Kindle Books on Amazon Disappear

 As you readers are aware, I have an aversion to publishing on Amazon.

Well it seems such is well founded.

Books by 'Lutheran Maid' are no longer offered for sale. (One edition is offered in paperback, presumably by a third party selling used).

I don't know whether the author has withdrawn his/her efforts or the books have been expurgated, but one can no longer purchase.

What is of more concern to me is that the many kindle books I 'purchased' are no longer accessible in my Kindle library. So I did not 'purchase' but more or less rented until Amazon decided to deny me further access.

Anyone have thoughts? Anyone know what happened to Lutheran Maid? Lots of material is gone.

The capability of Amazon to censor is frightening.

  

'Trainee to Pony Girl', Segment IV

Lungs afire, air whistles in being sucked past Sweet Cheeks’ bit. The crop stings right nipple then left, spurring even more effort. Then the leather begins tapping the bare buttocks, the  strokes modest and in cadence with the chiming bells. It’s a final dash, Sweet Cheeks grateful to see the stables in sight. 

She can do it, she tells herself... don’t falter... legs not to fail... please her Master. Thoughts and images of work pony Cream Puff fill her mind, bringing great incentive.

She cannot work the fields!

Finally there come tugs on the reins. The crop withdraws. Sweet Cheeks knows to slow finding curiosity in the warmth. Despite the cool autumn mid afternoon air, her skin is alive and on fire. Brought to a walking pace, her breathing slows, large gulps to replenish spent oxygen. She obediently focuses on restoring the rhythm of the bells, the treadmill training evident.

She knows to prance, knees high. A proud pony girl... and she indeed feels proud.

“Whoa,” the command coming at the stable entrance, Groom Edgar stepping out to greet.

He smiles. Sweet Cheeks tries to return, futile with mouth stuffed with rubber.

“Quite the excursion, Lady Dyson.”

“Took a long rest at the fields. Showing off Sweet Cheeks. She enjoys being placed on exhibition. She’ll deny it... but her cunt can not,” Lady Dyson snickers in dismounting and handing over the reins. “You’ll find her to be quite wet... and I don’t mean the perspiration.”

“She ran well?”

“A reasonable start. But don’t masturbate her. Instead... scrub her down with one of the other girls. I want to see her trib. Use Candy Bar, this one seemed fascinated with that penis you grew on her. It will keep her frisky for the next workout. Three miles treadmill work tomorrow. More if you think it’s needed. Fully decorated... this one likes a stuffed cunt. I’ll run her again the day after.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Have the girls completely naked. I need a nice glass of Chablis. I’ll be back to watch.” 

With that Lady Dyson strolls off. Though Sweet Cheeks is disappointed...  her long day’s grueling effort described as ‘reasonable’... she is heartened to have her reins in the hands of he she has come to idolize.       

The waist belt is released from the cart’s prongs then unbuckled. Groom Edgar gently pulls on the reins leading into the stable building.

“No masturbation... but you can trib! Lady Dyson is very kind.”

Other then ignominiously emptying herself and being decorated... vagina filled with trinkets... the sentient opening of Sweet Cheeks has not been touched... and certainly not with the intent to bring full orgasm.

Though distant in her mind, after no many months in training, she remembers the youthful ecstasy... her mind returning to the orphanage... naughty fingers so frequently toying... the orgasms many... and so frequently being punished as a result. Denuded, given a blanket for covering and nothing else. Then that simple covering would be stripped away... bringing quirky excitement, her fingers returning to her sex. It became a cycle... bringing more punishment... the enemas... openly administered before her cohorts.

Why did that arouse?

The bridle is unbuckled, the bit slipped away, snatching Sweet Cheeks from her reverie.     

“Candy Bar could use a special bath,” Groom Edgar kindly offers. “You may speak.”

“She ran me to the fields, Sir. It was horrible. A work pony girl was watered. Then there were these boys... and Lady Dyson... she...”

“Calm yourself, Sweet Cheeks. You are not to let yourself become upset with anything your Master does. What happens happens.”

Groom Edgar leads to the large special stall where months ago Sweet Cheeks was bathed with Gum Drop. Embarrassing, there came horripilation in having a man watch the mutual pleasure, smooth warm bodies frottaging together. And now? Is there to be acceptance? Groom Edgar’s touch is welcomed... his viewing amusement as well? 

It’s Groom Edgar she tells herself. Please him... show off... and enjoy.    

And Lady Dyson?

She commanded she be naked for tribbing. Should Sweet Cheeks be gladdened to once again be relieved of her collar and wrist cuffs?  

Led under one of the trapeze bars, the cables beckon. Hooks are slipped through the ear grommets. Groom Edgar steps to the wall to pull. Trapeze bar rising, Sweet Cheeks is forced to her toes... feet parted... always parted

“Get your cunt ready for some fun, Sweet Cheeks,” returning, hands going to her pudendum, fingers grasping the bell.

Without need for direction, Sweet Cheeks knows to cough, the PC muscles to somatically relax. Bizarre how she has come to let a man work about her most intimate anatomy, feeling gentle tugs as the Ben wa balls slowly slide down her birth canal.

“Again.”

She feels the devilish lower ball, filled with heavy liquid, slip past her entrance, the larger ball slowly being worked downward.

“My, my Sweet Cheeks, you are wet indeed. And we’re not only developing leg muscles and a nice rounded gluteus maximus but your pubo coccygeus muscles have taken a liking to nesting a nice big ball of steel,” Groom Edgar chides. “Let go girl.”

Sweet Cheeks knows to offer another cough. She hears a ‘plop’ and her sheath is emptied. She blushes. A girl just can’t acclimate to having a man’s fingers working there... idolized or not, she tells herself.

“Good girl. Now this will hurt, Cheeks. Lady Dyson is persistent with the crop,” hands going to the breasts.

Having endured the many quick flicks of leather for mile after mile, Sweet Cheeks has spent the past few moments basking in the resulting glow, her long pink strips heated to a pleasant warmth, baked as with fine pastries, seeming to celebrate day’s end. But now... to be touched! The sensitivity!     

“Please no ,Sir.”

“But we must. Can’t have your titties ringing all night.”

“Can you just remove the bells?”

“No. Later we’ll get you some ointment and put your nipples back in stretching cones.”

“But they’re so sore, Sir... and quite long,” Sweet Cheeks pleads.

“Never long enough... for Lady Dyson.”

Deft as always, fingers go to work... gratefully fast. The left nipple is pulled to a grotesque length, the nub made thin, the threaded ring twisted then slipped away. Though quick, the action brings a gasp... the suffering noted..

“Take a deep breath, “Groom Edgar forewarns, right nipple to endure as well.

Another gasp, right nipple ring removed, Groom Edgar steps away.

“You may urinate while I get Candy Bar. No need for neatness. The floor is well drained. Then a nice bath... warm water, soap... and you can go tittie to tittie... belly to belly... thighs to thighs... cunt to cunt.”

The notion both enthuses and disturbs. There stirs homophobia. Sweet Cheeks pictures the knowing hand of Groom Edgar, lifting the clitoral hood, bringing into the sunlight of the corral a hormone modified clitoris. She saw... will she feel? 

