forced to prance. Though the way is short, the steps are many, and I note Douglas’s eyes are glued below to where the dark pink flesh of Midnight’s vaginal opening announce her ownership and forced modification.
Into the barn, I show Douglas how to release the prongs from the hip rings. Then, freed of the cart, I direct to the washing table. It’s bath time. And whereas Midnight normally enjoys the deluge of warm water, soapy chamois and my caressing hands, I am sure she will once again find reservation. As opposed to last night when Douglas merely watched, on this morning he will touch... everywhere. Naked pony girls no longer have need for modesty. Yet the humiliation and the concurring concupiscent reaction remain.
Having left a note on Douglas’s bedroom door, he greets us at the barn door. I smile to myself... no hesitation for this normally obstinate teen. Last night’s many lessons have indeed piqued prurient interest in our newly acquired beast.
It’s warmer in the mid morning sun, and whereas I was able to work Midnight into a good sweat in the early morning cool, her sudoriferous form now exudes rivulets which stream to her calves and feet. I crop the buttocks with zeal, the thwack of leather on wet skin sure to further impress young Douglas. The cart lurches, attaining top speed. And so I drive Midnight at an unsustainable pace for the final quarter mile, Douglas observing with awe.
Yes, at six foot two, 190 pounds of pure muscle, a yoked Midnight makes an impression with those stretched nipples jutting forth and the elongated labia flopping wildly between rapidly pumping thighs.
I sometimes wish I could both observe and be the flagellant working her into a lather.
I pull the cart to a stop and direct, the first day of ‘Douglas the groom’s’ training.
“Hobble her, then take the reins,” tossing to Douglas the short ankle strap.
The first step is facile. But then I must explain that the reins must drawn from the cart and back through the eyelets on the plastic yoke, leaving such looped through the ends of the bit and the nose restraint.
I dismount and demonstrate.
“Be very gentle, Douglas, besides the bit pressing her mouth and lips, the nose loop penetrates her sinus cavity, thus applied tension irritates a myriad of nerve endings,” reaching forth to tweak my son’s nose.
“Ow! Dad!”
“Just so you understand. Handling the nose loop... and anything attached to it, offers instant and thorough control over her. You must be appreciative... as appreciative as her.”
Douglas nods, his eyes watering from the untoward pinch of my fingers. Rather brazen of me, but the point is made. Do not thoughtlessly apply suffering. Pain is to be applied for a reason.
“Now take the reins, one in each hand. That’s it, now just a simple tug left then right...”
Douglas complies and for the first time in his life experiences the exhilaration of controlling the subordinate human beast. Remaining attached to the cart, Midnight’s face diligently follows Douglas’s slow draw to the left then back to the right.
I smile with the dismayed look on Midnight’s face, a well trained and experienced pony girl having to respond to the neophyte. Yet she has no choice. And I am willing to bet that a simple splay of those labia and quick diddle of her vagina will reveal the wetness which betrays her true reaction to a controlling hand. It arouses.
“Now draw her into the barn, Douglas. Hold her head high. Always demand good form from a pony girl. Slowly now, remember you’ve hobbled her...”
Douglas raises his hands.
“Higher, bring her up to her toes. Pony girls look more obeisant on toes. She will be more respectful of your governance... be more obedient... use your power.”
More comical foot work, as on toes, Midnight is forced to prance. Though the way is short, the steps are many, and I note Douglas’s eyes are glued below to where the dark pink flesh of Midnight’s vaginal opening announce her ownership and forced modification.
Into the barn, I show Douglas how to release the prongs from the hip rings. Then, freed of the cart, I direct to the washing table. It’s bath time. And whereas Midnight normally enjoys the deluge of warm water, soapy chamois and my caressing hands, I am sure she will once again find reservation. As opposed to last night when Douglas merely watched, on this morning he will touch... everywhere. Naked pony girls no longer have need for modesty. Yet the humiliation and the concurring concupiscent reaction remain.
Saturday, April 13, 2013
Midnight - Segment XIII
Countering Apprehension
“Your spouse wants to cane me,” a somewhat somnolent Midnight proclaims.
Midnight is in repose, kneeling, belly pressed over the familiar log, upper body prostrate. My semi erect penis continues to rest inside her tight rectum. We let it slowly become flaccid leaving behind a massive discharge of male effluent. I lean, my torso resting on her muscled form for support, my energy temporarily depleted after fucking with fervor. My warming her nakedness is appreciated, the morning air still nippy.
Yes, Midnight remains tight... marvelously tight. With male pride, I ripped her open... and reveled in so doing. My thrusting motion caused her labia to rhythmically dangle back and forth, occasionally brushing my scrotum. This brings to her tantalizing joy and pleasing thoughts for me... that I am seizing male pleasure and, but for faint grazes of her stretched labia, completely denying her.
The sexual power exchange enthralls.
I recuperate as she advantages herself of moments of permitted speech... ungagged, unbridled, and not gasping for breath.
“It’s Victoria’s thing, Midnight. One cannot deny a woman of her ilk her pleasures. I think deep within you will enjoy. Your prior owner was a woman...”
“She was not overly harsh, Sir. She spared the crop and whip as long as I orally accommodated.”
I laugh, the notion that Midnight thinks she can somehow dictate any form of intercourse amongst her owners brings a degree of drollness.
“It is not within your purview to decide how you will serve... how you will be used, Midnight. Surely you must know that by now.”
I reach beneath, left hand and right each finding a firm pony breast, depleted of most feminine fat through extensive exercise, yet remaining overly sensitive, to both excoriating crop and sensuous touch.
“She’s given to apply bamboo here as well, Midnight” my fingers bringing joy as I feel her tighten in fear.
A moment of silent thought, then Midnight finds words.
“I am not sure I can take that. Not there.”
“Oh, but you will. It is your role to accept what others offer... no matter the pain, the discomfort, the humiliation. You will not have a choice. Picture yourself strapped down, well exposed, offering all to the chastising hand of a Domineering woman. It excites, Midnight. Deep within it arouses you. I know... and in time you will as well.”
Midnight puckers her rectum, squeezing my spent penis and adding a degree of post coitus thrill. In turn, there has been comparatively none for her, of course. Pleasure has been all mine to take.
“I need to be run, Master.”
Reluctantly, I arise, with a ‘plop’ my flaccid penis exiting a well trained anus, my torso no longer warming Midnight’s nakedness. My well fucked pony girl is right, breakfast awaits. Extended moments in the carnal embrace of the Sodomite will bring questions.
A crooked finger slips through Midnight’s nose loop. I force her to stand. I guide, smiling lasciviously in watching a hobbled Midnight hop back to the waiting pony cart, labia rippling with each strained footfall.
“Welts will nicely adorn your black flesh, Midnight.”
As I return my beast to the restraints of the pony cart, clipping the prongs to her hip rings, I recall the persnickety care Mother offered Midnight’s skin, at the time the exacting level of her attentiveness lost on this hormone deluged teen.
Yes, Midnight was sunned regularly, nose loop secured high above to a stanchion in the corral, her entire body exposed to the intense rays of the summer sun. Hour after hour she was made to expose herself in the hot direct rays. As dark as her Rwandan skin was, Mother assured she was further blackened, day after day after day.
And then there was the effect of ultra violet rays on unprotected pink flesh. Yes, a crop applied to sun burned pink flesh can be quite effective... limited exertion... maximum response.
Before returning the bit, I stand proximate, a finger hooking the nose loop to draw Midnight’s face to my zipper. Without need for a command she cleanses the moist, odorous appendage, the final task of the well trained sodomite. Saving time, I zip myself then press the bit to her lips and draw the slack from the reins.
Such an invigorating view, I think to myself in mounting the cart... though I barely noticed.
“Your spouse wants to cane me,” a somewhat somnolent Midnight proclaims.
Midnight is in repose, kneeling, belly pressed over the familiar log, upper body prostrate. My semi erect penis continues to rest inside her tight rectum. We let it slowly become flaccid leaving behind a massive discharge of male effluent. I lean, my torso resting on her muscled form for support, my energy temporarily depleted after fucking with fervor. My warming her nakedness is appreciated, the morning air still nippy.
Yes, Midnight remains tight... marvelously tight. With male pride, I ripped her open... and reveled in so doing. My thrusting motion caused her labia to rhythmically dangle back and forth, occasionally brushing my scrotum. This brings to her tantalizing joy and pleasing thoughts for me... that I am seizing male pleasure and, but for faint grazes of her stretched labia, completely denying her.
The sexual power exchange enthralls.
I recuperate as she advantages herself of moments of permitted speech... ungagged, unbridled, and not gasping for breath.
“It’s Victoria’s thing, Midnight. One cannot deny a woman of her ilk her pleasures. I think deep within you will enjoy. Your prior owner was a woman...”
“She was not overly harsh, Sir. She spared the crop and whip as long as I orally accommodated.”
I laugh, the notion that Midnight thinks she can somehow dictate any form of intercourse amongst her owners brings a degree of drollness.
“It is not within your purview to decide how you will serve... how you will be used, Midnight. Surely you must know that by now.”
