'The Groom and the Trainee', Segment XII

More months. As Groom Edgar noted, in hanging prostrate the stretching can advance. Nipples and labia encased in rubber, thin cords are entwined and of course weighted... Groom Edgar gleefully calling out each increase... the ounces many.

Sweet Cheeks idles away much time staring in the mirror... . nipples becoming longer and longer... will her labia dangle to her knees? Yes, thoughts of her modification... the slow yet steady progression... haunt her mind.

Daily the nipples rings are donned... the Ben wa balls are inserted. She is let down, leashed and led to the treadmill. Her endurance grows... not only in miles... but the ability to move about with her vagina stimulated... enduring the manipulating Ben wa balls... her bells chiming.

Early in her training, he recalls seeing Gum Drop returned to the stable... the mixture of sweat and vaginal juices about her inner thighs. Does she now feel pride in being similarly brought to a lather? 

Then comes another big step. In understanding at some point she will be made to perform for Lady Dyson... there will come the ultimate assessment. Groom Edgar removes the rubber cones... nipples and labia... then stuffs her vagina, tugs at her nipples to slip in place the nipple rings,  lowers her feet and releases the canvas straps about her thighs.

He speaks as he unhooks the ear grommets, the final step in daily emancipation.

“Another step, Cheeks. The bridle... and some time in the bit,” holding before her an entanglement of leather. “You need to learn to move about responding to a directing hand... steady now,” the words soft yet firm.

Wrists held high... as always to the back of the neck collar... Sweet Cheeks cannot resist as the mass of straps goes to the top of her head, then knowing fingers unravel to encase, straps down the sides right and left, under the chin, below the nose, patches of leather... blinders... to the right and left of her eyes... all buckled in place at the back of the head.

More bondage, Sweet Cheeks realizes. So tight... so many straps... so confining.

“I can’t see very well Sir,” the leather partially impeding her vision.

“Yes, it is rigorous, isn’t it? But it sends the right message... who is in control. And you really need not see much... when in harness... just trot, cantor or run... and of course respond to tugs on the reins. Now for the bit... open...”

Sweet Cheeks obeys, a hand deftly slipping a broad, stout length of rubber between her lips. It buckles about the back of the head as well to hold in place, eyelets at each end to accommodate leather reins.

“Your cunny feel okay? I went to a larger ball.”

Sweet Cheeks nods, feeling indeed duress at her cervix, seeing the reins clipped in place.

“So let’s take a walk. Head up, shoulders back... show your pony girl titties. And keep your bells ringing... in cadence with your feet. And respond... to the reins... right... left... and instantaneously. Naughty girls get the crop... and I don’t mean the little taps to counter the twinges in your wet cunt,” Groom Edgar’s, free hand indeed gripping the instrument of correction.

Groom Edgar leads. Sweet finds the bit most uncomfortable... painfully pinching her tongue if not following with precision. To the outdoors, the sensations and input again begin to overwhelm... proper posture... bells to chime in tempo with her footwork... turning right then left as Groom Edgar tests her response to the controlling reins. Shoulders back, she reminds herself, noting in her peripheral vision that the cool air has turned her elongated nipples into tiny spears.

And then come the twinges... the pangs... the vaginal moisture turning to slickness.

Why? With the somatic reaction she can even smell herself. Can Groom Edgar?

She has many times been led naked, wrists bound, at the end of a leash. Now, head in bondage, limited sight, she realizes her subjugation is advancing... not able to fully see where she is going... having to trust her groom with the reins. Oddly she hopes for further advancement... to pull... fully harnessed... to please... not only her groom but her ultimate Master.

“I’m going to move behind you, Sweet Cheeks. Just walk... don’t look about... and shoulders back... we like to see nice standing tittles here. Respond to the reins.”

There comes a pause, Groom Edgar stepping behind, pulling the reins back and over her head. Then for the first time, Sweet Cheeks understands... fully... the continuing effort to modify the precious pink of her vulva. The crop slips between her thighs, snapping upwards to gently... yet painfully... apply a quick stroke to her stretched labia..

She lurches, finding herself stepping forth with eagerness... as intended... her most sensitive girl parts to avoid any need for further encouragement.