Bound by her ear grommets, Groom Edgar’s suggestion brings need, Lady Dyson watering often during the long workout. Sweet Cheeks further parts her feet and presses, knowing any otherwise forbidden sloppiness will easily be hosed away.

Nothing.

She presses again, determined to open and relieve herself.

Nothing.  

There comes consternation... realization... that with the months of training, she... her system... has been conditioned to so perform only under supervision... a finger pressed within... her urethral sponge to become a valve for a man’s governance. Hanging in suspension she has trained herself to withhold... to wait... sometimes hours... for the insertion of her groom’s finger... and his permission.

She needs him... her groom... to perform a most basic anatomical function... she needs his guidance!

Then comes to mind her bowel movements, also well supervised, Groom Edgar’s caring hands required to wipe herself. Is that bodily function no longer under her auspices?

What is happening?

'Trainee to Pony Girl', Segment III

“Oh Lord, Sir. The insertion... it’s... it’s... different.”

Having performed in timely filling the morning basin, bowels and bladder readily emptying, Groom Edgar ringed the steed’s nipples, attached bells and in fully decorating, stuffed Sweet Cheeks’ vagina. Ben wa bell chiming just below the entrance to her mons, the lower ball, designed to freely rummage about and stimulate, has been switched to a more devious trinket. This ball is hollow and within rolls about a heavy liquid, with every step doubling the sensation of having her cunt manipulated.

“Yes. A special bauble for your first outing with Lady Dyson. You’re going to so much enjoy it. And when she crops your nipples and buttocks the sting will be that much more appreciated.”

Fully tacked, Groom Edgar leads out of the stable, a racing cart at the ready. He can only imagine how frothy will become her vagina. His nose already detects what must be an abundance of secretions.

Pushing backwards between the cart prongs, the waist belt is attached, Sweet Cheeks and the cart made one.

“Be a good pony girl. Run hard. If you perform, Lady Dyson may have you masturbated... to full climax. Is your mouth okay?”

“A little sore, Sir.”

“Well, once you’re being cropped you won’t notice,” slipping in place the bit to silence the girl.

After yesterday afternoon’s grueling stint on the treadmill, Groom Edgar performed the requested tongue work, his steady hand incising the lingual frenulum under the tongue while Sweet Cheeks languished in suspension in her stall. She is unaware... at this point... of the aspects of the modification. But after fully healing, more than just her calves, thighs and buttocks will be subjected to extensive exercise. Her tongue, now able to more freely move about, will be strengthened and stretched... Lady Dyson insisting on both stamina and nimbleness for oral servitude.         

“Good morning Edgar,” Lady Dyson stepping from the farmhouse porch.

Regal in her equestrienne attire, Lady Dyson strolls across the compacted soil of the stable area. She assesses her aspiring racing pony, smiling in seeing that the cool autumn air has brought goose bumps to her nakedness, the lengthy nipples of nearly four inches seeming to point like spears of pink. 

“You’ll soon be warmed,” crop hand extending to tap right nipple then left, bringing stabs of pain and a cacophony of ringing. “Nicely decorated... cunt stuffed... ready to be worked. You’re in your element, Sweet Cheeks. Naked, completely exposed. I’ll bet you’re wet,” free hand lowering.

Lady Dyson smiles in seeing the girl attempt to move forth and present her mons for penetration, obediently conforming to the proper comportment explained yesterday. But in being hitched such is ungainly. Her Ladyship instead reaches to briefly slip a finger past the dangling Ben wa bell and assess. 

“Yes, like a river,” retracting her hand, holding up wet fingers. “I will need to assure she’s watered. Secreting by the pint,” taking the reins from Groom Edgar.

Lady Dyson seats herself, the cart’s prongs proclaiming her authority with the transfer of weight. For the first time Sweet Cheeks feels the full subjugation of the human equine... transformed to a beast of burden.... a naked and bound beast of burden... sentient pink flesh modified at her Master’s whim.

She feels a hand reach out, thumb and forefinger clasping a large tuft of buttock. Touch unexpected, Sweet Cheeks stirs in harness when the fingers release then go to her gluteal cleft, grazing about deeply, her sphincter diddled.

There is a message, Sweet Cheeks realizes... her bare form is presented for inspection... vulnerable to her Master’s caprice.  

“Marvelous work, Edgar. So firm. Thickness of a half inch... nothing more... nothing less. Has she been figged yet?”

“No, Ma’am.”  

“Well, perhaps the next excursion. Makes a girl eager to perform... as you well know,” fingers lowering to capture the free swinging labia. “It’s near month end, Edgar. Gabbie wants to use her key... as I’m sure you want her to use it as well. Since your efforts on this one are so laudable, perhaps something special for you.” 

Lady Dyson smiles in seeing her groom cringe.

“Penance, Edgar. It’s good for the soul.”

With that, the exploring hand takes the reins, the crop hand swings to apply encouragement and Sweet Cheeks lunges in harness, feet pumping, muscles contracting, buttocks clenching. She finds Groom Edgar to be correct. Despite the nirvana of her stuffed cunt, the sting to her right nipple instantly distracts. More swats to her buttocks assure her effort.

The morning will be long.

***** 

Crop swinging, Lady Dyson brings her steed to a fast and steady pace. She is pleased, her pony girl responding to directing tugs on the reins, keeping the nipple and Ben wa bells ringing in cadence with her footwork, seeming to take equine pride in her efforts. The many strokes of the crop... nipples and buttocks... nipples and buttocks... seem welcomed. 

The girl wants to run... wants to perform... wants to please... Lady Dyson’s equestrienne eyes and ears so tell her. That the stinging anguish of leather on sentient flesh counters the otherwise uncontrollable pleasure of her stuffed cunt. Groom Edgar has done well. And in seeming to revel in her bound nakedness... stretched pink flesh well exposed for maximum humiliation... the many reports from the orphanage have been prescient... masochism... exhibitionism... to be nurtured.

The pony girl will deny it, but she us in her element. 

One mile, two, then comes a third. With Lady Dyson’s many years of training girls she knows a respite is needed. What better place to convey her authority than to have a rest at the fields where the work ponies labor under the lash... and the penis. Such will bring fear and revulsion to her charge.

A turn, firm strokes of the crop to bring Sweet Cheeks to dash at full at pace, the path to the fields taken at full gallop. Despite the cool autumn air, Lady Dyson notes her girl is in a lather, beads of perspiration streaming to the protruding buttocks, droplets flicking away with the rolling flesh. Mud collects about wet ankles, the well worked steed to very much appreciate Groom Edgar’s care and attention at day’s end.   

Within a half mile, the field hands and work ponies come into view, harvesting potatoes. In seeing the naked girth of the work ponies, tethered to heavy carts laden with spuds, Lady Dyson knows Sweet Cheeks’ concerns will be renewed. And sure enough, field hand Luther has released a well worked pony girl from the yoke of a cart, bending her nakedness over a correction stanchion, a waist high well worn horizontal plank.