I reach beneath, left hand and right each finding a firm pony breast, depleted of most feminine fat through extensive exercise, yet remaining overly sensitive, to both excoriating crop and sensuous touch.
“She’s given to apply bamboo here as well, Midnight” my fingers bringing joy as I feel her tighten in fear.
A moment of silent thought, then Midnight finds words.
“I am not sure I can take that. Not there.”
“Oh, but you will. It is your role to accept what others offer... no matter the pain, the discomfort, the humiliation. You will not have a choice. Picture yourself strapped down, well exposed, offering all to the chastising hand of a Domineering woman. It excites, Midnight. Deep within it arouses you. I know... and in time you will as well.”
Midnight puckers her rectum, squeezing my spent penis and adding a degree of post coitus thrill. In turn, there has been comparatively none for her, of course. Pleasure has been all mine to take.
“I need to be run, Master.”
Reluctantly, I arise, with a ‘plop’ my flaccid penis exiting a well trained anus, my torso no longer warming Midnight’s nakedness. My well fucked pony girl is right, breakfast awaits. Extended moments in the carnal embrace of the Sodomite will bring questions.
A crooked finger slips through Midnight’s nose loop. I force her to stand. I guide, smiling lasciviously in watching a hobbled Midnight hop back to the waiting pony cart, labia rippling with each strained footfall.
“Welts will nicely adorn your black flesh, Midnight.”
As I return my beast to the restraints of the pony cart, clipping the prongs to her hip rings, I recall the persnickety care Mother offered Midnight’s skin, at the time the exacting level of her attentiveness lost on this hormone deluged teen.
Yes, Midnight was sunned regularly, nose loop secured high above to a stanchion in the corral, her entire body exposed to the intense rays of the summer sun. Hour after hour she was made to expose herself in the hot direct rays. As dark as her Rwandan skin was, Mother assured she was further blackened, day after day after day.
And then there was the effect of ultra violet rays on unprotected pink flesh. Yes, a crop applied to sun burned pink flesh can be quite effective... limited exertion... maximum response.
Before returning the bit, I stand proximate, a finger hooking the nose loop to draw Midnight’s face to my zipper. Without need for a command she cleanses the moist, odorous appendage, the final task of the well trained sodomite. Saving time, I zip myself then press the bit to her lips and draw the slack from the reins.
Such an invigorating view, I think to myself in mounting the cart... though I barely noticed.
Saturday, April 6, 2013
Midnight - Segment XII
Running Midnight
I am an early riser. Victoria sleeps relatively late. The morning thus becomes an ideal time to harness Midnight and have her flex those well developed but most likely cramped muscles.
Concluding my evening lecture, I not only left her legs restrained in a folded position, after a priapic Douglas exited the barn, I took the time to apply the special lotion and robustly pull away at Midnight’s pink parts. I then enshrouded both labia and nipples with the soft stretching straps and located a challenging set of weights, such that have previously dangled from her feminine parts, and attached with fervor. Thus her modification continues.
Whereas the elongation of her vaginal lips is culturally acceptable for Midnight, the nipple stretching is found to be both objectionable and aggravating. Yet it is for the best. Long nipples offer easy targets for the crop. As stated, running a girl is for her exercise, not the equestrian. Therefore the lightest of strokes to a nipple can bring instant compliance, nominal exertion for the rider. In the long run, it’s best for both.
I forgo a morning shower for now, to bathe after any prospective coupling with Midnight deemed to be the wiser course. Casually dressed, I head to the barn, hearing the propane heater roar in offering offsetting warmth to the early Spring coolness.
Midnight hangs, prostrate, just as I left her. She no longer contracts her muscles to spur an arousing swaying motion. In being weighted, she knows such futile motion will only hasten the stretching of her sensitive flesh.
Hearing the barn door open, she stirs, the limited temperature making her eager to be harnessed as intended. I therefore waste no time in preparing her, heartened that at some point son Douglas will be trained as a groom and each morning have the naked form well trussed and waiting for me harnessed to a cart.
But for now, it remains my task.
There comes a sigh of relief with the removal of the four weights. The soft straps are unraveled. A bucket is pushed under her pudendum and with some sibilant sounds, no further encouragement is needed for Midnight to open herself as I reach to part labia which appear to have grown another half inch.
It is not true of course, my male imagination offering pleasant delusion. Still there will be steady inexorable lengthening, probably attaining the imagined half inch of growth within a month or two.
I next remove the hood and extricate the extreme penis gag. Now is as good a time as ever to permit Midnight to speak, son and wife in slumber.
“Thank you sir,” the humble words coming after Midnight clears her throat and finds moisture for her lips.
I release the leg straps and Midnight graciously smiles as she slowly straightens her legs and lowers her feet to relieve the cramping.
“Must you bind me so firmly, sir? I cannot move at all.”
“It is best for you, Midnight. You know that. Deep within a girl like you finds comfort. Plus I can safely assume you’re now eager to perform for me.”
She reluctantly nods as I turn to prepare the light pony cart. The two wheeled vehicle rests nearby, nothing more than a seat mounted on an axle, two aluminum poles jut forth, Midnight to stand between, her deeply implanted hip rings to bear the23 stress of pulling her Master.
Yes, Midnight will be run completely naked, ubiquitous yoke and nylon ankle cuffs her only covering. No waist belt as utilized at the auction house. Mother preferred to expose as much of a pony girl as possible... a penchant with which I came to concur at an early age. There is an optimization in binding a girl. Restraints offer the modesty of covering. I prefer demeaning nakedness, as Mother vehemently suggested. So Mother had Midnight pierced at the hips, deeply, stainless steel rings mounted on posts which internally penetrate bone. Thus Midnight will be made one with the light pony cart, but not overly covered in leather restraints.
As Midnight kicks her legs, limbering muscles held in strict immobility, I begin to water her... lots of water. I squeegee one pint then return to the barn’s cleansing area to refill.
“It was most humiliating to be introduced to your son like that, Master. Spread wide open and exposed.”
“I am glad you enjoyed it. He’s going to learn to care for you, Midnight. After I have run you this morning, he’s going to cleanse. It will be interesting to see if my lecture spurred any adolescent male thoughts. You will accommodate him, by the way. And report to me. Since Douglas thinks you can’t talk, it will be amusing to learn how a hormone laden teen will take advantage of you.”
“And your wife?”
“She will benefit from bed sheets made more presentable,” I muse, assuming that Midnight, having so often fellated me as a budding teen, catches my drift.
I squeegee more water. Midnight at one time resisted being filled and filled. Years of training in strict bondage have brought complacency in being compelled and controlled. She swallows.
“You always enjoyed my taste. I am sure you will come to enjoy Douglas as well.”
“Yes sir.”
“And as you are aware, Victoria is an aficionado of the cane. When the occasion arises, do scream unintelligibly. You’ve been silenced. The ruse must continue for now. No pleading. No discernible words.”
I raise the cords holding the yoke, returning Midnight to being suspended upright. Next I return the two boxes and her bare feet deftly find the smooth surfaces, worn by many years of mounting and dismounting, to stand on toes. Weight transferred, the thigh straps are easily loosened, lowering and permitting her feet to slide off the boxes and come together on the barn floor.
With that I engage the hobbling strap and clip a leash to her nose loop. Midnight objects.
“You need not hobble me sir. I will not kick”
“I know you will not kick... because you will always be hobbled when not suspended or harnessed to a cart. It is important for you. Control, Midnight. A girl like you needs to sense constant control.”
“I suppose you are right, sir,” the words coming as I untie the cords holding the yoke.
“Time to be run, Midnight,” my voice gushing with enthusiasm.
Holding high the leash, I lead Midnight, prancing on toes, to the light cart. Nothing more than a seat mounted on a pair of wheels and two prongs to be attached to the hip rings. Midnight knows to position herself with little guidance as I stoop, raise the aluminum poles and secure such to rings, snapping in place utilizing ‘D’ clamps.
A simple bit is next, rather welcomed after enduring the long stout penis gag. She willingly opens to take it. No bridle necessary, I know she will not attempt spit it out. Then I remove the leash and in place attach thin strips of leather, nose ring to a waiting loop in the bit, through a loop on the yoke and then to the seat area... left side and right. Her reins. I turn off the propane heater and open the barn door.
Watching the reaction of Midnight’s coal black skin as wafts of cold air rush in is delightful. The nipples crinkle, with their length the dark pink shafts turning to pencil points. I sit, crop in hand leaving the hobbling strap in place. Nothing more than deviant fun, I apply a crisp snap of the crop to the right nipple and a perplexed Midnight instantly shuffles forth, the reins directing to the door, the encumbered feet bringing a most entertaining and strained gait.
“If you again object to being hobbled, I will run you like this for miles,” I admonish. “Understand?”
A silenced Midnight nods, the added tension on the reins bringing a pang of suffering.
Exiting the door I pull to a stop. Dismount, shut the barn door then stoop to remove the hobbling strap from a rapidly chilling Midnight.
