Fully decorated, tacked, anus impaled, Sweet Cheeks waits hitched to a racing cart, arms tethered behind, wrists high. Though the sun shines brightly, the cool air of late autumn brings a chill. Shoulders forced back, her elongated crinkled nipples spear forth... her naked flesh covered in goose bumps.
Though she finds doubt in being able to properly perform for Lady Dyson... insertions bringing pangs... her quim twitching... she is eager to be run... needs to be run. She thinks about Lady Dyson’s riding crop, curiously realizing it will bring the comfort of heat.
Needing to stay warm, Sweet Cheeks shifts about her feet, bringing her bells to chime, the lower Ben wa ball tantalizingly shifting within her quim, extended labia brushing her inner thighs.
What is happening to her? So much looking forward to the humiliation of being run naked... parts pink to endure excoriation!
Finally Lady Dyson exits and steps to the porch of the farmhouse, smiling in seeing her steed impatiently waiting, hearing the bells ring. She pauses to survey, then leisurely steps, boots crunching the compacted soil, crop tapping the palm of her left hand.
“Good morning Sweet Cheeks,” left hand lowering, palm up.
Sweet Cheeks knows to move her feet, parting her thighs in welcome, her pubes to be quickly fondled in greeting. The hand presses to the clitoral hood, a finger alacritously slips between the loose labia and briefly diddles within.
“You’re already wet. Looking forward to being cropped... or being anally plugged excites?”
Bit in place, Sweet Cheeks cannot reply. For that she is grateful. How can she describe the inner conflict... humiliation leading to unwanted arousal?
“Your cunt speaks for you, pony girl. Yes, I’ve been reviewing your reports again. What did you say to the psychiatrist about your punishment enemas... in being stuffed, stretched, filled and humiliated? That it seemed to be something that fulfills a need?”
With the query, Lady Dyson smirks, hands rising, thumbs and forefingers gently pinching nipples right and left. She jostles to make the nipple bells chime, then laughs, masterful in objecfying a girl.
“Your interest in my gaped work pony gave you away, Sweet Cheeks. Overall your anal fixation is of little concern to us here at Dyson Farms. What is of concern is that we have not been addressing all your needs.”
Nipples released, Lady Dyson steps to the side and mounts. Sweet Cheeks feels the weight, the prongs tugging at her waist belt. Why does she feel sanguine... knowing that her nipples and buttocks are about to feel the sting of a flailing crop?
“”Haw!” the directive coming with crop nipping right nipple then left.
Sweet Cheeks digs in, muscles clenching, feet pounding, bells ringing, sensing the addition of the number two butt plug. Gratefully she warms, oddly trying to divert her thoughts in avoiding an orgasm... so much needed ... yet not wanted... not while performing... not while trying to please her Master. Should she falter... stutter step in the growing ecstasy... her racing career would end before properly beginning.
She berates herself, speaking so freely with the orphanage psychiatrist, divulging the quirky sense of fulfillment in kneeling, naked, exposed to all as she was anally impaled, the enema nozzle slowly inflating, her colon filling, the admonishing words of the matron. Yes, her so termed punishment did not bring contrition but instead... well... what did it bring?
Cropped to a steady but quick pace, Sweet Cheeks brings the bells in cadence with her steps, thankful that feeling the pain of the crop on her bare buttocks distracts from the pleasure. One mile, two, the reins guide, responding nimbly to tugs right and left. In time a sense of pride further diverts her thoughts... she is pleasing... her accomplished performance satiates. The sensations of the vaginal and anal insertions are cast aside.
There comes an incline. The cart slows, the crop vigorously works the buttocks in response. Air whistles past the opening in her bit. Then comes the ultimate in both encouragement and humiliation. The crop slips between her pumping thighs and snaps upwards. It is a moderate stroke but nips the flopping labia. Sweet Cheeks redoubles her efforts, the deft hand of Lady Dyson causing her Ben wa bell to loudly peel... seemingly in protest.
Finally, reaching the apex of a broad hill, the crop withdraws, there come tugs on the reins. Sweet Cheeks slows then draws to a halt.
“Good pony girl,” the words of inspiration coming by rote.
Lady Dyson dismounts. Sweet Cheeks is amazed in sensing beads of perspiration, her exertion countering the cold.
“How do you feel?” Lady Dyson loosening the bridle and slipping away the bit.
“I can do more,” a gasping Sweet Cheeks replies with pride.
“I mean with the insertions... cunt stuffed... anus impaled.”
“I... ah... well... “ Sweet Cheeks searching.
“Edgar told me he’s starting you with a number two anal plug. Perhaps you can do more,” Lady Dyson mirthfully suggests.
“It’s... distracting,” Sweet Cheeks reluctant to divulge her joy.
“But you ran well for me. I think moving to a number three would be counterproductive, pony girl. A number four at least... possibly a number five,” Lady Dyson once again taking right nipple and left into her thumbs and fingers.
“I’d... ah... rather not,” though gasping in pain finding the temerity to disagree.
“Concerned... that I’ll have you gaped?”
Cream Puff comes to mind, her yawning opening... anus grotesquely stretched... seeming to beckon deep pegging. Sweet Cheeks shudders in envisioning the most subjugating modification. Lady Dyson feels the somatic reaction.
“Avoid working the fields. Run well for me. And we’ll address your anal fixation. We know how to handle girls here... girls with proclivities... and predilections. But if I want you gaped... you’ll be gaped.”
Sweet Cheeks finds herself nodding, mentally capitulating.
“Now, Edgar says he snipped your tongue. Has he been working it for me?”
Working it for Lady Dyson? The question perplexes!
“No Ma’am.”
“That needs to be addressed as well. I’ll remind Edgar. Let’s get you watered and back on the trail. To the track. Now that I’ve warmed you up I want a timed half mile from you. A fast half mile.”
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