George turns onto the street of his fiancé’s family home. He has of course met Jennifer O’Malley’s mother before... and her brother Doug and sister Alison. But in introducing pony girl Sweeney there is apprehension. To verbally disclose the relationship is one thing... to present the tall, well muscled bronzed servant is another. He had considered passing off Sweeney as his housegirl. But the bubble of such a charade would quickly burst with the first visit to his inherited family farm... Sweeney prancing about harnessed to a pony cart. Plus there is the clothing issue. Sweeney has none... and this evening’s cape covering her chest and shoulders has been crudely fashioned from an old table cloth, a paper clip somehow holding in place at the neck.
“I have something for you, Sweeney,” George pulling to the driveway.
He reaches into his pocket for a blue pill, free hand going to a thermos bottle on the car seat.
“What is it sir?”
“A pill. Same as you took when I put you on display.”
“Viagra, sir?”
“You got it. Makes you very presentable... where a girl like you likes to show off.”
“It’s embarrassing for me sir.”
“That’s one of the reasons you want to take it for me.”
“And the other?”
“That you’re obedient.”
Hands rendered useless, the pill is pushed to pony girl Sweeney’s lips. Water is offered. The pill is consumed. Experienced pony girl Sweeney is well aware that the dose of sildenafil citrate will bring engorgement to her vestigial penis... her clitoris.
“Now since you’re concerned with embarrassment, I’ll hood you... for now. So remember your leash training.”
“Nose ring or collar sir?”
“Neither,” a hand taking the thermos and retrieving a slim cord ending with a small ‘D’ clamp.
“Please sir... not there.”
“Deep within, you’d not want it any other way, Sweeney. It’s a convincing manner of conveying who is in control.”
With that, one hand pushes aside the folds of the brief cape and the other clips the ‘D’ clamp to a slim vertical chain attached to a navel piercing. George jostles very gently. There comes a moan... of joy?.. discomfort?.. concern? Next a black cloth is quickly slipped over a bald head of shiny bronze flesh and George slips out the driver’s door.
“Slowly, Sweeney. But we can’t dawdle... there are neighbors and still some daylight.”
George reaches for the slim cord. Ever so tenderly pulling, a well conditioned pony girl knows to turn and rise from the car seat, being leashed and blinded returning her psyche to youthful days of endless training.
She stands, her covered head just below that of six foot two George. He feels twinges, a degree of arousal coming in sensing his power. Despite his betrothal to Jennifer O’Malley, sexual needs fulfilled, there is a different need to be gratified. And he has come to realize... for both.
“Remember, no talking. You’re to be displayed... hopefully pass muster with mother O’Malley.”
Pony girl Sweeney follows in earnest, the lower end of the slim vertical chain attached to a ring piercing her clitoral hood. With each step she senses the odd, conflicting sensations... a degree of pleasure... vaginal insertions shifting about... some discomfort should she falter in her steps... and for sure a sense of vulnerability and surrender. The latter is welcomed... feeling her Master’s directing hand has brought an inner glow of pride over the many years. The frequent fellatio initiated as an expression of her thanks for his guidance has become a form of self satisfaction... that she can so ably please her Master... he who so much cares for her.
Sweeney hears the doorbell ring. She tries not to tremble. Despite the years or being run, raced and shown, she knows that with the marriage there must be acceptance. That bride Jennifer O’Malley must be comfortable in jointly possessing a human steed.
“Uh, George... do come in... the neighbors. And you did bring her... she’s real.”
“And I hope this meets with your approval, Jenn. She’s very...”
“Enough. Mother’s been well briefed. But the hood? And what’s that in your hand?” stepping back from the door to permit entry.
“She’s more complacent in being sightless and leashed.”
“That cape doesn’t cover much,” Jennifer O’Malley gazing downward, the hem of the table cloth ending at the midpoint of Sweeney’s mons. “And my Lord, George, what’s... well... her girl parts...”
“It’s... ah... not uncommon among pony girls. Sort of makes them eager to run... you know feeling...”
“Ug! You can explain all that when mom comes down. Does she speak?”
“Only with permission. I’ll leave the hood in place for now, Jenn. Get an initial reaction from your mother. Where shall I have her exhibited?”
“What kind of a question is that?”
“Guess I’ve had her to too many shows. I’m sure you and mom would like to look her over. So where do you want her presented. She’s finely shaped... for what she does... what I want her to do.”
“Well, take her to the livingroom. I’ll close the blinds.”