“Good girl.”          

*****

It’s a new day. Sweet Cheeks hangs in her stall, surprising herself in adapting to the awkward sleeping position, fully suspended from a half dozen cables, some three feet above the stable floor, legs bent, ankles held high, thighs encircled in comfortable foam lined straps, head held immobile by hooks through her ear grommets. 

In waking she twists about, only slight motion permitted. But it is enough to cause the weights of her nipple and labia cones to begin swaying about, intensifying the pulling sensation on her most precious girl parts. 

Why is she doing that, she asks herself? Enhancing the slow and constant process of body modification. Masochism... she recalls early days in the orphanage, knowing that infractions would bring the denial of clothing... to be denuded... only a blanket for covering. Yet, time and again there came infractions... the need for punishment... the need to exhibit herself... the quest for humiliation?

Clothing surrendered, did she truly fight... resist... when an older girl whisked away her blanket... walking off and leaving her in the nude. Did she report the assault to a matron?

She told herself... and tells herself anew... that she did not want to make trouble with an older girl. Yet, in retrospect, she berates herself. To report the girl would bring punishment to her as well. Another girl in deshabille... to distract from her own exhibition... to no longer be the center of deriding attention Was that her warped reasoning?

She thinks of Groom Edgar’s words... his paternal advice... concerning her hunger... her thirst... Dyson Farms to offer a feast.

Am I being fed? Predilections nurtured...

There comes the urge to pee, such need to be subdued, the floor not to be soiled, instead Groom Edgar to supervise. To date she has obediently withheld. Avoiding punishment? Or does the ignominy of having a man’s finger control a most basic function appeal to her twisted psyche.

There is also the ritual of bowel movements... to defecate on demand... or endure a suppository... or worse. Could such be an enema? Such was a specialty of a certain matron at the orphanage... administered with the others girls observing. Such was intended to be a deterrent... that particular punishment greatly exceeded the subtly of being denied clothing.      

“Good morning Cheeks,” her thoughts interrupted, Groom Edgar entering her stall.      

“Good morning Sir,” noting he holds in his hand the morning basin.

Despite the mental trauma of having to perform, a warm feeling comes over her. Is it because the man will address her desperate need... bladder brimming? Yes, but there’s more, she tells herself. Groom Edgar, putting aside the physical attraction to his manly good looks, has become the father she never new... so caring... so tender. Yes, as promised, all her needs are met. She has not a care... other than to obey... and perform.

He asks for so little in return, the thought occurs. Nothing for his diligence. In being so open to him, his hands and fingers palpating everywhere... even inside her... exploring her vagina in reporting to her ladyship that she is breeding material... there has come dependency. And during menses... such understanding... seeming to feel her embarrassment... encircling her upper thighs with cloth... conventional feminine hygiene denied... ignoring the awkwardness... the white cotton strips becoming incarnadine in proclaiming her frailty.

There was sharing... forced to participate in a woman’s most delicate time of the month. Bared to him at all times, Sweet Cheeks comes to understand... there is a bonding. All that she has... is his...

“Keep in mind the new protocol,” a finger tapping, pinging the metal basin.

Groom Edgar steps behind. Fingers diddle, parting the dangling labia cones, one digit slipping inward to find the urethral sponge.

“Urinate for me first, then I want you to move your bowels for me... one minute to completion.”

Sweet Cheeks closes her eyes in shame. It’s not possible for a girl to fully acclimate, she tells herself. But as she presses to begin a flow, the curiously acceptable feeling of surrender comes over her. Cede, she tells herself... please her Master... perform.

And indeed a flow begins, then the controlling finger presses, and again comes the strange thrill of having a man direct such a private function. Though she knows to relax, what Groom Edgar calls her urethral sphincter open, the flow ceases under her Master’s knowing finger and the urgent need to fully empty herself rocks her cerebral cortex.

Moments go by, the finger finally releases, the flow resumes.

“Good girl,” the finger pressing again, flow curtailing. “And work your bowels for me. There’s to be a regimented schedule to adhere to. For morning bathing I have more than you, pony girl. Once fully trained, this has to become clock work.”

