Happy New Year
*****
A new day in the stables, Sweet Cheeks stands on toes, bent at the waist, mitten covered hands held high behind her back by a cable strung from the ceiling. Before her is a full length mirror, her reflection filling the glass. Another protocol at Dyson Farms, psychological subjugation... made to observe one’s naked and bound capitulation.
She rides the horse, really just an upturned horizontal wooden plank, also held in place by cables, the gruff top edge just grazing the entrance to her mons. Labia parted, her moist pink flesh moistens the board.
She feels posed as would a swimmer about to take a dive. But there will be no splash. She cannot move.
“Comfortable, Cheeks?” Groom Edgar inquires, expressing paternal care.
“No, Sir... it’s... it’s straining my legs.”
“As intended. Calves, thighs, gluteus maximus... your buttocks... all need to be strengthened... and molded. How is your cunny?”
“The wood... it’s rough... I have to stay on my toes... so that it doesn’t hurt.”
“Yes,” Groom Edgar chuckling. “Rather devious... working you on the horse. But it’s for the best.”
Standing to the pony girl’s left side, an arm reaches, a hand smoothing over a smooth young globe, Sweet Cheeks is exercised completely naked course. The muscling there is tensed. Clenched rock hard in maintaining the demanded pose, protecting her opening. With the soft covering of epidermis there is shapely allure.
“It’s time we worked your nipples as well... another step... accelerate the stretching... just a little. We don’t go quickly in modifying a pony girl. In rushing, your titties would lose sensation... numb the skin. And we wouldn’t want that. You need to feel the crop... for correction... and encouragement.”
With the words, the hand retracts, Groom Edgar stepping to the pony girl’s front, fingers gently taking the nipples cones, pinching and smoothing down the inch and a half lengths, tugging toward the floor below.
“How’s my touch?” the defrocked doctor seemingly proud of his efforts.
“Like I’m being suckled.”
“Well you are. But we’re going to be adding some weight... during your morning rides. That’s why your hands and arms are held high, chest to the floor,” releasing to retrieve slim cords from his pocket. “Just a few ounces to begin,” winding a cord about the rubber cone covering the left nipple. “And then a little more every day. You’re going to a proud pony girl, Cheeks.”
Left nipple cone entwined, right nipple cone follows. Sweet Cheeks gasps when hands right and left each take a dangling loose cord and pull.
“Hurt?”
Sweet Cheeks shakes her head, chagrined to find the gentle pulls to be instead sensuous. Indeed, Groom Edgar tilts his head, looking aside to the inner thighs where the edge of the plank darkens with more flow of moisture, cunny secreting. The evidence of arousal brings a knowing smile.
“Good. Girls of your ilk come to enjoy their submission. Now some weights... three ounces... get you acclimated... to control... to yielding... to subordinating your tender anatomy to modification,” attaching small baubles of metal to the end of each cord. “Weights... for fishing lines... cheap, easily procured... readily increased.”
“Oh, Sir I don’t think...”
“But you will... take it. We know girls like you. You want to obey... want to perform... want to please... want to be displayed... so proud of subordinating to your masters.”
With the words, a finger pokes the weights. Sweet Cheeks gasps anew, closing her eyes in the shame of being oddly excited... of the realization... that Groom Edgar knows girls with her predilection... knows her.
“Edgar, tack Candy Bar for me,” the stern alto voice of Lady Dyson calls out,” strolling the long stable corridor, passing stalls to where she encounters the stressed trainee. “I want to work her at the end of a lunge line before running Gum Drop.”
The sound of tapping boots ends. Sweet Cheeks opens her eyes, the regal owner, Mistress of Dyson Farms, riding crop in hand, observes.
“Well, well, well. My nose suggests my new girl enjoys riding the horse.”
Sweet Cheeks blushes unaware that evidence of her arousal is so apparent.
“It’s time for weighting her... nipples only for now,” Groom Edgar explains.
“So I see,” Lady Dyson stepping proximate, her crop hand extending. “You’ve progressed her nipples to well over an inch.”
“An inch and a half, Ma’am.”
“And the labia?” the tip of the crop pushing about the weights... bringing another gasp of joy.
