'Sweeney & Alison', Segment V

The last posted segment, but lengthy.

See the January 2 posting for availability from Lulu.

Enjoy.

CB

*****

Using the building’s freight elevator whenever come the rare times to guide Sweeney outside his apartment, George unlocks and quickly leads the half naked pony girl into his capacious penthouse, gently tugging as always on the clitoral hood leash.

To the kitchen, George unclips the leash and merely points. In silence Sweeney knows to lower herself, first kneeling upright then bending, forehead to the floor. No words need be exchanged.

George moves to the refrigerator, extracting a large bowl of brown mush, scooping two large spoonfuls into a smaller bowl and placing such on the floor before Sweeney’s bowed head.

“May I use my hands someday George? Maybe sit at the table?”

“No. Your mental submission is as important as the physical Sweeney. You wouldn’t feel right. Now spread for me like a good girl.”

As Sweeney sloppily partakes, the simple fare appearing unappealing, smelling somewhat insalubrious but without taste and highly nutritious, George pulls up a chair behind, knees parted widely in response.

Fingers work the feminine portal, slipping past the stretched labia. The Ben wa balls are to be extracted.

“I hate those things, George.”

“You say that... but your cunny says otherwise,” George quips, always amazed at the abundant slickness brought by the clever spheres.

Fingers of the right hand find the lower ball, some one inch in diameter, freely bobbing about in a well stimulated love pouch. 

“Now try to relax, Sweeney. Your kegel muscles are amazingly well developed.”

George has always found it curious how receptive the birth canal is to the insertion, the larger upper ball introduced. It glides well within, the natural function of the vagina to hungrily suck it inward to the point the two inch sphere of smooth stainless steel resides close to the cervix. It’s the extrication that requires time and tender coaxing. So lower ball captured, he ever so gently pulls, hearing Sweeney cooing with the conflicting sensations of joy and distress. Attached together by a filament appearing to be fishing tackle, the upper ball begins to lower... one centimeter... two... pulling with it the larger. 

It stops, the kegel muscles defiantly tightening. A well experienced George knows to diddle the clitoris with the very tip of his left index finger. This brings delight, an increased flow of endorphins, and relaxation.

“Stop, Sweeney. I know you’re pulling against me. You say you hate your vaginal insertions, but you fight my fingers every time.”           

Cunny now dripping wet, George finally wins the battle, both slick Ben wa balls dropping to his left palm.

As Sweeney finishes her gruel, George plops the steel balls into a pot... to be boiled and sanitized in the morning. He notes that even his jaded nose detects the strong vaginal fragrance as he returns to the kitchen chair basin in hand.

“You need to piss for me,” Sweeney knowing the words to be more of a command then suggestion.

George leans. In grasping right labia and left, he cannot help but think of fiancé Jennifer’s acuminous presumption.... that indeed his steed needs assistance with the most basic of bodily functions. He parts, pulling aside the long strips, splaying open such that the girl’s urethral opening is not encumbered.

Thought of as defiling by Jenn, George considers his assistance an act of devotion, assuring neatness in what would otherwise be a messy deed. And of course Sweeney relishes her Master’s touch... such intimacy.

There comes a strong and steady flow, Sweeney indeed in need. In completing George steps away basin in hand to dispose. In returning he lowers his hand, a finger hooking the heavily gauged nose ring, tenderly pulling to signal his steed to stand.

“Aren’t you going to wipe me?” the tone sultry and inviting.

“No. I know how much you enjoy, Sweeney. But it’s shower time. Come.” 

To the master bedroom, the adjoining bathroom is large, George having connected the space to an adjoining bedroom. Thus it’s more locker and exercise room than merely for ablutions.     

Stepping by the treadmill and wooden horse, George turns back, his hand holding high the nose ring, face pointed to the ceiling. Sweeney knows to obediently prance for him on toes. By rote her mind goes into pony girl space, imagining herself presented to judges at an exhibiting event... perhaps being led to the starting line for a race. 

To the shower. It is not a stall. Instead it is an open area, well drained floor, plumbing fixtures above, and a dangling cord with hook for the nose ring.

“Goods girls get a nice warm shower and scrubbing. Have you been a good girl, Sweeney?”

“Oh yes George. I showed myself for you tonight... at least your in laws seemed to be impressed. Your mother-in-law fondling... a sister- in-law infatuated with my tits... and a brother-in-law who wants to fuck me.”

“But not my bride. And Doug will not fuck you. That manner of vaginal penetration is forbidden. He wants to sodomize you... take you anally.”