Yes, she is most eager to be run, so much wants to perform for me. Still I take my time, reseat myself and pause. She knows to remain perfectly still, obediently waiting until I once again apply a snap of the leather to a nipple long and sensitive.
‘I’ve missed you,’ a sentimental side wants to call out.
Yet, I refrain from emotion and finally apply a convincing stroke to the left nipple. I am sure Midnight has missed me as well, judging from the instant and obedient contraction of enormous thigh muscles and buttocks, my flick of the wrist bringing forth quick acceleration of the cart.
Such a delightful morning.
Despite the cool morning air, I soon have Midnight worked into a good sweat, droplets flinging from a moist, glabrous body which gleams under the rising morning sun. I deliberately select challenging inclined ranch paths that lead up a modest hill. The vista there can be invigorating, and the many climactic releases offered in the past by Midnight’s receptive apertures bring fond memories of adolescence.
So I crop away, feeling the cart lurch with the quick but effective nips of agony, knowing that Midnight is in her element, legs pumping impressively, enduring, exerting, wondrously tormented... yet enjoying.
Air suctioned in desperation whistles past her bit. The muscling ripples and rolls. What buttocks! On occasion I reach forth and palm a pair of pink labia which flop about, thumping against her inner thighs, serving to both amuse and entice.
We finally reach the apex, and though I tug unmercifully on the reins, strained head rotating under my exacting direction, by rote Midnight knows where I want her. A convenient clearing, a smooth boulder upon which to sit, a fallen tree where, tummy down, a Midnight released from harness can rest and open herself for the anal penetration she first ignominiously learned to accept and later came to deviantly crave.
I pull the cart to a stop and dismount. Expelled lungfuls of demanded oxygen bring snorts. I loosen the reins, drawing slack in order pop the bit from Midnight’s mouth. It dangles just below her chin, suspended by the slim leather lengths which remain attached to her nose loop, threaded through her yoke and attached to the front of the cart where I tied off. I stoop and again hobble her ankles with the short strap. On this occasion she utters a wordless ‘umph’ of disapproval. I choose to ignore.
“Welcome home,” my tone one of genuine acceptance.
“Thank you sir,” Midnight manages to offer between gulps of needed air. “You ran me rather hard.”
“A girl like you needs to be run hard... and cropped,” stooping again as I insert a hand between well heated thighs. My digits knowingly splay the lips then middle and ring finger glide between her loose labia, easily slipping into a vagina gushing with the juices of feminine excitement. Midnight squeals with the joy of my evanescent touch.
Withdrawing to hold the sopping wet odoriferous digits before her face, I smile, my look one of Schadenfreude.
“Would you suppose this is perspiration, Midnight? Are you sweating now from your vagina? Or did that demented psyche of yours secretly enjoy every agonizing stroke to those long stretched nipples? Yes, you need to be worked... naked... bound... well exposed and displayed, made to perform.”
Her masochistic needs are an addiction. And males such as me, sadistic males such as me, have become the dealer of the drug which she craves.
She demurs in answering, still not fully cognizant of what we of the governing ilk understand so much better. Naked, harnessed and cropped... indeed forced to perform... Midnight is aroused. She is in her element, but she comprehends not.
“May I taste you, sir?” the tone so tantalizingly obeisant.
How can my smile of evil not transform to one of condescension? I move proximate. Midnight knows to drop to her knees.
“I need to relieve myself first... and I do believe you need to be watered. Then bring me up and I’ll take you over the log, tummy down, back arched, thighs spread. It’s been awhile, but you know the position...”
“Yes, sir,” those talented teeth and lips working my zipper as I cradle her bald, sweat coated head.
“I have not brought lubricant. Be sure you moisten me well... otherwise it may hurt,” I forewarn.
We always kept Midnight tight back there, maximizing penile pleasure. Mother understood the penchants of the male, regularly slathering Midnight’s rectum with the astringent alum... hydrated potassium aluminum sulfate... to assure a purse string muscle well toned and both receptive yet delightfully reluctant to fully yield.
Hopefully her former owner has done the same.
I am an early riser. Victoria sleeps relatively late. The morning thus becomes an ideal time to harness Midnight and have her flex those well developed but most likely cramped muscles.
Concluding my evening lecture, I not only left her legs restrained in a folded position, after a priapic Douglas exited the barn, I took the time to apply the special lotion and robustly pull away at Midnight’s pink parts. I then enshrouded both labia and nipples with the soft stretching straps and located a challenging set of weights, such that have previously dangled from her feminine parts, and attached with fervor. Thus her modification continues.
Whereas the elongation of her vaginal lips is culturally acceptable for Midnight, the nipple stretching is found to be both objectionable and aggravating. Yet it is for the best. Long nipples offer easy targets for the crop. As stated, running a girl is for her exercise, not the equestrian. Therefore the lightest of strokes to a nipple can bring instant compliance, nominal exertion for the rider. In the long run, it’s best for both.
I forgo a morning shower for now, to bathe after any prospective coupling with Midnight deemed to be the wiser course. Casually dressed, I head to the barn, hearing the propane heater roar in offering offsetting warmth to the early Spring coolness.
Midnight hangs, prostrate, just as I left her. She no longer contracts her muscles to spur an arousing swaying motion. In being weighted, she knows such futile motion will only hasten the stretching of her sensitive flesh.
Hearing the barn door open, she stirs, the limited temperature making her eager to be harnessed as intended. I therefore waste no time in preparing her, heartened that at some point son Douglas will be trained as a groom and each morning have the naked form well trussed and waiting for me harnessed to a cart.
But for now, it remains my task.
There comes a sigh of relief with the removal of the four weights. The soft straps are unraveled. A bucket is pushed under her pudendum and with some sibilant sounds, no further encouragement is needed for Midnight to open herself as I reach to part labia which appear to have grown another half inch.
It is not true of course, my male imagination offering pleasant delusion. Still there will be steady inexorable lengthening, probably attaining the imagined half inch of growth within a month or two.
I next remove the hood and extricate the extreme penis gag. Now is as good a time as ever to permit Midnight to speak, son and wife in slumber.
“Thank you sir,” the humble words coming after Midnight clears her throat and finds moisture for her lips.
I release the leg straps and Midnight graciously smiles as she slowly straightens her legs and lowers her feet to relieve the cramping.
“Must you bind me so firmly, sir? I cannot move at all.”
“It is best for you, Midnight. You know that. Deep within a girl like you finds comfort. Plus I can safely assume you’re now eager to perform for me.”
She reluctantly nods as I turn to prepare the light pony cart. The two wheeled vehicle rests nearby, nothing more than a seat mounted on an axle, two aluminum poles jut forth, Midnight to stand between, her deeply implanted hip rings to bear the23 stress of pulling her Master.
Yes, Midnight will be run completely naked, ubiquitous yoke and nylon ankle cuffs her only covering. No waist belt as utilized at the auction house. Mother preferred to expose as much of a pony girl as possible... a penchant with which I came to concur at an early age. There is an optimization in binding a girl. Restraints offer the modesty of covering. I prefer demeaning nakedness, as Mother vehemently suggested. So Mother had Midnight pierced at the hips, deeply, stainless steel rings mounted on posts which internally penetrate bone. Thus Midnight will be made one with the light pony cart, but not overly covered in leather restraints.
As Midnight kicks her legs, limbering muscles held in strict immobility, I begin to water her... lots of water. I squeegee one pint then return to the barn’s cleansing area to refill.
“It was most humiliating to be introduced to your son like that, Master. Spread wide open and exposed.”
“I am glad you enjoyed it. He’s going to learn to care for you, Midnight. After I have run you this morning, he’s going to cleanse. It will be interesting to see if my lecture spurred any adolescent male thoughts. You will accommodate him, by the way. And report to me. Since Douglas thinks you can’t talk, it will be amusing to learn how a hormone laden teen will take advantage of you.”
“And your wife?”
“She will benefit from bed sheets made more presentable,” I muse, assuming that Midnight, having so often fellated me as a budding teen, catches my drift.
I squeegee more water. Midnight at one time resisted being filled and filled. Years of training in strict bondage have brought complacency in being compelled and controlled. She swallows.
“You always enjoyed my taste. I am sure you will come to enjoy Douglas as well.”
“Yes sir.”
“And as you are aware, Victoria is an aficionado of the cane. When the occasion arises, do scream unintelligibly. You’ve been silenced. The ruse must continue for now. No pleading. No discernible words.”
I raise the cords holding the yoke, returning Midnight to being suspended upright. Next I return the two boxes and her bare feet deftly find the smooth surfaces, worn by many years of mounting and dismounting, to stand on toes. Weight transferred, the thigh straps are easily loosened, lowering and permitting her feet to slide off the boxes and come together on the barn floor.
With that I engage the hobbling strap and clip a leash to her nose loop. Midnight objects.
“You need not hobble me sir. I will not kick”
“I know you will not kick... because you will always be hobbled when not suspended or harnessed to a cart. It is important for you. Control, Midnight. A girl like you needs to sense constant control.”
“I suppose you are right, sir,” the words coming as I untie the cords holding the yoke.