“Still retracted... but with twice daily finger work I’ll soon have her in stretching cones there as well.”
“Good. And the vaginal walls? Breeding material?”
“Firm. This one will drop some foals for you... when the time comes.”
Lady Dyson nods, moving to the side. Sweet Cheeks turns her head, noting the woman seems to glow in observing a naked girl in toil... legs straining, direly protecting the entrance to her opening. A gloved hand smooths over the buttocks, examining.
“She clenches her buttocks delightfully. Nice basic shape... but in much need of development here, Edgar.”
“She’s young, Ma’am. Development yes, but such will come soon. Diet and exercise.”
“Yes, you do marvelous work, Edgar. Have her in harness in no time.”
Lady Dyson returns to the front, peering into the face.
“Nice even features. Have you needed to shave her... other than the head?”
“Yes, some pubic hair... not yet requiring daily attention... quickly removed.”
“Well, when next putting her under the razor, shave her eyebrows. Even in baldness I detect a degree of pride in the girl... dignity. That won’t do. Pride is something we’ll bestow... proud to be mastered... to prance naked... to serve in harness. And dignity... well that will only come when she’s put in bit and bridle... and run under the crop”
A gloved hand reaches, a finger smoothing over the limited strips of hair above the eyes.
“Yes, it will give her an eery, alien look. Somewhat freakish... but needed. As I said, pride... any pride in appearance will come from what we bestow... what we permit.”
Sweet Cheeks begins to well up, her emotions on a roller coast, enjoying Groom Edgar’s sensuous handling, now her appearance to be further altered. As Lady Dyson steps away, Sweet Cheeks looks into the mirror. Having acclimated... somewhat... to baldness... complete glabrousness will next come. Yes, eery... freakish... not a strand of hair anywhere.
“And I want Candy Bar figged. She can be a little torpid. Some ginger root will help.”
The sound of tapping boots fades, Lady Dyson leaving for the training corral.
Groom Edgar notes the tears, rivulets streaming, a droplet to the floor.
“Your eyebrows will grow back... when permitted,” Edgar softly counsels.
“How I am to be shown... looking freakish?”
A hand reaches, a finger tenderly wiping the wet cheeks. Curious, Groom Edgar thinks to himself. The conditioning, the psychological duress, Sweet Cheeks is acclimating to her servitude... disappointed that her prospective appearance... all hair gone... will deter from any pageants. Even such otherwise insignificant strips of facial hair... when removed... will preclude her complete nakedness from posing before judges... some dozen eyes assessing... hands poking and prodding. She will not be a show pony looking like a creature.
Groom Edgar smiles inwardly. The girl is succumbing. There is relent in not being displayed in her nakedness.
“You can be raced, Cheeks. Your conditioning has yet to begin. First proper muscle formation... many hours riding the horse... then the treadmill, training corral and finally to be harnessed and run. But you’ll need to be... presentable... as well,” the hands returning to the dangling cords, pushing such that the weights swing about, leaving no doubt as to ‘presentable’.
“Yes, Sir. I understand, Sir... what a Dyson Farms pony girl looks like. There will be more weights?” the tone seeming hopeful.
“Oh yes. And your cunny as well. You’ve seen Gum Drop.”
Sweet Cheeks nods, the reply seeming to bring cheer. The labial infusion. Is there odd attraction? Can she dichotomously feel the induced sensuality of labia turned to small balloons?
“I can’t work the fields, Sir. Whipped, caned.... and you said made supple... you know... back there,” Sweet Cheeks’ head tilting and nodding, ‘back there’ being her fine posterior.
So, Groom Edgar’s brief description of what it is to work the fields has left an indelible impression, trainee Sweet Cheeks almost beseeching to either be shown or be exhaustively run in harness. Perhaps her aptitude for Lady Dyson’s training and curious body modifications can be heightened.
“Another hour on the horse and I’ll walk you, Cheeks. Leashed of course... whenever outside the stable pony girls are tethered. Would you like that?”
Not having seen the outdoors for many weeks, Sweet Cheeks effusively nods her head.
“Oh, yes Sir. Thank you, Sir. So kind of you.”
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