“Ho,” Lady Dyson directs, pulling on the reins next to work pony Cream Puff, positioned with her wrists cuffed behind her back, head down, buttocks high, thighs well spread.  

Lady Dyson dismounts assuring the work pony is well within Sweet Cheeks’ line of sight, the blinkers of the bridle constricting much peripheral vision. 

“Keep your thighs parted, Sweet Cheeks, cunt open and displayed,” tapping the dangling labia with her crop.

She smiles in seeing the feet obediently move apart then turns to bid good day to field hand Luther, a strapping young man of color, attired in a shawl and loose loin cloth. In tying off the reins she notes three boys from the village observe the workers and tethered ponies from a nearby knoll... undoubtedly at the age when the female form begins to attract... a combination of curiosity and hormonal urges. She waves, no desire to assert her property rights and disturb her neighbors.

Stepping to the work pony, a hand extends, smoothing over an expanse of nakedness, playfully grasping a thick tuft of skin, fattened under Groom Edgar’s regimen.

“Good afternoon Cream Puff,” the tone condescending. “Being a good girl for Luther?”

As she speaks, Luther slips the bit from the pony girl’s mouth. But before she can acknowledge her Ladyship, the loin cloth is pushed aside and an enormous manhood is press to her lips.

“Needs watering, Miss Dyson.”

“Of course.”

Such a show for her trainee... such a lesson. Sweet Cheeks forced to watch. That not only are work ponies worked hard, regularly whipped and put under the penis... big black cock... but are toileted as well.

Cream Puff parts her lips and engulfs, Luther’s hands lowering to grasp right nipple and left, the touch intended to sooth... but if need be to encourage obeisant behavior.

In waiting for the deed’s completion... Cream Puff to be ‘watered’... Lady Dyson recalls the early training of the well subjugated work pony.

Cream Puff ran well under Lady Dyson’s crop. Entering several races, she took show often, placing once, never winning. As the girl gulps Luther’s golden offering, Lady Dyson smooths her hands over welted buttocks then pinches, the epidermis thickened, thumb and forefinger gathering more than two inches. She turns assuring the generous coating is evident to Sweet Cheeks, her flesh covering much controlled, a well monitored one half inch.

“Keeps a girl warm... long days working in the in the cool outdoors. And the heft works well in pulling heavy loads... doesn’t it Cream Puff? Just lean into your harness, get the cart rolling. and your weight keeps the momentum going.”

She knows Sweet Cheeks finds the girl’s presentation to be appalling, Lady’s Dyson’s brazen handling further objectifying, the human form transformed to a beast of burden. And to further degrade the hands lower, slipping between well parted thighs, finding the extended labia, fingers closing about right strip and left. Lady Dyson tugs, knowing that with Luther likewise gripping the lengthy nipples the sensual input overwhelms, feet stirring. She toys and teases, demonstrating to Sweet Cheeks her dominion. Then in seeing Luther complete the ‘watering’ she releases, making a show of her moist hands.

She glances to the knoll, noting the trio of boys are watching intently, some hundred yards in the distance. She beckons, mischievous thoughts percolating.

“The boys, Luther... do you see them often?”

“They come around... made off with some pumpkins a while back. But I don’t think what we grow is the attraction,” Lither smiling, aware of the true attraction.

Lady Dyson nods, turning, stepping to the knoll and calling out.     

“Come boys, take some potatoes,” again gesturing with her hand.

Regal as always in her equestrienne attire, presenting herself as nobility in riding into the scene conveyed by human muscle and sweat, the words are received almost as a command. There is a unheard discussion amongst the three. Within a moment any reluctance or concern in accepting the invitation is overcome. 

Ah... to be proximate to a naked girl... two naked girls!  

Giggling the boys saunter forth. Lady Dyson assesses the ages. Young but old enough to find interest... discovering the mystery of the female form.

“I am Lady Dyson... you’re on Dyson Farms property. And are welcome... for now. Names?” 

“I’m Mark... he’s Everett... that’s Randy.”

“Well, Mark, Everett and Randy, my man Luther says you’ve been stealing.”

“But you give away pumpkins...”

“Stealing glances... not pumpkins... glances of my work pony ponies.”

The boys smile sheepishly.

“Well... they’re... there’s no clothing,” Randy blurts, his explanation bringing Lady Dyson to smile.

An aptly named lad, she thinks to herself.

“I don’t permit clothing. Girls like these,” a hand waving to Cream Puff then the nearby Sweet Cheeks, “perform for me better in the nude.”

“And without any hair!” Everett’s turn to exclaim.

“Easier to scrub them down. And hair can not only be septic but also a source self esteem. These kind of girls... well... any esteem to be had is not in appearance but in serving me. So your attraction... your curiosity in bringing you to trespass... is not about girls but about girls without covering... girls without hair. And such is satisfied in gawking... from a distance?”

No response, in silence the boys look at other, searching for an answer.   

“I think you want to know more. And I’m sure skulking about the bathroom when your sisters are bathing is frowned upon.”

The boys again look at each other, now in astonishment. How does this woman know that?

“Step closer... over here,” pointing to where Cream Puff’s massive buttocks seem to glow in the early afternoon sun. “Luther, you may get back to work. I’ll summon you when I am finished with the girl.”

Luther departs. Cream Puff stirs. Years serving naked and bound, she is accustomed to being exposed to the eyes of the field hands, but to inquisitive youth! It has been disturbing to see them ogling in the distance. Now so close!

“Gather around and listen,” Lady Dyson not only to lecture to naive young males, but to again ingrain her power and control in the mind of Sweet Cheeks. She notes her pony girl is already blushing with the boys proximity. 

“This is Cream Puff... a pony girl. Indentured to Dyson Farms... indentured to me. You’ve noticed her arms are restrained. Pony girls don’t need to use their hands so to preclude mischief they’re kept well bound. And yes, boys, girls are given to play with themselves too,” the comment bringing the trio to sheepishly smile.

“I trained her years ago to race... in competition... pulling a cart... just like that,” nodding to Sweet Cheeks. “She was adequate, never fulfilling my full expectations. So in reaching her zenith... not quite a champion, I had her relegated to work the fields... as you’ve seen. Picture this one with seventy to eighty pound less fat. We put it on her... diminishing any remaining pride... and allowing her to work more hours in the cool air,” hands poking and prodding, making the rolls of thick epidermis jiggle, bringing forth giggles... politely stifled.

“Now, I know that’s not what makes you curious. It’s this,” hands lowering, fingers grasping  elongated strips of labia, pinching and brusquely pulling left and right to splay open the pony girl’s portal. “This is her cunt... I am sure you’ve heard and used the term in the school yard... boys being boys. And what I’m holding is termed the labia minora. Quite similar in texture and feel to that nestling your balls... your scrotum. I like stretching a girl here... as I’m sure you’ve noticed. It diminishes any unwanted girlish pride in so having to constantly expose herself. That brings humility... and with it obeisance.”