“Time to be run, Midnight,” my voice gushing with enthusiasm.
Holding high the leash, I lead Midnight, prancing on toes, to the light cart. Nothing more than a seat mounted on a pair of wheels and two prongs to be attached to the hip rings. Midnight knows to position herself with little guidance as I stoop, raise the aluminum poles and secure such to rings, snapping in place utilizing ‘D’ clamps.
A simple bit is next, rather welcomed after enduring the long stout penis gag. She willingly opens to take it. No bridle necessary, I know she will not attempt spit it out. Then I remove the leash and in place attach thin strips of leather, nose ring to a waiting loop in the bit, through a loop on the yoke and then to the seat area... left side and right. Her reins. I turn off the propane heater and open the barn door.
Watching the reaction of Midnight’s coal black skin as wafts of cold air rush in is delightful. The nipples crinkle, with their length the dark pink shafts turning to pencil points. I sit, crop in hand leaving the hobbling strap in place. Nothing more than deviant fun, I apply a crisp snap of the crop to the right nipple and a perplexed Midnight instantly shuffles forth, the reins directing to the door, the encumbered feet bringing a most entertaining and strained gait.
“If you again object to being hobbled, I will run you like this for miles,” I admonish. “Understand?”
A silenced Midnight nods, the added tension on the reins bringing a pang of suffering.
Exiting the door I pull to a stop. Dismount, shut the barn door then stoop to remove the hobbling strap from a rapidly chilling Midnight.
Yes, she is most eager to be run, so much wants to perform for me. Still I take my time, reseat myself and pause. She knows to remain perfectly still, obediently waiting until I once again apply a snap of the leather to a nipple long and sensitive.
‘I’ve missed you,’ a sentimental side wants to call out.
Yet, I refrain from emotion and finally apply a convincing stroke to the left nipple. I am sure Midnight has missed me as well, judging from the instant and obedient contraction of enormous thigh muscles and buttocks, my flick of the wrist bringing forth quick acceleration of the cart.
Such a delightful morning.
Despite the cool morning air, I soon have Midnight worked into a good sweat, droplets flinging from a moist, glabrous body which gleams under the rising morning sun. I deliberately select challenging inclined ranch paths that lead up a modest hill. The vista there can be invigorating, and the many climactic releases offered in the past by Midnight’s receptive apertures bring fond memories of adolescence.
So I crop away, feeling the cart lurch with the quick but effective nips of agony, knowing that Midnight is in her element, legs pumping impressively, enduring, exerting, wondrously tormented... yet enjoying.
Air suctioned in desperation whistles past her bit. The muscling ripples and rolls. What buttocks! On occasion I reach forth and palm a pair of pink labia which flop about, thumping against her inner thighs, serving to both amuse and entice.
We finally reach the apex, and though I tug unmercifully on the reins, strained head rotating under my exacting direction, by rote Midnight knows where I want her. A convenient clearing, a smooth boulder upon which to sit, a fallen tree where, tummy down, a Midnight released from harness can rest and open herself for the anal penetration she first ignominiously learned to accept and later came to deviantly crave.
I pull the cart to a stop and dismount. Expelled lungfuls of demanded oxygen bring snorts. I loosen the reins, drawing slack in order pop the bit from Midnight’s mouth. It dangles just below her chin, suspended by the slim leather lengths which remain attached to her nose loop, threaded through her yoke and attached to the front of the cart where I tied off. I stoop and again hobble her ankles with the short strap. On this occasion she utters a wordless ‘umph’ of disapproval. I choose to ignore.
“Welcome home,” my tone one of genuine acceptance.
“Thank you sir,” Midnight manages to offer between gulps of needed air. “You ran me rather hard.”
“A girl like you needs to be run hard... and cropped,” stooping again as I insert a hand between well heated thighs. My digits knowingly splay the lips then middle and ring finger glide between her loose labia, easily slipping into a vagina gushing with the juices of feminine excitement. Midnight squeals with the joy of my evanescent touch.
Withdrawing to hold the sopping wet odoriferous digits before her face, I smile, my look one of Schadenfreude.
“Would you suppose this is perspiration, Midnight? Are you sweating now from your vagina? Or did that demented psyche of yours secretly enjoy every agonizing stroke to those long stretched nipples? Yes, you need to be worked... naked... bound... well exposed and displayed, made to perform.”
Her masochistic needs are an addiction. And males such as me, sadistic males such as me, have become the dealer of the drug which she craves.
She demurs in answering, still not fully cognizant of what we of the governing ilk understand so much better. Naked, harnessed and cropped... indeed forced to perform... Midnight is aroused. She is in her element, but she comprehends not.
“May I taste you, sir?” the tone so tantalizingly obeisant.
How can my smile of evil not transform to one of condescension? I move proximate. Midnight knows to drop to her knees.
“I need to relieve myself first... and I do believe you need to be watered. Then bring me up and I’ll take you over the log, tummy down, back arched, thighs spread. It’s been awhile, but you know the position...”
“Yes, sir,” those talented teeth and lips working my zipper as I cradle her bald, sweat coated head.
“I have not brought lubricant. Be sure you moisten me well... otherwise it may hurt,” I forewarn.
We always kept Midnight tight back there, maximizing penile pleasure. Mother understood the penchants of the male, regularly slathering Midnight’s rectum with the astringent alum... hydrated potassium aluminum sulfate... to assure a purse string muscle well toned and both receptive yet delightfully reluctant to fully yield.
Hopefully her former owner has done the same.
Saturday, March 30, 2013
Midnight - Segment XI
Opening Midnight
Having explained the external female genitalia, making sure young Douglas is aware of all erogenous areas, I return to the trusty chest of drawers remaining stocked with so many of the tools of Mother’s avocation.
Lots of restraints, straps, clips, clamps, a wide range of weights for nipples and labia, I select a speculum and grab a flashlight from the wall.
“More parts, Douglas. The female form is marvelously complicated... many ways to make a girl feel good, to suffer, and in general manifest control and ownership.”
I am amused to think that for the first time since achieving puberty, Douglas truly listens to the patriarch of the family. With hormones surging, I ignore the bulge in his trousers, certainly not one to make judgements about that.
As usual, in returning to the rear where Midnight displays her modified sex between forcibly parted thighs and now upturned feet, my nose detects continuing if not growing arousal. Vaginal juices ooze to the point that a droplet has formed at the tip of the right labium. So convenient. I use the abundance to coat the stainless steel speculum... and warm it. I am such a thoughtful gentleman.
Probably unnecessary with the degree of Midnight’s arousal, but assuring that the smooth steel slips inward without mishap is standard operating procedure and I want to make sure Douglas takes note.
“We keep Midnight open, stretching to excess the vaginal opening. For the most part it ruins her for vaginal penetration... by the male appendage... obviating normal coitus... yet readies her for fisting, should a given owner or rider care to explore within.”
I am sure Douglas can Google the term ‘fisting’ and learn more of that wondrously domineering activity at some other time.
The prongs of the speculum glide with ease. I twist the adjusting lever to open and from beneath the hood hear a moan... of pleasure?.. of discomfort? Mostly likely in muted protest.
I am opening Midnight’s most intimate anatomy... before a boy she has never before met. Her cunt yawns, seemingly so receptive to manipulation. Ostensibly the female reaction is to demonstrate reservation... silly shyness. But with the likes of girls like Midnight, the psyche, the inner reaction is to revel in the intensity of the humiliation. Midnight feels she is an object... to be explored without compunction. She enjoys being such.
So I ignore whatever reservations she attempts to express, smiling to myself in knowing that Midnight may verbally try to offer resistance, but a well drenched cunny suggests otherwise.
The odd delight of the masochist...
So my lecture continues, pointing out the mysterious skene’s glands, explaining the unproven theory that it is from such tiny openings that a girl will gush ejaculate when properly masturbated. A finger enters and ever so gently rubs the urethral sponge. Midnight lurches, nicely complementing my point concerning the area as a source of pleasure.
The Bartholin’s glands are next located and explained, Midnight’s pair working with zeal in offering so much lubrication.
The urethral opening is more prominently displayed and I explain to Douglas its function and that he will be assisting Midnight in urination, clearing the way for the free flow of excretions.
Lastly I turn on the flashlight and gesture for Douglas to stoop. With the vaginal entrance widely parted, we can visually examine Midnight’s sex right up to the cervix. And of course I must point out the anterior fornix and another feminine mystery, the climactic reaction to penetration and stimulation there... in Midnight’s case making her cunny gush like a fire hose.
“Do be wary if you choose to explore there, Douglas. Midnight here may just wet you. She’s amusingly orgasmic.”
Douglas nods. I will not overwhelm by explaining my protocol of strict chastity on this evening. He has his head full as it is. Tomorrow morning, after I take Midnight for her morning run, I’ll chart out her care and who has what responsibilities. Tonight’s tete a tete is merely to invoke interest in Douglas and warm him to his new chores.
And I do believe I have piqued his interest.