The finger releases. The bladder empties. The finger slips away. Sweet Cheeks begins pressing at her abdomen, basin waiting for more.

Nothing happens. Squirming in desperation, Sweet Cheeks again feels the tight cones flop about, closing her eyes in concentration.

“You received enemas... at the orphanage,” Groom Edgar comments, Sweet Cheeks chagrined to feel the invading finger now teasingly grazing her well exposed sphincter.

“Yes, Sir,” surprised with his knowledge.

“Intended not only for internal hygiene... but as punishment.”

“It was... it was... most degrading, Sir.”

“One would think a girl would try her best to avoid such potential trauma. Colonic irrigation can be stressful. Was it made stressful for you, Cheeks?”

The finger continues teasing, Sweet Cheeks clenching closed her gluteal cleft, bondage precluding any ability to otherwise counter the sensual touch. Such adds to the humiliation, her now sculpted buttocks seeming to invite more attention. But it is her Master, she tells herself in consolation.

Will he administer an enema? So stressful in enduring such from the stern orphanage matron, would feeling Groom Edgar’s fingers.... being anally penetrated by him... be acceptable? 

“It was... was... well... the matron... she was... thorough.”

“Yes, thorough. So it was stressful.... high... slow... forced to withhold, no doubt. Warm water can be soothing though. But cold... well... now... there’s punishment. Cramping... aching... such a distressing wait... for the bowels to warm the mixture. I imagine in punishment the nozzle was large... and well inflated. Wouldn’t want a naughty girl expelling before being fully punished.

“Tell me now Cheeks... was it cold?”

Sweet Cheeks nods, the discussion bringing memories... on all fours in the large open orphanage shower room, the matron lecturing, the nozzle expanding. And then the flow... seemingly endless... and yes... chilled... and the matron’s words...

‘Notice how she squirms, girls... notice how her belly slowly fills. Such suffering... yet she’s here before me again... naked and on all fours... to be internally cleansed.... so much needing correction... to be disciplined. Does the girl choose this... to be so punished? So humiliated?’

With the recollection, Sweet Cheeks not only remembers the words but the ostensibly kindly hand brushing over her bare buttocks, highlighting her submission.     

As comes the barrage of words, memories and Groom Edgar’s frottaging finger, Sweet Cheeks senses movement, the basin to receive again.

“Good girl, Cheeks. Performing for me within two minutes. But you’ll be doing so quicker... though I think you find the threat of colonic irrigation to be of quirky attraction. Is that so?”

Groom Edgar knows the answer to his own question. Yes, the reports of the orphanage psychologist once again prove revealing, bringing emotional bareness. In detailing the attraction the young orphan found in enduring such abject discipline, bloated bowels expelling to the shower room drain, Groom Edgar is well aware of her penchants... her needs.        

“Would you do that for me... ah... to me, Master Edgar?”

Groom Edgar smiles, the Freudian slip not getting past him.  

“Warm water for you, Cheeks. But I’d insist you take much... give you a nice full belly.”

The words bring a quiver. Is the somatic reaction one of fear.... or delight?

“Thank you Sir... you know... for caring for me. I’d... I’d like to do something... for you... sometime.”

“Just be a good pony girl. Please Lady Dyson and you’ll please me. You’re ready to be harnessed and run, Cheeks. Initial training to end. Ready for the next phase.”

“I don’t want to be a work pony, Sir. I saw them... so... beastly... and what that one girl did... with her mouth.”

“Fellatio, Cheeks. It’s expected. Lady Dyson wants the field workers to be happy... as you know.”

“Yes Sir, you said it makes a man feel physically better, and inures a sense of hierarchy. Would that make you happy, Sir? As I said. I’d like to do...

“No. That’s not poss... well... it won’t happen. Now I need to tend to the other girls,” Groom Edgar disposing of the filled basin. “When I return I’ll get you decorated... and this morning we’ll harness you. Time to do some pulling.”

Should Sweet Cheeks inquire about being pegged? Is that how she can make Groom Edgar happy... happier? She thinks of the matron’s enema nozzle, inserted... so gruffly... then pumped larger... and larger. She suffered... yet she could do that for him... he who takes such care.