Hearing the explanation, Sweet Cheeks closes her eyes in shame, vicariously sensing Cream Puff’s humiliation... objectified again... before such naivety. She chooses not to witness the degradation... but must listen, Lady Dyson’s lecture continuing. Apparently with Cream Puff’s opening well displayed, there is pointed out the many dynamics and folds of the complex female anatomy, labia majora, clitoris, clitoral hood, vestibular bulbs, Bartholin’s glands, Skene’s glands, urethral opening. For Sweet Cheeks, there comes a sense gratitude in having her cunt stuffed, her vulva not to be so visually inspected.

“But what about her asshole?” Mark crassly inquires.

“What about it?”

“It’s... like... not closed.”

“Yes, she’s gaping. The field hands like to gape a girl... keep her constantly open. They insert things,” Lady Dyson deliberately vague concerning the continual anal sodomy perpetrated, insertions most commonly being big black cock. “A work pony is always to feel open, available and vulnerable. It is best for them.

“Now step to the front boys... more unique female anatomy for you to examine.”

The lecture continues, Lady Dyson without doubt a student of her servant and groom Edgar, his medical training evidently passed onward. The breasts... pony girl breasts... are examined and explained... Lady Dyson now encouraging each boy to touch, to feel... even to pull left nipple and right, Cream Puff’s shame and embarrassment palpable.

“The stretching here is more practical then for altering a girl cosmetically. Take your hands away,” ending Everett’s turn to try milking a girl.

Breasts clear, nipples crinkled and pointing to the soil below, Lady Dyson reaches for her crop and with two very slight flicks of her wrists nips the very tips... right then left... bringing Cream Puff to lurch in agony.

“Discipline... and encouragement when laboring in harness... applied with little exertion on my part. Minimal effort... maximum pain... a girl’s focus, attention and output quickly attained and facilely optimized.”

“Wow,” comes a collectively response.

“And don’t try that on your sisters,” Lady Dyson humorously advises. “The pony girls here are special... of a very... let’s say... unique psyche. All with certain penchants... which would fester in another environment. Here at Dyson Farms such are made to flourish.”

There comes pause, letting the boys digest. Lady Dyson devilishly considers the appropriateness of offering fellatio... a neighborly gesture in her mind. Yet such a deed would most likely not be well received by the parents. She puts the thought aside.  

“What about that one... with the bells?” young Randy gushes, excited by the empowerment of the knowledge gained.

Sweet Cheeks’ heart sinks. Yes, the bells... at the nipples... grazing the opening to her vagina. Of course such need explanation... and the boys’ attention.

“A girl I’m training... for competition. Come,” Lady Dyson stepping, the boys following the few feet to where Sweet Cheeks remains tethered.

Sweet Cheeks again closes her eyes, in shame. Not able to run... not able to hide. Oddly, she feels grateful to be in harness. Hitched to the racing cart, her cunt cannot be subjected to such obscene examination. Yet then she realizes... the twinges... the arousal. Her psyche returns her to the orphanage... being punished... only a blanket for her covering. And when an older girl tears it away... there come no words of protest... no attempt to retrieve... only the twinges... the moisture in her quim... the perverse excitement.

As Lady Dyson positions herself for another lecture, for some reason, Sweet Cheeks finds herself wriggling her hips, the action bringing self pleasure in both jostling the lower Ben wa ball and bringing all her bells to ring. Lady Dyson smiles, knowing her pony girl is stirring her own arousal.

“This is Sweet Cheeks. As you can see boys, she’s more or less gagged in bit and bridle. So she’s saying hello with her bells.”

Lady Dyson extends her crop hand, the leather tip brushing Sweet Cheeks’ right nipple, gently jiggling to bring more ringing, demonstrating her governance.

“She’s kept hairless as with Cream Puff, but well toned and muscled. Body fat minimized, she is exercised extensively... probably as well conditioned as an Olympic athlete.”

“Can we?” Mark extending his hand.

“Of course. Feel the skin... the firmness... the muscling beneath. She’s weighed and measured daily... her urine and feces tested... diet perfected in terms of nutrition. Within a few months... with more training... better acclimated to the harness... I’ll be racing her.”

In maximizing the humiliation, Lady Dyson unties the reins, pulls downward such that Sweet Cheeks must bend at the waist, and hands the controlling leather to Everett, the motion causing her nipples bells to chime sonorously.      

“Hold her like that. Notice how the buttocks protrude in such a pose,” signaling for the many hands to freely poke, pinch and prod.

“She won’t mind?” the words expressed as if Sweet Cheeks was inanimate.

“I won’t mind. She has no say. And note the training, always positioned with feet well parted. Girls like this enjoy showing themselves... their cunts.”

Indeed as the boys step behind, her stuffed portal well displayed, Sweet Cheeks begins to well up, the embarrassment overwhelming. Yet, once again, she wriggles her hips and the vaginal insertions perform their magic. She hears Lady Dyson laugh, too well aware of her pony girl’s dilemma... the inner conflict... the craving... for exhibition... for subjugation. Such intensity.   

“Cool... a bell... held between her labia minora,” Randy flaunting his new found knowledge.

His hand extends, fingers flicking the extended strip of pink, a child fascinated with a new toy. hearing the bell again ring.

“That’s part of her tacking... just as we put her in bit, bridle and waist belt. Her cunt is stuffed... some trinkets within are attached to the bell which keeps her stimulated... eager to run for me.”

“And she’s really moist... like going to the bathroom.”

“No, she’s not urinating, that’s what happens when girls are excited,” Lady Dyson chuckling, knowing that with Sweet Cheeks’ penchant, she has entered the ‘loop’. The fact that she’s displaying her arousal to a group of young boys foments more arousal... exhibiting the evidence of her humiliation leading to more humiliation. 

Lady Dyson can terminate the ‘loop’. Instead she casually watches as the boys’ hands and fingers assess for themselves the firmness of the pony girl flesh, just as Groom Edgar measures with calipers and regularly records.

“Her asshole... it’s not gaped,” Mark further parting the gluteal cleft, comparing her sphincter to that of Cream Puff.

“Sphincter... use the term sphincter. That’s because she’s not a work pony. Boys, I have to run Sweet Cheeks for another mile or two... and her legs will begin to stiffen if I don’t move along. So grab some potatoes if you’d like,” taking the reins from Everett, noting his look of enthusiasm in his dominion over a naked well bound girl. “And if you come back... I should say when you come back... don’t stand so far off.”       

'Trainee to Pony Girl', Segment II

Collared and leashed, wrists cuffed and returned to the reverse prayer position, Sweet Cheeks awaits on the porch of the farmhouse. Housemaid Gabbie proved to be adept at binding a girl. Such soft hands, such determination to bring suffering in securing high her arms, elongated nipples jutting forth to proclaim her modifications. She hopes for the return of Groom Edgar. He will for sure be kindly in offering more tolerable restraint, Gabbie hooking high the leash, forcing her to await on her toes.

In thought, she thinks about the tete a tete with Lady Dyson... the embarrassment in subconsciously reverting to the orphanage regimen... but also her prospective role at Dyson Farms... the challenge. Yet perhaps the greatest dilemma is not so much accepting the challenge but instead turning it down. Yes, she can claim her liberty at any time. Yet, as so aptly pointed out, would this free her of her needs... the predilections to be addressed?  