George pulls. Sweeney follows in darkened silence. He spies a low coffee table. It’s sturdy. How fortuitous!
The paper clip yields, The cape falls away. With the command ‘step up’ Sweeney obediently mounts, the table just about centering the muscular nakedness in the spacious room.
“You had that attached to her clitoris,” Jennifer exclaims as the ‘D’ clamp is released.
George takes from his pocket a double ‘D’ clamp, clipping right knee band and left, hobbling to assure extremely limited movement, Sweeney not able to step back down.
“Not really dear. It’s her hood. Piercing the actual clitoris would detract from pleasure... which is paramount in assuring a pony girl... ah... gives you her maximum output.”
“Well, well, well. George...you finally brought your girl,” a vibrant mother O’Malley interrupts, greeting with enthusiasm.
“Good evening, mom,” the prevenience of George’s moniker hopefully accurate. “Yes this is, Sweeney... a life long...”.
“Possession. I can see you’re proud of her... perching her like that on the table. And she pulls you about your farm?”
“Oh yes. For many years.”
“She’s well muscled... very athletic looking. Jenn, let’s get Doug and Alison away from the ping pong table and George can explain things to us.”
“Sure, mom.”
Jennifer moves to the basement door, calling out to her siblings.
“So a nice steel neck collar... and thigh bands... but no other restraints?”
“Her thumbs are ringed, holding her hands high behind to the back of her collar... termed the reverse prayer position. And a nose ring of course... and a clitoral hood restraint... but otherwise tetherings are kept to a minimum... it’s a weight thing... when... you know... pulling in harness.”
As he pauses when the O’Malley offspring join their mother, George is cautiously pleased. So far there comes no shock, no admonishment, no objection.
“Wow mom, that is a girl right?” a surprised young Alison exclaims.
“Yes, dear. It’s George’s companion. But it is an apropos question, George. The breasts...”
“Oh, well, as you all know too well, the mammary glands are comprised for the most part of fat cells. And in being run many miles... starting as a young girl... such cells... guess you’d say... did not develop... with the... ah... exercise... special diet... and pills.”
“Pills?”
“Hormones... for proper muscle development.”
“Proper?”
“If you’re going to race... or exhibit.”
“To place her on exhibition, yes, thus the hairless pudendum. She’s squirming a bit... but surprisingly comfortable... standing naked like that,” mother O’Malley stepping forth, fingers grazing over extraordinarily long inner labia dangling to nearly mid thigh.
“These can’t be normal. In some places it’s a tribal custom to stretch... she from Africa?”
“Yes, many years ago. But it’s also customary to elongate for performance purposes. The lips sort of flop about and that encourages maintaining a good pace. Plus baubles can be attached... some like to bell a girl there.”
George is pleased to see that his words bring a repressed smile as fingers splay the vaginal lips, one digit gliding inward with surprising ease.
“My nose suggests she’s enjoying. I suppose your olfactory glands have too long been acclimated, George... to... guess I’d politely say... the scent of vaginal secretions. She’s wet. This arouses her. And I can feel some kind of insertion.”
“Yes, And it’s protocol. They’re termed Ben wa balls. Also makes her eager to move about... a stout set when she’s to be walked. A lighter set for when she’s run... but shaped to better tantalize. And as for her scent.... vaginal hygiene... it’s to be... ah... forsaken.”
“Goodness George, every step brings arousal. So she doesn’t wash herself?”
“No, she doesn’t touch herself.”
“And who bathes? Her skin is otherwise perfect... nicely oiled I would say.”
With mother O’Malley’s words, prospective bride Jennifer looks askance, arms akimbo, more or less focused on George’s reply.
“At my apartment... ah there’s a shower... special restraint for her nose ring. At the farm she soaks... you know... for worn muscles after a good run.”
“So she’s hooked by her nose and simply stands under a shower?” Jennifer inquires with suspicion.
“There’s... ah... a chamois... needed... and soap....”
“What about the tits,” young Alison also stepping forth, emboldened by her mother.
A hand reaches, fingers gently pinching a nipple and drawing forth, the nub of brownish pink stretching out some three inches. The touch causes the flesh to crinkle and point. Alison appears amazed to see her slight effort bring the length to spear forth.
“Again protocol. Makes her breasts very receptive to... let’s say... encouragement.”
“Encouragement?”
“The crop.”
“She’s whipped?”
“Of course,” George shrugs, the gesture denoting his life long immersion into the world of human equines. “But not severely. Just to correct reluctance or disobedience... elicit better effort.”
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