Sweet Cheeks realizes her thinking is muddled... that she so much wants to please him. Why? A derivation of the training regimen?

'The Groom and the Trainee', Segment XI

Released from suspension, Sweet Cheeks lowers herself and stands, wrists secured in the reverse prayer position as always. Groom Edgar returns the leash to Sweet Cheeks’ collar. Nipple cones removed, as suggested rings have been slipped in place. Sweet Cheeks was amazed in seeing how far her elongated nipples could be momentarily stretched, fingers pulling vigorously, rings slipped in place. When the pink strips were released, the clever threading of the interior diameter of the rings plus her retracting nipple flesh secured the circles of steel in place. Bells are attached right and left, such join the Ben wa bell in sonorously chiming with her motion.

“Somewhat condition you for running in harness Cheeks,” Groom Edgar explains.

He pulls, Sweet Cheeks of course follows... then falters... pangs of delight ripping through her loins.

Yes, as enjoyable was swinging about in harness, with the more pronounced motion of walking the Ben wa ball rumbles about deep within.

“Oh Sir... it’s... it’s ...too much. It... it’s like someone...”

“Is finger fucking you? Yes, that loose ball is magical isn’t it. Gets a girl’s attention.”

Particularly when held in unending chastity, Sweet Cheeks thinks but dares not add. And the nipple bells tantalize as well, Sweet Cheeks certain that Groom Edgar is well aware.

“I don’t think... I... can...”  

“But you will. Shall I crop your buttocks? Perhaps a little sting to your nipples?”

Sweet Cheeks has no reply. Groom Edgar pulls briskly. Though the journey to the exercise area is short, the devilish trinkets bring faint self induced ecstasy with each step. Slowly, Sweet Cheeks steps, following the leash hand. Every ting of the Ben wa bell brings a pang. Step, pang, step, pang... Sweet Cheeks feels her moist vagina turn to a river.

How can the likes of Gum Drop and Candy Bar do this? Run for miles with their cunnies so stuffed.

“As you acclimate, you’ll find the sting of leather counters the pleasure... you’ll come to welcome the crop, Sweet Cheeks.”

Stepping up on the treadmill, Groom Edgar affixes cables to the ear grommets, head to be held proudly high, and removes the leash. In beginning the rotation... walking speed to start... Sweet Cheeks notes a length of leather hanging on the wall before her. With her first step, the bells chime, the pangs resume, and Sweet Cheeks must ask...  

“Sir, the crop... the Ben wa ball... it’s... it’s too much.”

“All right, Cheeks just a stroke or two. Counter the enjoyment. You are quite redolent by the way... so much relishing your exercise...”.

*****

Fifteen minutes on the treadmill was all Sweet Cheeks could endure despite Groom Edgar’s crop hand working the nipples and buttocks, the sting distracting from the tantalizing Ben wa balls and nipple ornaments. First time exercised while fully decorated, the pony girl trainee was deluged with sensations.

Though not much leg work resulted, there was achievement in Sweet Cheeks learning to find rhythm, bells coming to ring in cadence with the footwork under Groom Edgar’s exacting tutelage.

‘Lady Dyson will insist,’ he explained in earnest, ‘she’ll run you until your footwork and the bells are in tempo’.

So it’s bath and feeding time, Sweet Cheeks led back to her stall, remaining bells in cadence, learning that there is benefit when the crop splats her muscled cheeks, countering the twinges, tempering her arousal, drawing her from the brink.

Stepping onto the low bench, feet widely parted, the suspension process repeats, thigh straps, ankle cuffs, feet raised, ear grommets hooked. The nipples are once again tugged, the pink nubs pulled to perverted length, the rings and attached bells removed.

Then for the first time comes the most humiliating of procedures, slipping away the Ben wa bell and deeply embedded ball anchoring the trinkets in her vagina. Sweet Cheeks has watched as Gum Drop’s canal gave up the teasing spheres. Now she must somehow brook the humiliation.

She hears the remaining bell chime, then comes silence as Groom Edgar grips and gently tugs.

“Ease up, Cheeks, relax, your pubo coccygeus muscles are pulling as if you want to suck the baubles into your womb.”

Indeed, Sweet Cheeks tries to relax, so much wanting to be rid of the tantalizing ornaments. 