Accepting the challenge entails more development. Such brings goose bumps. Of fear and concern? Of tantalizing delight? Sweet Cheeks berates herself... a slave... not to the Master of Dyson Farms... but to her own warped desires... her mind inhibiting her own manumission.

In time Groom Edgar exits the stables, a fully tacked pony girl Candy Bar in tow, taut reins assuring her obeisance. He leads to a sleek racing cart, appearing to be nothing more than a seat mounted on two wheels, horizontal prongs at the front to make a girl one with the mode of transportation.

As Sweet Cheeks watches him attach such to the waist belt of Candy Bar, Lady Dyson exits the farmhouse, riding crop in hand.

“I’m taking Candy Bar for a jaunt. A good steed, strength and endurance... took to the hormones very well... but not a sprinter.”

The crop arm lowers, the leather tip going to Sweet Cheeks engorged labia, playfully jostling about the jello like flesh.

“Come, I’ll bring you to Edgar... and show you something.”

The leash is released, Lady Dyson grasps then steps from the porch. Sweet Cheeks must follow, eyes going to the seat of the beige jodhpurs, her ladyship well formed.   

“The hormones, a daily dosage of testosterone for some two years. My girls’ endocrine systems respond to it remarkably.”

“Good morning, Lady Dyson,” Groom Edgar greets, completing his task.

“Good morning, Edgar,” handing over Sweet Cheeks’ leash and taking the offered reins. “Sweet Cheeks will be trained to run in competition. She’s not a show pony. Start her on the hormones, lengthen her treadmill work, do your thing with her tongue and I’ll run her tomorrow. But show her what a wonderful transition your injections will bring.”

Groom Edgar smiles mischievously, returning his attention to Candy Bar, standing hitched, naked of course but for waist belt and head gear.  He steps to the left prong, reaches over and with brazen deftness presses his free hand at the top of pony girl’s vulva. He splays, thumb and forefinger finger parting then lifting to manipulate the clitoral hood. Candy Bar moans, shifting about her feet in silent protest. Into the sunlight comes the most precious feminine bud of bright pink. Sweet Cheeks stares in astonishment, Lady Dyson cackles with the reaction. It is not a clitoris... but a small penis.

“You’ll soon be having one of those, Sweet Cheeks. And good pony girls get the feather. Work hard for me... and be masturbated,” Lady Dyson exclaims, moving to be seated in the cart.

Groom Edgar slips away his hand, the fleshy hood retracts, again cloaking the enormous bud. Lady Dyson’s crop hand swings, the right nipple endures a crisp splat of leather, Candy Bar lurches and as the groom steps away the cart instantly rolls and accelerates.

“So you had a good discussion,” Groom Edgar pleasantly declaims more than inquires, reaching behind to where Sweet Cheeks’ wrists are secured uncomfortably high.  

 “Yes, Sir... thank you Sir,” the cuffs loosened and lowered to a more tolerable position.

“And now it’s time. To depart... or begin hormones? You have a choice. I’m sure Lady Dyson so informed.”

“I have no where to go, Sir.”

“I think you have no where else you want to go... other than to be here, Sweet Cheeks. There’s a place for you... a role.”

“And... tongue work?”

“Ah... yes... quick, simple... an instant of pain... enabling a lifetime of... oral devotion,” Groom Edgar taking in the slack of the leash and leading to the stables. 

“But not for you, Sir. Lady Dyson said Gabbie takes care of you.”

“He... she... yes... there are times... when her ladyship graciously... ah... condescends.”

“To keep you happy... like the field hands?”

“More like to address a biological need... a male biological need.”

If only Sweet Cheeks knew of the ignominy her idolized groom must brook in enduring the attention of maid/houseboy Gabbie... under the amused eye of Lady Dyson of course. Hopefully she will never be made fully aware.

“A couple of hours on the treadmill, Sweet Cheeks. Meanwhile I’ll prepare your first injection... and a little scalpel work... after being fed.”   

Led to the treadmill, Sweet Cheeks finds something amiss.

“Sir... am I not to be decorated?” many weeks of training to synchronize her footwork with the bells.

“So you miss your baubles, Cheeks. What does that say about being indoctrinated? No time to stuff your cunt. I’ll get a set of nipple rings and bells.”

Restrained as always, Groom Edgar guides, Sweet Cheeks to step up onto the canvas belt. He reaches up, hooking cables to the ear grommets and removes the leash. Sweet Cheeks calmly waits standing, wrists held in the reverse prayer position, head held high, extended nipples thrust forth. She thinks of the sight of Candy Bar’s outlandish clitoris, covering hood slipped away, the organ spearing forth, yes like a penis.

Another exhibit of Lady Dyson’s power and control, modifying a girl’s appearance, the most fundamental parts that define the female form. This will be how I am to look, Sweet Cheeks thinks to herself... the first injection of hormones eminent. 

Despite having her head in bondage, in her lower peripheral vision she can see the tips of her lengthy nipples, crinkled and jutting forth. Will her most precious nubbin of joy be made as pretentious? The long discussion with her ladyship comes to mind... finding that her entire stay at the orphanage was monitored... subject to psychological evaluation and assessment. That one in ten girls gather the attention of the orphanage’s benefactress. Oddly, she senses a glimmer of pride, marveling at how well Lady Dyson and her minions.... the matrons... the psychiatrist... the photographer... came to focus on her. She has been appraised and deemed worthy... chosen.

Yet such is for her masochism... her innate tendencies... to capitulate and yield... so easily induced to posing naked... and obscenely. The exhibitionism... innate... or indoctrinated to it?  

Further muddling her thoughts... she is free to leave Dyson Farms.

“I’ve prepared the injection. May as well begin now.” Groom Edgar returning to interrupt her thoughts..    

Sweet Cheeks feels the coolness of an alcohol swab, then a jab to her left buttock.

It begins.

“Will I... look... like that, Mr. Edgar... you know... down below... like Candy Bar?”.

“Every girl reacts a little differently... the endocrine systems differ.”

“So I am to have a penis?”

“Possibly,” the reply coming as the syringe is stowed and fingers work the left nipple, encircling with a ring then pinching and pulling away, stretching the pink strip to hideous length. “Anatomically the clitoris is a vestigial phallus. In a way, you have one now,” the advisement coming with a chuckle.    

Slipping the ring to the base of the mammary gland, the cleverly threaded trinket is twisted to be held  in place.

“But there’s the feather, Cheeks. As Lady Dyson said, you’ll have a nice big clitoris to be stimulated. Run well, work hard for Lady Dyson... and she’ll see to it that you’ll be rewarded. It’s been awhile since your last orgasm.” 

Sweet Cheeks feels the right nipple being likewise ringed, fingers twisting in place.

“Do have orgasms Sir? Are you permitted?” housemaid Gabbie’s necklace with attached key coming to mind.

Hands work to attach bells to the nipple rings, Sweet Cheeks partially decorated.