George knows how much warm soapiness is relished... versus a quick frigid spray for bad girls. There is also the prospect of releasing the arms... never both at the same time. But the sense of relief can be ecstatic, Sweeney always reminding that good bathing includes the underarms.

“My arms sir,” George expecting the plea... such always coming with the obsequious form of address. 

The nose ring is secured, cord tightened, Sweeney remaining on toes. A spreader bar waits on the wall. Secured to the thigh bands, Sweeney’s knees are held widely apart, bringing more stress to standing on toes, the elongated labia freely dangling.

A picture of subjugation, George notes, stepping to take in hand the spray hose. And she so much enjoys! 

George always finds thrill as well, despite the many years of care. There is not one square centimeter of feminine flesh not exposed... not to be subjected to his examining, palpating fingers and hands.

He looks to see the lengthy nipples begin to crinkle and harden, jutting forth invitingly, once again turning to tiny spears. She so much cherishes his touch.

Valve turned, water temperature adjusted, an evening cleansing begins. If only the beautiful Jennifer O’Malley could bring herself on board... join him in his supreme dominion.

George adjusts the nozzle to offer soft spray, the water hot but soothing. The body of firm golden brown is doused. Sweeney hums in comfort. Then the flow is turned off, George dons rubber gloves, a large jar of strong smelling chemicals is opened. As he coats his hands, Sweeney detects the odor.

“Please no, George. There is no hair... it’s gone.” 

“And it will stay gone. I realize... and you must begin to realize also... that depilating your entire body is more symbolic at this point. That I can do with your nakedness anything I want to do. Deep within it excites you.” 

“But it stings.”

“More thrill for you. Now close your eyes,” the advisement coming as the hands begin to slather the odorous white ointment, starting high on the head, working down, neck, shoulders, back, breasts, stomach, thighs, legs.

“Please be careful,” the beseeching words coming as George steps to the front, stooping to assure the pubes area is well coated.

There come moans and groans... the sting... George knowing such overwhelms in being felt within every pore of her nakedness. It is unlike the suffering brought by a quick snap of the crop or quirt. It is consuming... lasting... continuous... only to end under the whim of her Master. When he pushes a coated hand under the bent right arm, there comes a strident shriek, the under arms sensitive. Another comes in coating the left.  

Body coated, George steps back, smiling in seeing the spectacularly shaped form squirm and writhe with the building agony. She enjoys in so submitting all to him. 

The gloves are rinsed then removed. George mentally counts... delay... delay... delay. Finally the squirming becomes paroxysmal, stressing the nose ring, doubling the pain and endangering the skewered nose cartilage. The valve is again turned. A warm rinsing is most welcomed... head to toes.

“Thank you, thank you,” the gratitude most sincere as the underarms are rinsed.

There follows soap, a soft chamois. Head and shoulders, George swathes over the breasts, the mounds prepubescently limited, the nipples remaining hardened. There is gentleness, the chamois grazing over treasured bronze flesh... smooth... warm... without blemish. To the pubes, Sweeney presses forth her hips, her concupiscence apparent. George circles about. Buttocks of stone, developed over the years of serving in harness... mile after mile on the treadmill. He steps back gazing... in awe... in admiration. Such power... such subjugated power.

He leans... the thighs, reaching about to lather the front. Further leaning, the calves are soaped. There comes a yelp as he lifts the right foot, the weight shifting to momentarily stress the nose ring. Completed, left foot is cleansed and returned to the floor tiling. Sweeney hums in satiation as George steps back taking in the idyllic vision... white suds adorning bare skin of golden brown, 

There is pride in ownership.  

“My arms sir?” again the form of address expressing desperate desire.

“Did I not clean under your arms recently?

“Yes sir. But it feels so good.”

George ignores for now. Returning to the front, the fingers of a left hand pushes about the clitoral hood chain the chamois swabbing the lower belly, left then right. Next the thigh bands left and right are slipped upwards as the chamois cleanses the flesh beneath. Finally a gracious George concedes, stepping behind, fingers of the left hand releasing the simple but oh so significant clasp securing the thumb ring of the left hand from the steel neck collar.

Sweeney knows to go limp, allowing Master George to unfurl her folded arm, guiding straight to the side and swabbing arm and armpit. To resist, defiantly move her arm under her own volition brings rebuke... meaning many weeks without release, of continuous binding, cramping ignored. 

Left arm cleansed, the limb is resecured and the right arm is treated to equivalent momentary relief. Such is evanescent yet so welcomed. 