Having explained the external female genitalia, making sure young Douglas is aware of all erogenous areas, I return to the trusty chest of drawers remaining stocked with so many of the tools of Mother’s avocation.
Lots of restraints, straps, clips, clamps, a wide range of weights for nipples and labia, I select a speculum and grab a flashlight from the wall.
“More parts, Douglas. The female form is marvelously complicated... many ways to make a girl feel good, to suffer, and in general manifest control and ownership.”
I am amused to think that for the first time since achieving puberty, Douglas truly listens to the patriarch of the family. With hormones surging, I ignore the bulge in his trousers, certainly not one to make judgements about that.
As usual, in returning to the rear where Midnight displays her modified sex between forcibly parted thighs and now upturned feet, my nose detects continuing if not growing arousal. Vaginal juices ooze to the point that a droplet has formed at the tip of the right labium. So convenient. I use the abundance to coat the stainless steel speculum... and warm it. I am such a thoughtful gentleman.
Probably unnecessary with the degree of Midnight’s arousal, but assuring that the smooth steel slips inward without mishap is standard operating procedure and I want to make sure Douglas takes note.
“We keep Midnight open, stretching to excess the vaginal opening. For the most part it ruins her for vaginal penetration... by the male appendage... obviating normal coitus... yet readies her for fisting, should a given owner or rider care to explore within.”
I am sure Douglas can Google the term ‘fisting’ and learn more of that wondrously domineering activity at some other time.
The prongs of the speculum glide with ease. I twist the adjusting lever to open and from beneath the hood hear a moan... of pleasure?.. of discomfort? Mostly likely in muted protest.
I am opening Midnight’s most intimate anatomy... before a boy she has never before met. Her cunt yawns, seemingly so receptive to manipulation. Ostensibly the female reaction is to demonstrate reservation... silly shyness. But with the likes of girls like Midnight, the psyche, the inner reaction is to revel in the intensity of the humiliation. Midnight feels she is an object... to be explored without compunction. She enjoys being such.
So I ignore whatever reservations she attempts to express, smiling to myself in knowing that Midnight may verbally try to offer resistance, but a well drenched cunny suggests otherwise.
The odd delight of the masochist...
So my lecture continues, pointing out the mysterious skene’s glands, explaining the unproven theory that it is from such tiny openings that a girl will gush ejaculate when properly masturbated. A finger enters and ever so gently rubs the urethral sponge. Midnight lurches, nicely complementing my point concerning the area as a source of pleasure.
The Bartholin’s glands are next located and explained, Midnight’s pair working with zeal in offering so much lubrication.
The urethral opening is more prominently displayed and I explain to Douglas its function and that he will be assisting Midnight in urination, clearing the way for the free flow of excretions.
Lastly I turn on the flashlight and gesture for Douglas to stoop. With the vaginal entrance widely parted, we can visually examine Midnight’s sex right up to the cervix. And of course I must point out the anterior fornix and another feminine mystery, the climactic reaction to penetration and stimulation there... in Midnight’s case making her cunny gush like a fire hose.
“Do be wary if you choose to explore there, Douglas. Midnight here may just wet you. She’s amusingly orgasmic.”
Douglas nods. I will not overwhelm by explaining my protocol of strict chastity on this evening. He has his head full as it is. Tomorrow morning, after I take Midnight for her morning run, I’ll chart out her care and who has what responsibilities. Tonight’s tete a tete is merely to invoke interest in Douglas and warm him to his new chores.
And I do believe I have piqued his interest.
Saturday, March 23, 2013
Midnight - Segment X
Slop
Victoria laughs as I thrust everything left over from our meal into a blender.
“Whatever are you doing?” the sharp words uttered as the motor whirrs to turn the remnants of an otherwise sumptuous dinner into an unidentifiable mass of gruel.
“For Midnight, she needs feeding.”
“That’s what she eats?”
“She’ll eat whatever we decide to offer... and enjoy it.”
Victoria nods in thought, never having total control over a being... at least not long term control.
“It’s getting cold. She’ll stay out there?”
“I’ll fire up the heater. Send Douglas out in a little while. May as well begin to acclimate.”
I pour the hideous mass, Midnight’s dinner, into a bowl and grab a large spoon, surprised with Victoria’s concern.
Years ago, I met my future wife at an upscale D/s club, Le Femme. Quite the nasty woman, at least that was her reputation. I never watched her work, but she was given to lounge in the ‘bad girls ballroom’, males forbidden. We guys at the bar speculated as to the going’s on, some of us probably envious. Yes, dominant lesbian/bisexual undertakings offered intrigue, and there was a strong rumor that both demanding Dominatrixes and mousey ‘bad girls’ were all stripped naked, the hearsay being that pain and torment was brought to bear until subjugated tongues and lips laved and sucked... everywhere.
I often wondered how many strokes of the cane were required before a subordinate girl realized that demanded analingus, no matter the repulsion, was the better choice over excoriated breasts and buttocks.
Anyway, with Mother’s tutelage, a lad of my ilk was not, is not, one to make judgements. My Dominance was more subtle... having my penis sucked, for example, by a kneeling naked subordinate while discussing the day’s events over a martini with fellow libertines.
The rumors I believe were well founded. Many worn and flustered Dommes exited the ballroom. quite in need of thirst quenchers after a laborious interlude... which of course ended in deviant oral sex.
Long canings, multiple strokes of rattan, can tire a girl. I met a sweaty, robed Victoria when she exited the ballroom, propped herself on the barstool next to me and ordered a sizable brew. Interests aligned, somewhat, we talked, dated and in time married.
My recollections end as I enter the barn. I smile in seeing a hooded Midnight. She works to contract various muscles, causing her nakedness to sway in the simple cords and suspension straps. My nose detects the feminine arousal of a long undouched cunny. In so swinging about, the long labia flop, brushing inner thighs to frottage and bring self induced arousal.
Such a naughty, naughty girl.
But I fear not. She will not, cannot bring herself to orgasm... only abet the extended frustration of forced chastity.
I turn on the heater, somewhat surprised that it still functions. The barn is drafty, the ceiling high. The propane fueled device will offer moderate warmth, yet keep the space well below normal room temperature and thereby continuing to thicken that marvelous coat of coal black flesh. A chilled Midnight will be quite eager to run in harness for me tomorrow morning.
I pull up a low stool and slip away the hood. Midnight blinks, smiling as her eyes adjust.
“You’ve been kept chaste. Your owner did not masturbate you?” my question apropos.
I inquire as I unbuckle the gag then slowly slip the specially formed dildo from her mouth.
“Thank you. Thank you sir.”
Her voice is raspy. Tongue and lips work to return moisture. Finally come more words.
“May I speak?”
“Yes. Victoria is in the house for the night. My son Douglas will visit and you are to return to silence when you hear him approach. He is not to know you can talk. And you will obey him... just as you are to obey everyone.”
Midnight nods.
“I have been held in complete chastity for years, Master. My prior owner did not accommodate. She was aloof to a girl’s needs.”
I smile, laughing inwardly. How could a woman be aloof to feminine needs? More likely she found complete denial to be subtly pleasing.
“Will you masturbate me? Like before?” the plea so heart rendering.
In younger days of naive leniency, yes I masturbated Midnight. Very much reveling in the level of control, I made her squirt in climactic ecstasy... sometime later realizing I was too generous.
“Possibly. When you’re good. And if you keep our relationship a secret for now.”
“I will run for you, suck you, take you anally...” a most humble Midnight wheedles.
“I know you will. And you will do so while kept chaste. But perhaps I will milk your cunt. You like that.”
Midnight’s look becomes lugubrious.
“But not if I don’t squirt for you. Cunny milkings are slow torment.”
Yes, I know... that’s why I so freely offer, I think to myself.
Formerly offered as foreplay to orgasm, I would feather a well trussed Midnight, both labia and clitoris, bringing forth an abundance of vaginal secretions which would drip and drip. I’d capture such in a bowl, thus the reference to milking. The smell can be quite invigorating for a young libidinous male... and most frustrating and humiliating for the well subjugated pony girl. Those sessions ended with a knowing finger or two smoothing over the urethral sponge... and a little exploration of the anterior fornix... to bring forth a climactic eruption of feminine essence.
Mother taught well.
“Enough. I have glop. Yum, yum,” I mockingly entice in picking up the bowl of foul mush.
Days of auld lang syne, I spoon feed, pulling on Midnight’s nose binding to make her thank me for every revolting spoonful.
“I think you’ll be happy in returning here to the ranch, Midnight. Mother’s gone, but you’ll find Victoria’s tendance to be warming,” stifling a laugh with the double entendre... warmed by endless applications of bamboo.
As I scrape the bottom of the bowl, I hear the soft scrunch of rubber soled running shoes compacting the clay soil near the barn’s entrance. Though having cautioned Midnight about speech, it brings more surety to slip back in place the ungainly penis gag, its length and girth a constant reminder of subservience.
As the large door creaks open with Douglas’s formidable push, Midnight struggles to draw the stout faux phallus fully into its home, the depths of her throat. I laugh.
“You’re gagging, pretty pony girl. With female ownership certain talents have been brought to neglect.”