“Permitted? You seem to be aware of something.”

“Lady Dyson, she pointed out Gabbie’s necklace.”

Groom Edgar steps to the control dial of the treadmill, setting the timer to two hours then pausing in thought.

“Lady Dyson said you’ve ceded your masculinity. That she has control over a phallus... a fully functioning phallus... your penis?”

No reply, instead Groom Edgar turns the dial to a moderate setting of speed. Sweet Cheeks must begin, legs pumping, toes tapping, nipples bobbing, bells ringing, labia flopping.

“I’d so much like to please you, Sir,” knowing it’s her final words, lungs to soon be laboring.

 “That is not for you to decide,” turning to depart. “And not for me either,” the exchange ending.

Groom Edgar steps back. A well trained Sweet Cheeks quickly brings the chiming bells in synchrony with her feet, the rhythm reminding of watching a chain gang laboring in a prison movie. The rolling buttocks... well rounded, sculpted over many grueling rides on the wooden horse... bring lustful thoughts. Thoughts which must be diverted. Still, eyes lowering to see the red balloons of the infused labia bounce about between the thighs, the arousal heightens. 

‘Do you have orgasms, Sir?’ Sweet Cheeks’ question repeating in his head     

Impudent of the pony girl to ask. Yet pertinent, Lady Dyson augmenting the torment of his ongoing chastity by making the equally chaste Sweet Cheeks aware of his predicament... his penance.  

In reporting the desire of Sweet Cheeks to please... to suck his penis... it seems he cultivated something... Lady Dyson deciding to disclose... partially disclose?.. that housemaid Gabbie is in possession of that which enables his penis to fully function.

What are her Ladyship’s plans?

Groom Edgar changes his focus, a practiced ear listening to the steady deep breathing as Sweet Cheeks settles into a trot. Not challenging enough, he concludes, stepping forth, returning to adjust the speed dial, slowly increasing the pace.

“Much work to be done... if you’re going to compete,” Groom Edgar explains in response to Sweet Cheeks’ look of concern, feet pounding, bells going out of synch.        

Yet, is he truly desirous of conditioning the girl? Or retaliating for her taunting questions... penis indeed not permitted to fully function.

'Trainee to Pony Girl', Segment I

Not much feedback. Show pony, to be raced in competition... or work the fields?

*****

Trainee to Pony Girl

Copyright 2023

by Chris Bellows

“Thank you, Edgar. Strip her down. Then you’re dismissed.”

A leashed Sweet Cheeks finds the command to be curious. She wears nothing, as always. She’s not even decorated... no nipple rings, bells, vaginal insertion. Still Groom Edgar steps behind, unclipping the leash, releasing the wrist cuffs from the reverse prayer position, unbuckling then removing the neck collar.

Sweet Cheeks better understands the instructions. Having worn either masturbation mittens or cuffs and collar for many months, she does indeed feel denuded. And hands! Free to move! 

“Do not touch yourself,” Lady Dyson firmly instructs. “Hands to the back of your head. You’re familiar with the crop as an instrument of correction, but wayward hands and fingers are greeted by the cane.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” arms rising.

Groom Edgar steps to exit, drawing away Lady Dyson’s attention as she closes the study door. There is a moment for Sweet Cheeks to surveil.

The spacious study of the Dyson Farms farmhouse is opulent. Wood paneling of walnut, floor to ceiling curtains of dark red velvet, lush carpeting of deep blue patterned with red equine figures. There is a large desk with two piles of neatly stacked manilla folders.

A bright desk lamp glows, the lighting otherwise dim... with an exception that brings Sweet Cheeks to momentarily gawk before composing herself.   

In a corner, well lit by halogen lights on the ceiling, stands a statuesque woman of color. She is perched on a pedestal, wears nothing, and is hairless, as with all Dyson Farms pony girls. Her skin of golden brown gleams under the lighting. Sweet Cheeks notes the elongated nipples spearing forth and as expected at Dyson Farms, labia minora of brownish pink dangling past the outer lips, seemingly halfway down the thighs. The woman is motionless, hands pressed to the back of her bald head just as Sweet Cheeks has been directed. Yet, what draws most attention is the decorative cables, leading from the ceiling, the ends hooked through ear grommets... as with Sweet Cheeks, metal lined openings punched deep into the cartilage behind the ear hole.  

The bondage is simple yet thorough, held on toes, head forcibly high. Sweet Cheeks tries to glance away, not wishing to stare, but the naked form seems carved to perfection, shapely calves, thighs... buttocks no doubt honed on the wooden horse... miles of treadmill work. The breasts are pony girl breasts... the stretched nipples mounted on rounded mounds but of limited girth, fat tissue yielding to extensive workouts.

Still, the girl is comely... facial features even. And she is permitted eyebrows! Perhaps she is considered stunning to the aficionado of the human equine. And far from the beastly plumped figure of a farm work pony.

“You take interest in Fudge,” Lady Dyson interrupting in moving to Sweet Cheeks’ front.

A hand lowers, palm turned upwards, the arm extending near to the engorged labia of trainee Sweet Cheeks. Sweet Cheeks diverts her eyes back to the chatelaine of Dyson Farms. Dark hair of moderate length, combed back, white blouse of satin, beige jodhpurs, knee high black leather boots. Given a riding crop, the woman appears prepared for a morning jaunt.  

“You’ve been infused. Edgar can be such a provocateur. Enjoying the sensation? Makes a girl feel quite lusty in so brazenly displaying her femininity. And to be reminded of your subjugation with every step you take...”

“I... well... asked Mr. Edgar,” recalling the groom’s suggestion... desiring to show deference.

“So you wanted to appear before me in such a ridiculous manner. Such humiliation for you. Very telling. But your poise and comportment need some refining. Do you see what I’ve done with my hand... where it’s resting?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Well step forth, spread and introduce your cunt to my fingers. Whenever you’re so greeted, offer yourself, let your Master feel you, get inside you.”

Sweet Cheeks’ heart leaps in shock, but she complies, closing her eyes in shame as she basically moves to impale herself, feeling the woman’s palm press to her clitoral hood, two fingers entering her vagina.

“Good girl. It’s like pushing my hand into little pillows... with the saline infusion. And you’re quite wet. You’re aroused. Fudge exciting you? Or being handled... submitting?”

“I... well... this is new...”

“But acceptable to you,” the hand withdrawing, wet fingers sniffed. “Yes, wet and fragrant. You’ll find I like cunts... seeing... feeling... smelling. Step over here. Have a better look at Fudge. Excite yourself.”

Sweet Cheeks is wont to protest, the naked form is attractive but not a source of arousal... or is it? She is not homosexual. Is it the bondage that brings deviant excitement?     

“I have her pose for me several hours per day during office work. Fudge is a show pony... former show pony... winning best in show three years running. As you can see I had her modified for better viewing... the judges like prominent girl parts... and of course exercised and shaped to perfection. Even took the time to sun her... getting the coloring of her skin just right... golden brown. Alluring when oiled and properly posed under the lights.”