Entire nakedness soaped and swabbed, George pauses. Sweeney stills herself. She knows to be silent as Master George enjoys his quiet dominion. Finally, the spray hose is turned on and a must soothing warm rinse follows.

Water off, a huge fluffy towel begins to slowly and sensuously dry, playfully cradling the bald head then moving down... shoulders, back, breasts, pudendum, buttocks, thighs, calves. Placing the damp towel on the tiling, Sweeney knows to move feet, stepping to dry her soles.

It is a twice daily ritual, to be repeated after tomorrow morning’s extensive exercise.

“Thank you sir. Are you going to masturbate me?”

“You should not ask, Sweeney. You know that comes only at my caprice. I’m in charge of every aspect of your care... and you’re well cared for. But some body oil. Would you like that?”

“Everywhere sir?” the formal manner of address again hinting at her need

“You are randy this evening, Sweeney. Being exhibited excites.”

“It’s been a while... since you’ve shown me.”

“Yes. But those contest days are over, Sweeney. You’re still beautiful in your naked subservience... remaining well conditioned... but exhibitions are for the young ponies. And you’ve won your share of prizes... and been rewarded.”

“Yes, the stimulator. How old am I George?”

“I don’t know. No one knows. But I’m nearing thirty and been training and caring for you for more than fifteen years.”

“So I’m fifteen.”

“No silly girl. Mother acquired you as a girl. It was enlightening, to bathe you as you went through puberty.”

“You liked touching me.”

“Still do,” George reaching for a bottle of mineral oil. 

Lubricating his hands he recalls preparing Sweeney for shows, bringing a sheen to her perfect skin, the golden brown glistening, for sure attracting the judges eyes. Objectification, George was to later in life learn of the paraphilia. And an aroused pony girl Sweeney responded when displayed at events, her fragrance evident... just as it was with mother O’Malley in presenting her naked form on the living room coffee table.    

Loving hands begin, smoothing the unguent from head to toe, salaciously kneading the breasts, playfully tugging at the long nipples. Stepping to rear the buttocks receive more brusque attention, hands grasping thick tufts of flesh, rubbing vigorously, sensing the potency of muscling developed with extensive training... years of pulling in harness... hour after hour of treadmill time.... much sweat... the slow agony of riding the wooden horse bringing the shapeliness demanded of comely pony girls.

The left hand splays the cheeks. The fingers of the right graze about within the gluteal cleft. One finger then two slip into the rear portal bringing a gasp of delight.

“Your thumb Master...” for Sweeney the precursor to masturbation... the method of bringing pony girl ecstasy regimented but oh so welcome.

“No, not tonight. Perhaps a little clitoral stimulation. You’ll sleep better.”

“Oh, George you know that drives me crazy. I need a full orgasm.”

“You’ll not have it,” hands slipping from the well lubricated posterior. 

George steps to the front. He notes the scent of the mineral oil does little to mask the fragrance of his pony girl’s arousal. Face forced to the ceiling, Sweeney does her best to make eye contact, her facial expression one of beseeching.

“Just a little stimulation for you, Sweeney. You’ve been a good girl.”

“But I need more than a little, Master. I sucked your penis...”

“And you enjoyed that as much as I.”

The words come as knowing hands work the heated folds of the labia, pushing the extended lips aside, a single digit of the left hand sliding within the vagina, hooking upwards to knead the urethral sponge. Sweeney sighs with the unwanted delight. The right hand goes to the slim chain of the clitoral hood piercing, jostling teasingly. Then there comes a shriek of joy as the tip of the right index finger works under the stimulated hood and finds the enormous feminine bud, slowly circling about in ever so lightly grazing.

George has had training of his own, a mother knowing how to reward pony girls, teaching him at a young age the complicated and ever so sensitive parts of the female anatomy... clitoris, bulbospongiosus, urethral opening, vagina... even learning that the perineum can be an erogenous zone. And of course manipulating deep within, a special stimulating device for the anterior fornix.

‘You can make a girl squirt for you, George,’ Sweeney’s Master recalls his mother instructing.

And he did... and does... but not tonight.

Just a moment or two of tantalizing finger work... no orgasm of course. Just enough to bed the girl and leave her wanting more.

She’ll be pulling at her arm and hand bindings all night, wanting so much to play with herself... yet only face denial.

“Please George.”

“I’ll stop.”

“No more fingering... penetration please... use the stimulator...”

“No,” the fingers withdrawing. “Full orgasms tire you... and you’ll need your energy. I’ll want you riding the horse tomorrow... plugged. Open you for my future brother-in-law.”