My words bring a sheepish smile, Midnight a sucker of cocks nonpareil. She nods, suggesting agreement, and I know she will endeavor to sharpen her former prowess. A twinge in my loins indicates a certain male organ will accommodate oral practice.
Buckling in place the gag, young Douglas approaches with the reverence of a pious churchgoer. Indeed, hanging by well spread thighs and the wrists and neck captured by her yoke, Midnight’s bald, black nakedness appears as would an animal awaiting pagan sacrifice. The old barn has been retrofitted with the extreme brightness of halogen lighting, and a degree of sheen from the auctioneer’s oiling of her skin remains. My equine servant glows.
Thus Douglas is in awe, his father appearing to be preparing a beast for slaughter.
“Mom sent me,” Douglas’s words halting in amazement.
“Douglas... meet Midnight.”
I let Douglas further gaze and am amused to smell evidence of arousal, Midnight’s undouched sex betraying the reaction of the masochist, the excitement derived from the humiliation of being displayed naked and bound not to be denied. Vaginally, she secretes.
“Wow, Dad. What is it?”
“A pony girl, Douglas. A human beast of burden. Well trained, completely subservient, desiring to serve and please. She’ll be occupying the barn. She is owned... by me... and by your mother.”
“She’s got no hair! Anywhere!”
“Permanently removed for hygiene and to impute a proper frame of mind. Hair offers the modesty of covering, Douglas. Midnight shall never have that,” the words those of my Mother so many years ago.
Douglas’s dumbfounded reaction brings me back to those years when I in turn was first introduced to Midnight. At that time a body of clay to be molded, now a sculpture, a divine masterpiece. When held motionless, she figuratively transforms to a statue destined for the Louvre.
No diversion, youthful eyes freely examine. Something about a gagged and naked girl in bondage invites brazen inspection, the conclusion coming quickly that she can neither physically nor verbally protest. I reach for the hood, knowing that Midnight’s psychological capitulation will be augmented by blindness.
I want her objectified, from the very start Douglas thinking of her as, not necessarily a car to be polished, perhaps better verbalized as a plant to be watered.
Midnight’s lugubrious look briefly returns as I again introduce her to darkness.
“I think it’s time, Douglas, that you have more responsibilities here at the ranch.”
My pedantic words are offered as I reach above and adjust the ropes tensioning Midnight’s thigh straps. As widely spread as she hangs, yes, I can spread her further. Then I march to the chest of drawers which earlier offered the hood and retrieve two belt like lengths of leather. I continue my lecture as I lift one dangling foot, bring it up to the massive globe of buttock flesh encircle and buckle to hold left leg then right in a folded position... thighs and calves pressed together.
My actions most obscenely present the female genitalia, enlarged and ringed clitoris, stretched labia. I somewhat struggle to recall mother’s informing words concerning the female sex organs, but as I warm to my role, words such as perineum, vaginal orifice, mons pubis, labia majora, labia minora, urethral meatus, glans clitoris roll forth. I find that my lecture sadly short changes Douglas. Midnight’s clitoral hood has been excised. Explaining the flap of flesh found on normal girls will need to be saved for another lecture.
Yet my clinically precise words bring Midnight to not only squirm, but her cunny begins to drip as well.
How prevenient! Explanation of feminine arousal follows, and more specifically that of the masochistic submissive, pining for intense embarrassment and the humiliation of being bound and brought under exacting control.
Victoria laughs as I thrust everything left over from our meal into a blender.
“Whatever are you doing?” the sharp words uttered as the motor whirrs to turn the remnants of an otherwise sumptuous dinner into an unidentifiable mass of gruel.
“For Midnight, she needs feeding.”
“That’s what she eats?”
“She’ll eat whatever we decide to offer... and enjoy it.”
Victoria nods in thought, never having total control over a being... at least not long term control.
“It’s getting cold. She’ll stay out there?”
“I’ll fire up the heater. Send Douglas out in a little while. May as well begin to acclimate.”
I pour the hideous mass, Midnight’s dinner, into a bowl and grab a large spoon, surprised with Victoria’s concern.
Years ago, I met my future wife at an upscale D/s club, Le Femme. Quite the nasty woman, at least that was her reputation. I never watched her work, but she was given to lounge in the ‘bad girls ballroom’, males forbidden. We guys at the bar speculated as to the going’s on, some of us probably envious. Yes, dominant lesbian/bisexual undertakings offered intrigue, and there was a strong rumor that both demanding Dominatrixes and mousey ‘bad girls’ were all stripped naked, the hearsay being that pain and torment was brought to bear until subjugated tongues and lips laved and sucked... everywhere.
I often wondered how many strokes of the cane were required before a subordinate girl realized that demanded analingus, no matter the repulsion, was the better choice over excoriated breasts and buttocks.
Anyway, with Mother’s tutelage, a lad of my ilk was not, is not, one to make judgements. My Dominance was more subtle... having my penis sucked, for example, by a kneeling naked subordinate while discussing the day’s events over a martini with fellow libertines.
The rumors I believe were well founded. Many worn and flustered Dommes exited the ballroom. quite in need of thirst quenchers after a laborious interlude... which of course ended in deviant oral sex.
Long canings, multiple strokes of rattan, can tire a girl. I met a sweaty, robed Victoria when she exited the ballroom, propped herself on the barstool next to me and ordered a sizable brew. Interests aligned, somewhat, we talked, dated and in time married.
My recollections end as I enter the barn. I smile in seeing a hooded Midnight. She works to contract various muscles, causing her nakedness to sway in the simple cords and suspension straps. My nose detects the feminine arousal of a long undouched cunny. In so swinging about, the long labia flop, brushing inner thighs to frottage and bring self induced arousal.
Such a naughty, naughty girl.
But I fear not. She will not, cannot bring herself to orgasm... only abet the extended frustration of forced chastity.
I turn on the heater, somewhat surprised that it still functions. The barn is drafty, the ceiling high. The propane fueled device will offer moderate warmth, yet keep the space well below normal room temperature and thereby continuing to thicken that marvelous coat of coal black flesh. A chilled Midnight will be quite eager to run in harness for me tomorrow morning.
I pull up a low stool and slip away the hood. Midnight blinks, smiling as her eyes adjust.
“You’ve been kept chaste. Your owner did not masturbate you?” my question apropos.
I inquire as I unbuckle the gag then slowly slip the specially formed dildo from her mouth.
“Thank you. Thank you sir.”
Her voice is raspy. Tongue and lips work to return moisture. Finally come more words.
“May I speak?”
“Yes. Victoria is in the house for the night. My son Douglas will visit and you are to return to silence when you hear him approach. He is not to know you can talk. And you will obey him... just as you are to obey everyone.”
Midnight nods.
“I have been held in complete chastity for years, Master. My prior owner did not accommodate. She was aloof to a girl’s needs.”
I smile, laughing inwardly. How could a woman be aloof to feminine needs? More likely she found complete denial to be subtly pleasing.
“Will you masturbate me? Like before?” the plea so heart rendering.
In younger days of naive leniency, yes I masturbated Midnight. Very much reveling in the level of control, I made her squirt in climactic ecstasy... sometime later realizing I was too generous.
“Possibly. When you’re good. And if you keep our relationship a secret for now.”
“I will run for you, suck you, take you anally...” a most humble Midnight wheedles.
“I know you will. And you will do so while kept chaste. But perhaps I will milk your cunt. You like that.”
Midnight’s look becomes lugubrious.
“But not if I don’t squirt for you. Cunny milkings are slow torment.”
Yes, I know... that’s why I so freely offer, I think to myself.
Formerly offered as foreplay to orgasm, I would feather a well trussed Midnight, both labia and clitoris, bringing forth an abundance of vaginal secretions which would drip and drip. I’d capture such in a bowl, thus the reference to milking. The smell can be quite invigorating for a young libidinous male... and most frustrating and humiliating for the well subjugated pony girl. Those sessions ended with a knowing finger or two smoothing over the urethral sponge... and a little exploration of the anterior fornix... to bring forth a climactic eruption of feminine essence.
Mother taught well.
“Enough. I have glop. Yum, yum,” I mockingly entice in picking up the bowl of foul mush.
Days of auld lang syne, I spoon feed, pulling on Midnight’s nose binding to make her thank me for every revolting spoonful.
“I think you’ll be happy in returning here to the ranch, Midnight. Mother’s gone, but you’ll find Victoria’s tendance to be warming,” stifling a laugh with the double entendre... warmed by endless applications of bamboo.
As I scrape the bottom of the bowl, I hear the soft scrunch of rubber soled running shoes compacting the clay soil near the barn’s entrance. Though having cautioned Midnight about speech, it brings more surety to slip back in place the ungainly penis gag, its length and girth a constant reminder of subservience.
As the large door creaks open with Douglas’s formidable push, Midnight struggles to draw the stout faux phallus fully into its home, the depths of her throat. I laugh.
“You’re gagging, pretty pony girl. With female ownership certain talents have been brought to neglect.”