The objectification is noteworthy, show pony Fudge presenting herself perfectly still, not even her eyes blinking, staring at the blank wall.   

“Note the sheen of the skin. I had her defoliated... regular shaving can roughen the epidermis. So she’s been chemically depilated. The entire body... head included. But not the eyebrows, of course. That’s not good for exhibition. The judges score against that. And as you can see, my houseboy Gabbie has oiled her. I like to see my show pony glow... under the lights.”

Lady Dyson reaches forth, fingers going to the left nipple, thumb and forefinger rolling about the lengthy strip of sentient brownish pink. The tantalizing finger work does not bring a notable reaction.

Sweet Cheeks is both repulsed... yet oddly aroused... by the exhibitionism... the objectification of the naked female form intensified by the narrative. And her nose detects feminine fragrance... not her own. The show pony finds thrill in her Master’s touch.

“I’m going to inseminate and breed her. One of the field hands will happily donate. Other than hands and fingers, we don’t permit vaginal penetration here at Dyson Farms. It’s the turkey baster for her, ha, ha, ha.

“Good girl, Fudge,” the hand lowering to likewise roll about the labial flesh. “So Fudge’s show days will come to an end... a nice big belly... Edgar to induce lactation. Then maybe have her drop a second foal... if not I’ll have her work the fields. Yes, all good things come to an end.

“We need to talk,” finally turning away and stepping toward her vast desk, gesturing for Sweet Cheeks to stand at the front edge. “I’ve followed Edgar’s daily reports,” sitting and gesturing to the left stack of manilla folders. “Your modifications are progressing, buttocks nicely sculpted. You’ve been run on the treadmill... built stamina, been broken to the bit and bridle, acclimated to the reins. You’re no longer 120 pounds of fat and gelatinous flesh, Sweet Cheeks. You’re now 135 pounds of muscle... firm... and well developed where a pony girl needs muscle.

“Part your feet...” the words sharp, Lady Dyson interrupting herself. “Open your thighs. I want to see those long plumped lips jiggle about. And you’ll enjoy the feel.”

Sweet Cheeks immediately complies, the motion causing her feminine parts to brush her inner thighs. She blushes with the frisson of delight... labia jiggling indeed. 

“So... a decision. Replace Fudge, putting you on exhibition... possibly win a prize or two... or put you in full harness and begin further developing you for competition.”

Lady Dyson sits back in her large padded leather desk chair. The pose brings forth the fullness of her breasts... normal breasts, Sweet Cheeks notes in envy... the roundness tenting her blouse... not flattened through extensive exercise.

“You may speak.”

“I just can’t be a work pony, Ma’am. It’s... it’s... horrible.”

“Yes, my working beasts... it’s grueling. But a pony girl is even worked harder in harness. Speed, endurance... run for miles... under the crop.”

“But not... well... I can’t be with the field hands.” 

“They’re required for the farm’s heavy lifting. There is some muscling you just can’t develop on a girl. But what in particular bothers you about the field hands?”

Sweet Cheeks turns to reticence. Lady Dyson leans forth, a hand reaching, a finger tapping the right set of manila folders. 

“The psychiatrist’s reports... from the orphanage. I reread. You may or may not be aware that I am a major benefactor of the orphanage. Matter of fact I may be the only benefactor. For my generosity I receive these monthly reports on every girl. Also I strongly recommend to the orphanage matrons a regimen of punishments for transgressors. You’re very much aware of what that entails. You spent much time enshrouded in nothing more than a blanket... when the older girls let you keep it.”

Sweet Cheeks sheepishly nods, surprised to learn of the psychiatrist’s reports. She of course recalls the many meetings with the erudite doctor... the questions... the discussions. Being covered in nothing more than a blanket during some talks prompted much conversation.  But she had assumed such was part of the process leading to adoption, not to be disseminated elsewhere. Ironically, it comes to mind that perhaps indeed such led to adoption... at Dyson Farms.

“So we get to know the girls... how receptive they are... to... well... being stripped naked and brought to submission... to be blunt. I’d say one in ten catch my attention. And the fact that you now stand before me, not only in the nude, hands obediently clasped behind your head, but having requested that you endure the ignominy of having your girls parts infused for attraction... well... it seems I interpreted these reports most acuminously.”      

The embarrassment surges. Sweet Cheeks has been deceived. Should she correct herself... that the infusion was not her request but instead the suggestion of Groom Edgar? Yet, can she deny the lustful twinges offered by her swollen lips bring not a quirky thrill?

“So I’ve selected well... and it’s fortunate for you... to have your penchants not only understood, but addressed and nurtured. Understand, in time, all my pony girls move to the barn and work the fields. It’s a more leisurely pace, no need for speed and endurance. With no show judges to impress, shape and conditioning matter not. They’re kept quite subjugated, as their proclivities require. And they’re put under the penis. Big black cock... to taste... to feel pulsing between their cheeks.”

Lady Dyson notes the latter words bring her pony girl to shudder... in repulsion?  

“So... being put under the penis... such seems to bring concern.”

Sweet Cheeks nods.

“Yet you’ve offered to service Edgar’s cock. Oh don’t be surprised that I’m aware. He reports everything... as I demand of him,” a hand again patting the left pile of folders. 

“It’s... well... different. He said that pleases...”

“And you want to please your groom. Of course. Well, that’s not going to happen... not that way. Edgar is a servant. I decide how and when he is to be ‘pleased’... as you term sucking a man’s cock.”

With that comes a knock on the study door. Lady Dyson looks at her watch.

“That will be Gabbie... my maid... my houseboy. You can show yourself to another set of eyes,” Lady Dyson snickering in knowing so well of Sweet Cheeks latent joy. “Come in, Gabbie.”

There come more Dyson Farms eccentricities as the study door slowly opens. Joining the three women is a fourth... or so Sweet Cheeks initially assumes. For stepping within is a diminutive figure with long flowing hair and extensive facial make up... extensive to the point of gaudiness. There are scintillating ear studs. The hands cradle a long slim basin of metal... Sweet Cheeks recognizing it as a replica of that held between her thighs for morning excretions.

“It’s time, Lady Dyson,” a soft high pitched voice informs, “for Fudge,” the maid nodding to where the show pony remains perched.    

“Yes, Gabbie. Make it quick. I’m interviewing the new pony girl.”

As the form steps forward, Sweet Cheeks notes the lack of clothing, the form hairless and completely naked... but for high heeled shoes... nudity seeming to be de rigeur at Dyson Farms. But what draws more focused attention is a tiny penis flopping about between soft plumped thighs. And nothing else to discern gender! 

“As I said... maid ... and houseboy,” Lady Dyson explains in seeing Sweet Cheeks gawk.

In stunned silence Sweet Cheeks watches as Fudge further parts her thighs ever so slightly, and small, well manicured hands work the basin between. Sweet Cheeks, all too familiar with the ritual, knows what is to come next... stepping behind, left hand holding the basin close to the mons, a finger of the right slipping between... no doubt finding the urethral sponge in order to control the expected flow.

Experience apparent, the scene of capitulation... surrendering a most intimate function... unfolds... Fudge opening, maid/houseboy Gabbie taking control... the basin filling in spurts.

“It’s wonderfully demeaning for her, wouldn’t you agree, Sweet Cheeks?”

There comes a pensive nod, the flow interrupted... permitted to resume... then interrupted anew. Finally the governing finger withdraws to permit completion and the basin is slipped away. Then the housemaid circles to the front, lowers his head and licks clean the pudendum, seeming to savor the extended labia.

For the first time Sweet Cheeks detects motion, the oral caress no doubt bringing a brisance.

“Enough Gabbie,” Lady Dyson sharply admonishes. 

Gabbie turns and strolls to the door, careful with the filled basin. Returning to Sweet Cheeks, Lady Dyson advises.

“I know you’re focused on searching for Gabbie’s missing balls... but note her necklace... and the attached key.”

Indeed, Sweet Cheeks, finding herself visually examining, raises her gaze, spotting the jewelry and hanging key.

“It’s for Edgar. I reward him... mostly once per month... having Gabbie unlock him. His homophobia rages... rather amusing to observe... but as a typical male... he can’t help but request... ah... let’s term it... attention.”

“A key? But he wears no restraints,” Sweet Cheeks’ brazen comment bringing a snicker.

“Oh, he’s restrained. Just not apparent to you. He’s restrained where a man most needs to be.”  

Having spent her formative years in single sex education... limited contact with the male gender... the naivety of Sweet Cheeks comes to light.

“The fields hands... I indulge their urges...and it keeps my working ponies focused and properly degraded. But Edgar... no. When he lost his medical license and faced jail time and a myriad of lawsuits, I intervened. My generosity came with a price... his skills as a groom... his loyalty... and his submission... ceding his masculinity and his virility. Having a dozen or more cunts to play with... as I said... to see, feel and smell... it’s empowering to also have unfettered control over a phallus... a fully functioning phallus.”

Though Sweet Cheeks is perplexed, she decides to return to silence, speaking spontaneously considered to be pert.    

“So, You’ll not be pleasing my groom. That’s one of Gabbie’s responsibilities. Do you need her to come back with the basin by the way?”

Sweet Cheeks indeed has a need, but finds it best to demur.

“Good. Are you aware that your psychological evaluations include photos?”

Sweet Cheeks cringes. She is of course aware of the photo sessions, every girl appearing before the camera twice per year. Ostensibly to document growth and development, the matrons agreeing to assist some scientist in a study on the subject, it now comes to light, just as with the psychological evaluations, such have been otherwise disseminated.   

“Yes, your Ladyship, I was photographed.”

“Do you recall the poses?”

“Yes,” the reply forced past a growing lump in her throat.

“And how you were dressed.”

Sweet Cheeks glumly nods.

“They were... the photos... for research.”

“So you were told... and in way such were. But for more than anatomical research. The photographer, she gave you a choice didn’t she?”

“Yes, Ma;’am.”

Lady Dyson reaches to the right pile of folders, taking one from the top. She opens. She smiles.

“And the choice was?..”

“Well, she said it would... ah... help the research... ah... if I was willing to take my clothes off.”

“And you did... and then posed. Do you think the other girls so volunteered... to help the research?”

“I... I... don’t know.”

“Someone else was in the room... with the photographer.”

Stated as a fact not a question, a somber Sweet Cheeks nods.

“Oh, why so sad? It was the psychiatrist observing. And you later talked about it... were counseled... after each photo session. His reports indicate a willingness. But it says here you disagreed with him when he pointed that out. So you posed naked then convinced yourself it was not under your auspices. Your thoughts?”

“It seemed... well... like the right thing.”

“Such as violating the rules... then parading about in nothing more than a blanket... when not taken from you.”

Lady Dyson holds up a photo. She has of course selected one of the most lurid... some dozen photos taken during each semi annual session. Sweet Cheeks peers then closes her eyes in shame.

“They made me.”

“They did not. Just as the matrons did not make you break the rules. Why not so pose for me. I have no camera. But I can use my cell phone if that would lend some support or encouragement.”

Sweet Cheeks moves not, the recollections roiling.

“Go ahead. You may take your hands from your head. It appears you enjoyed using your hands. Touch yourself. Pretend you’re again at the orphanage... the photographer... the psychiatrist... the need for photos... the need for you to degrade yourself...”

Sweet Cheeks goes into a trance, reliving the harrowing twice yearly sessions. Research... she tells herself. But was it research.... and was it truly harrowing? 

Hands lower, Sweet Cheeks steps back from the desk to the center of the large room. The feel of the lush carpeting brings joy to her bare feet. The room seems to warm... just as in the makeshift studio at the orphanage. No discomfort in taking off her clothes. She begins, hearing in her mind the instructions of the photographer, her mature voice kindly yet authoritative.

By rote, almost as a dance routine... posing so many times during her years at the orphanage... Sweet Cheeks begins. Told not to smile, the various initial stances seem to come as a warm up, being conditioned. Then become more salacious... feet spread... wide then wider... arms to the side... then to her chest, cupping young breasts... the camera clicking. The photographer was masterful, ingraining obedience and compliance... the poses assumed without thought... without consideration that a man was in the room observing. Hands lower to the pudendum, fingers splay the labia... now plump and infused... inner pink... moist... gleaming for the camera lens. Click, click, click. Sweet Cheeks turns, she bends, hands to the buttocks, fingers working to open the gluteal cleft... her love nest opens... more pink... more intimate girl parts... click, click, click. She can hear the camera... hear the voice... words of compliment... of encouragement... such a good girl... so nicely offering herself... for exposure.  

Next, Sweet Cheeks lowers, the carpet welcoming. On her back, knees to her chest, the voice of Lady Dyson momentarily brings Sweet Cheeks from her trance.

“Stay like that, Sweet Cheeks. And tell me how you feel... assuming such an obscene pose. Twinges... where a girl covets twinges? Your fragrance is telling. Part your lips again. No toying. Show me your cunt.”

Lady Dyson arises from her desk, moving to stand over the indecent display. Sweet Cheeks remains still, as directed, enraptured, fingers touching the swollen labia. It is oddly pleasant.

“So you were made to take off your clothing and pose. And I have made you pose as well. Yet the ‘trauma’ is such that your titties are crinkled in arousal and you’re almost drooling on my rug. And your thoughts?”

Sweet Cheeks, having been returned to the photos sessions, is now returned to the counseling of the psychiatrist.

“I didn’t want to do it... do this.”

“Yes. And yet you did it... and you’re stimulated. We have a role for you here at Dyson Farms. You may think we’re physically restraining you... forcing you into such subjugation. But you’re mentally compelled, Sweet Cheeks... emotionally in need... a captive of your own proclivities.” 

Lady Dyson returns to her desk. 

“You may stay like that... if you wish, Do not touch your clitoris,” the ending pose lurid and most revealing. “Now let’s talk details,” noting that Sweet Cheeks arises not. “For me to race you will require... ah... more development. And some tongue work. You’ll need the ability to pay proper homage to your Master. Orally. And that isn’t Edgar.”