My words bring a sheepish smile, Midnight a sucker of cocks nonpareil. She nods, suggesting agreement, and I know she will endeavor to sharpen her former prowess. A twinge in my loins indicates a certain male organ will accommodate oral practice.
Buckling in place the gag, young Douglas approaches with the reverence of a pious churchgoer. Indeed, hanging by well spread thighs and the wrists and neck captured by her yoke, Midnight’s bald, black nakedness appears as would an animal awaiting pagan sacrifice. The old barn has been retrofitted with the extreme brightness of halogen lighting, and a degree of sheen from the auctioneer’s oiling of her skin remains. My equine servant glows.
Thus Douglas is in awe, his father appearing to be preparing a beast for slaughter.
“Mom sent me,” Douglas’s words halting in amazement.
“Douglas... meet Midnight.”
I let Douglas further gaze and am amused to smell evidence of arousal, Midnight’s undouched sex betraying the reaction of the masochist, the excitement derived from the humiliation of being displayed naked and bound not to be denied. Vaginally, she secretes.
“Wow, Dad. What is it?”
“A pony girl, Douglas. A human beast of burden. Well trained, completely subservient, desiring to serve and please. She’ll be occupying the barn. She is owned... by me... and by your mother.”
“She’s got no hair! Anywhere!”
“Permanently removed for hygiene and to impute a proper frame of mind. Hair offers the modesty of covering, Douglas. Midnight shall never have that,” the words those of my Mother so many years ago.
Douglas’s dumbfounded reaction brings me back to those years when I in turn was first introduced to Midnight. At that time a body of clay to be molded, now a sculpture, a divine masterpiece. When held motionless, she figuratively transforms to a statue destined for the Louvre.
No diversion, youthful eyes freely examine. Something about a gagged and naked girl in bondage invites brazen inspection, the conclusion coming quickly that she can neither physically nor verbally protest. I reach for the hood, knowing that Midnight’s psychological capitulation will be augmented by blindness.
I want her objectified, from the very start Douglas thinking of her as, not necessarily a car to be polished, perhaps better verbalized as a plant to be watered.
Midnight’s lugubrious look briefly returns as I again introduce her to darkness.
“I think it’s time, Douglas, that you have more responsibilities here at the ranch.”
My pedantic words are offered as I reach above and adjust the ropes tensioning Midnight’s thigh straps. As widely spread as she hangs, yes, I can spread her further. Then I march to the chest of drawers which earlier offered the hood and retrieve two belt like lengths of leather. I continue my lecture as I lift one dangling foot, bring it up to the massive globe of buttock flesh encircle and buckle to hold left leg then right in a folded position... thighs and calves pressed together.
My actions most obscenely present the female genitalia, enlarged and ringed clitoris, stretched labia. I somewhat struggle to recall mother’s informing words concerning the female sex organs, but as I warm to my role, words such as perineum, vaginal orifice, mons pubis, labia majora, labia minora, urethral meatus, glans clitoris roll forth. I find that my lecture sadly short changes Douglas. Midnight’s clitoral hood has been excised. Explaining the flap of flesh found on normal girls will need to be saved for another lecture.
Yet my clinically precise words bring Midnight to not only squirm, but her cunny begins to drip as well.
How prevenient! Explanation of feminine arousal follows, and more specifically that of the masochistic submissive, pining for intense embarrassment and the humiliation of being bound and brought under exacting control.
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Midnight - Segment IX
The Barn
Much of the equipment used to train and condition Midnight remains in the barn. When I inherited the ranch, I was hard pressed to change much at first. Eventually the house was redecorated under Victoria’s direction, a woman deserves her home to indeed look like hers. But she shied from the barn, being a city girl, and I rarely visited, the evoked memories strong and poignant.
So, as I release Midnight from the van’s many straps and clip a short leash to her nose loop, I realize there is needed new investment. The treadmill on which Midnight was worked to exhaustion is well weathered, the barn’s heater not fired up in years. Straps, harnesses, bridles, etc. will need to be replaced, the leather most likely dried and cracked. I’ll need to assure Midnight’s light cart, her favorite, is operational.
But other devices, well tucked away to avoid questions from casual visitors, just need dusting polishing, and repositioning.
A trained pony girl will never move unless directed. But a trained pony girl also feels best when trussed, harnessed, bridled... in general held in bondage. It’s ingrained, part of their makeup. So, I hold steady the leash and bend, forcing Midnight’s face to lower as I clip a hobbling strap from right ankle cuff to left.
Victoria looks at me quizzically.
“Pony girls are best kept well bound, dear. You’ll learn that.”
True. Yet there is also the unknown reaction, female to female, that brings a degree of concern. Midnight would never kick me. But I have yet to ascertain her acceptance of Victoria, my wife. In Midnight’s mind she may be deemed an interloper in the curious life long bond between Master and human equine. And I cannot imagine the damage a foot can inflict when propelled by leg muscles honed to those of an Olympic athletic.
Well hobbled, the strap exasperatingly short for those accustomed to a normal gait, I stand, raising my leash hand high, Midnight’s nose and face follow of course and she is forced to her toes. I then lead to the barn, a trip Midnight knows too well, and I note that Victoria follows, eyes riveted on rolling buttock muscles and labia flopping about... most comically I might add... for the neophyte observer. Yes, the strap forces rapid and ungainly footwork. It amuses... but also conditions.
Mother’s barn is replete with hooks and eyelets, ostensibly for hanging assorted gear. To free my hands, it is thus facile to lead to a post and tie off the leash, high, keeping Midnight straining on toes to minimize the stress on her nasal cavity.
“Wouldn’t she be better kept in the house, dear?” Victoria again evidencing her urban upbringing.
“Never, Sugar Buns. It’s too warm, too comfortable. Pony girls need to be kept eager to be run, like hunting dogs. So, feel her skin again. Smooth, quite presentable, but you’ll also find it to be thick. The cool air toughens a girl, encouraging insulating layers. Exercise precludes unsightly cellulite. As a result she can be well cropped without breaking the skin.”
Victoria does not hesitate to step forth and once again handle the nakedness, this time, away from the eyes of observers, feminine reserve is stowed. Instead, a hand brazenly grasps thick tufts at the thighs, then rises to roughly palpate the buttocks which have conjured such allure.
A gagged Midnight knows to let her have her way, not a wince or groan in protest. Her training thorough, she knows ownership bestows presumption. And I know that being handled brings strange comfort. Held in strict bondage, isolated for hour after hour, any attention becomes welcomed.
“My goodness, it’s like leather. Will she respond to discipline before a hand tires?”
I smile, knowing Midnight will obey with timely precision all pulls of her reins and snaps of the crop.
“Nipples and labia, dear one, though I doubt a pony girl with her years would need much attention there. Think parts pink when it’s necessary to chastize. Imagine the effectiveness of a good crisp stroke to those labia you find so fascinating.”
Victoria smiles wickedly. Yet, it is true. Efficiency dictates that behavior be corrected with a casual stroke of the directing hand. When run in harness, it is the pony girl to be worked into a lather, not the controlling equestrian.
While exchanging these thoughts I rummage about and find the broad well padded straps which for many years held a naked Midnight in comfortable but most humiliating bondage. As Victoria watches I hope the diligence by which I return the imposing configuration to the barn’s beams does not offer any clue to our past.
Alas, she observes in silence. But when I hook up a pulley and string some cords, curiosity finally overcomes.
“What is all this preparation, Oliver?”
“Our pony girl has had an eventful day. She’ll need to rest a bit.”
“So have her lie down.”
I shake my head, smiling in recalling the many years of Mother of passing on extensive knowledge of training, keeping and caring for the human equine.
“Never. She must always, always feel the restriction of her Master’s bonds. You’ll see... and in time you’ll better understand that it is best for her.”
So Victoria returns to silence as I adjust the cords, assure the ropes for the two broad straps are well secured then position two unassuming but well worn boxes under the hanging configuration.
“Come girl,” my voice calm but authoritative as I release the hobbling strap, unhook Midnight’s leash and guide.
Do Midnight’s precise foot steps give us away? Without need for a command, she mounts, placing a foot on each box, the separation offering a lewd spread, those long labia now dangling most suggestively. Meanwhile with the broad padded straps I encircle right thigh then left, teasing fingers tweaking those deliciously well stretched strips of dark pink to encourage good behavior. Each padded strap, after being looped about the thigh is attached to a hanging rope, right and left, well separated. When I slide away the boxes, a yoked Midnight is suspended, upright, and forced to spared, feet just off the barn’s wooden floor.
It was in this form of suspension that Mother and me worked so diligently to tug away at Midnight’s tender inner labia, night after night, applying the special herbal lotion formulated centuries ago in her native Rwanda. A miracle concoction, the viscous potion not only kept the flesh moist, but assured all sensitivity was maintained without unsightly stretch marks.
Sitting beneath on a low milking stool, young hands pulled and pulled, Midnight’s femininity turned to cow’s udders. Then soft strips of cloth were wrapped about the objects of my efforts and weights were attached to assure the well stretched epidermis did not retract. And that’s how she was to sleep.
Every night, day after day, week after week.
The results now dangle enticingly as Victoria observes, her silence suggesting deep engrossment.
“She sleeps in a standing position?” an incredulous wife inquires.
“No. What sleep we decide to allow will come when I hook up her yoke and permit her to lower her head and shoulders. Control, Sugar Buns. We must control at all times.”
With that I draw down the cords from the pulley and tie about Midnight’s yoke at the right shoulder and left. With the device hanging some three to four feet to Midnight’s front, as I feed slack, she knows to bend at the waist and lower her head, offering balance as she shifts her suspended position to become more prostrate.
Victoria nods. I detect a hint of suspicion. She knows of my background with human equines, Mother’s curious peccadillo, but she is unaware of my extensive involvement, and certainly completely in the dark... I hope... concerning my past relationship with Midnight.
I divert another question by moving to a worn chest of drawers and retrieve a hood. Midnight never liked being hooded, so to once again bring her to sightlessness fosters a distant thrill. Within seconds Midnight is returned to the dull, lonely world of suspended nothingness.
As stated, it made her and will continue to make her quite eager to be released and run.
Before departing, I know Midnight has not urinated since arranging her purchase hours ago. I therefore locate a bucket, place it under those dangling labia, grasp the familiar strips of flesh and part.
“Psst. Psst.”
Without further ado a humiliated Midnight knows to open herself. She knows to never ever urinate without assistance, the deed not only sloppy with all that excess flesh, but also a necessary part of her subjugation... all bodily functions to be ceded to controlling Masters.
Victoria is intrigued with the instant abdication of such an otherwise intimate deed. I do believe she will learn to enjoy over and above regular canings of Midnight’s attractive buttocks.
Much of the equipment used to train and condition Midnight remains in the barn. When I inherited the ranch, I was hard pressed to change much at first. Eventually the house was redecorated under Victoria’s direction, a woman deserves her home to indeed look like hers. But she shied from the barn, being a city girl, and I rarely visited, the evoked memories strong and poignant.
So, as I release Midnight from the van’s many straps and clip a short leash to her nose loop, I realize there is needed new investment. The treadmill on which Midnight was worked to exhaustion is well weathered, the barn’s heater not fired up in years. Straps, harnesses, bridles, etc. will need to be replaced, the leather most likely dried and cracked. I’ll need to assure Midnight’s light cart, her favorite, is operational.
But other devices, well tucked away to avoid questions from casual visitors, just need dusting polishing, and repositioning.
A trained pony girl will never move unless directed. But a trained pony girl also feels best when trussed, harnessed, bridled... in general held in bondage. It’s ingrained, part of their makeup. So, I hold steady the leash and bend, forcing Midnight’s face to lower as I clip a hobbling strap from right ankle cuff to left.
Victoria looks at me quizzically.
“Pony girls are best kept well bound, dear. You’ll learn that.”
True. Yet there is also the unknown reaction, female to female, that brings a degree of concern. Midnight would never kick me. But I have yet to ascertain her acceptance of Victoria, my wife. In Midnight’s mind she may be deemed an interloper in the curious life long bond between Master and human equine. And I cannot imagine the damage a foot can inflict when propelled by leg muscles honed to those of an Olympic athletic.
Well hobbled, the strap exasperatingly short for those accustomed to a normal gait, I stand, raising my leash hand high, Midnight’s nose and face follow of course and she is forced to her toes. I then lead to the barn, a trip Midnight knows too well, and I note that Victoria follows, eyes riveted on rolling buttock muscles and labia flopping about... most comically I might add... for the neophyte observer. Yes, the strap forces rapid and ungainly footwork. It amuses... but also conditions.
Mother’s barn is replete with hooks and eyelets, ostensibly for hanging assorted gear. To free my hands, it is thus facile to lead to a post and tie off the leash, high, keeping Midnight straining on toes to minimize the stress on her nasal cavity.
“Wouldn’t she be better kept in the house, dear?” Victoria again evidencing her urban upbringing.
“Never, Sugar Buns. It’s too warm, too comfortable. Pony girls need to be kept eager to be run, like hunting dogs. So, feel her skin again. Smooth, quite presentable, but you’ll also find it to be thick. The cool air toughens a girl, encouraging insulating layers. Exercise precludes unsightly cellulite. As a result she can be well cropped without breaking the skin.”
Victoria does not hesitate to step forth and once again handle the nakedness, this time, away from the eyes of observers, feminine reserve is stowed. Instead, a hand brazenly grasps thick tufts at the thighs, then rises to roughly palpate the buttocks which have conjured such allure.
A gagged Midnight knows to let her have her way, not a wince or groan in protest. Her training thorough, she knows ownership bestows presumption. And I know that being handled brings strange comfort. Held in strict bondage, isolated for hour after hour, any attention becomes welcomed.
“My goodness, it’s like leather. Will she respond to discipline before a hand tires?”
I smile, knowing Midnight will obey with timely precision all pulls of her reins and snaps of the crop.
“Nipples and labia, dear one, though I doubt a pony girl with her years would need much attention there. Think parts pink when it’s necessary to chastize. Imagine the effectiveness of a good crisp stroke to those labia you find so fascinating.”
Victoria smiles wickedly. Yet, it is true. Efficiency dictates that behavior be corrected with a casual stroke of the directing hand. When run in harness, it is the pony girl to be worked into a lather, not the controlling equestrian.
While exchanging these thoughts I rummage about and find the broad well padded straps which for many years held a naked Midnight in comfortable but most humiliating bondage. As Victoria watches I hope the diligence by which I return the imposing configuration to the barn’s beams does not offer any clue to our past.
Alas, she observes in silence. But when I hook up a pulley and string some cords, curiosity finally overcomes.
“What is all this preparation, Oliver?”
“Our pony girl has had an eventful day. She’ll need to rest a bit.”
“So have her lie down.”
I shake my head, smiling in recalling the many years of Mother of passing on extensive knowledge of training, keeping and caring for the human equine.
“Never. She must always, always feel the restriction of her Master’s bonds. You’ll see... and in time you’ll better understand that it is best for her.”
So Victoria returns to silence as I adjust the cords, assure the ropes for the two broad straps are well secured then position two unassuming but well worn boxes under the hanging configuration.
“Come girl,” my voice calm but authoritative as I release the hobbling strap, unhook Midnight’s leash and guide.
Do Midnight’s precise foot steps give us away? Without need for a command, she mounts, placing a foot on each box, the separation offering a lewd spread, those long labia now dangling most suggestively. Meanwhile with the broad padded straps I encircle right thigh then left, teasing fingers tweaking those deliciously well stretched strips of dark pink to encourage good behavior. Each padded strap, after being looped about the thigh is attached to a hanging rope, right and left, well separated. When I slide away the boxes, a yoked Midnight is suspended, upright, and forced to spared, feet just off the barn’s wooden floor.
It was in this form of suspension that Mother and me worked so diligently to tug away at Midnight’s tender inner labia, night after night, applying the special herbal lotion formulated centuries ago in her native Rwanda. A miracle concoction, the viscous potion not only kept the flesh moist, but assured all sensitivity was maintained without unsightly stretch marks.
Sitting beneath on a low milking stool, young hands pulled and pulled, Midnight’s femininity turned to cow’s udders. Then soft strips of cloth were wrapped about the objects of my efforts and weights were attached to assure the well stretched epidermis did not retract. And that’s how she was to sleep.
Every night, day after day, week after week.
The results now dangle enticingly as Victoria observes, her silence suggesting deep engrossment.
“She sleeps in a standing position?” an incredulous wife inquires.
“No. What sleep we decide to allow will come when I hook up her yoke and permit her to lower her head and shoulders. Control, Sugar Buns. We must control at all times.”
With that I draw down the cords from the pulley and tie about Midnight’s yoke at the right shoulder and left. With the device hanging some three to four feet to Midnight’s front, as I feed slack, she knows to bend at the waist and lower her head, offering balance as she shifts her suspended position to become more prostrate.
Victoria nods. I detect a hint of suspicion. She knows of my background with human equines, Mother’s curious peccadillo, but she is unaware of my extensive involvement, and certainly completely in the dark... I hope... concerning my past relationship with Midnight.
I divert another question by moving to a worn chest of drawers and retrieve a hood. Midnight never liked being hooded, so to once again bring her to sightlessness fosters a distant thrill. Within seconds Midnight is returned to the dull, lonely world of suspended nothingness.
As stated, it made her and will continue to make her quite eager to be released and run.
Before departing, I know Midnight has not urinated since arranging her purchase hours ago. I therefore locate a bucket, place it under those dangling labia, grasp the familiar strips of flesh and part.
“Psst. Psst.”
Without further ado a humiliated Midnight knows to open herself. She knows to never ever urinate without assistance, the deed not only sloppy with all that excess flesh, but also a necessary part of her subjugation... all bodily functions to be ceded to controlling Masters.
Victoria is intrigued with the instant abdication of such an otherwise intimate deed. I do believe she will learn to enjoy over and above regular canings of Midnight’s attractive buttocks.
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