Or does she? 

She feels her Master’s finger work, feels the lower ball stop moving. Then comes the command to cough, her obedient response and the sensation of the sphere slipping down... and down. She also smells herself... her excitement... the canvas straps holding her thighs widely apart, vulva gaping. She can only imagine how wet she must be, the ignominy of male fingers working so intimately within brings arousal... that felt years ago. Yes, when naked... at the orphanage. Such exposure. Such shame... yet such thrill. She closes her eyes. There comes the command to cough again. More tugging. The sizable upper ball moves. She can feel it, abrading her cervix, slipping down her vagina.

“Good girl... almost there,” Sweet Cheeks wondering if child birth is being replicated.

Then comes the ‘plop’, the ball finally exiting, the folds of wet skin yielding, the configuration of bell, small ball and large to rest in the palm of her Master’s hand.

“You enjoy, Sweet Cheeks... as all you naughty girls do,” Groom Edgar stepping to the front to display the glistening globes, slick with feminine essence.

He smiles holding under the nose, ensuring Sweet Cheeks is aware that her undouched sex indeed proclaims her thrill, nostrils forced to indulge in the musky aroma. Tears of shame flow, a finger kindly brushing away the droplets.

“Compose yourself, Sweet Cheeks. You’ll acclimate. Deep within you so much savor this... so much want to subjugate yourself. And at Dyson Farms, there’s no pretension... no covering... no blanket to abet the denial of who you are... what you are. Here you’ll confront your masochism... your exhibitionism... and learn to revel in it.”

Groom Edgar grabs a vessel and returns between the spread thighs and upturned ankles. Sweet Cheeks feels fingers diddle at her stretched labia. When one slips inward she knows her ignominy has not ended. The tip finds the urethral sponge, gently rubbing.

“Psst, psst, empty yourself for me.”

Whereas Sweet Cheeks has learned to so perform standing over the odd shaped collection basin in the training stall, she now must release hanging in suspension. Groom Edgar, having trained so many, is aware, patiently waiting.

“Psst, psst, relax your urethral sphincter. Be a good girl. You need to urinate... and we don’t do messy things at Dyson Farms... soiling the floor.”

Sweet Closes her eyes, both trying to focus on the lowly deed and put out of her mind that a man has his finger within, taking control of a most intimate function. Nothing is private at Dyson Farms, she reminds herself, all is open to see, her nude body assessable at all times. But to so relieve her excretions?

Finally she summons a flow, hearing a metalic ping. And of course that is when Groom Edgar knowingly takes control, finger pressing firmly, curtailing her effort, sending her system into an uproar. She whimpers, the sensation most unusual. In frustration she fights, pressing hard with abdominal muscles to override her groom’s mastery. But to no avail. She will complete the lowly task at his whim... only when the tip of his finger cedes.

There is a message, Sweet Cheeks realizes... indoctrinated to her Master’s dominion... his authority to rein over something as simple and basic as ridding of excretions.

The finger yields... there comes more flow... then it presses anew... the deed interrupted again.

Yes, Maestro plays.

Basin finally filled, bladder emptied, Groom Edgar disposes and moves to the wall, unraveling a spray hose. It’s bath time, every inch of naked flesh to be cleansed... palpated... inspected. Sweet Cheeks’ debasement to continue... and continue.             

“We need to begin supervised bowel movements as well, Cheeks. You will defecate upon command... like a good pony girl. The timing will be strict... no lingering. If delayed you’ll need a suppository... or worse. And possibly a change in diet.”

The thought brings Sweet Cheeks to blush. Yet with all else under her groom’s guidance, why would bowel movements be excluded. After all, daily bathing includes the debasement of wiping her anus. With the extended chastity her groom’s touch there has come to excite.  

“Yes, Sir.”

“Now, let’s get you back into the stretching cones, some weights and a good night’s sleep.”

'The Groom and the Trainee', Segment X

Sweet Cheeks has not used her hands in many weeks, the craggy metal mesh of the masturbation mittens precluding handling and gripping anything... particularly touching her skin... and her quim... as intended. But now the limited use of her arms, held immobile behind her back, adds a new dimension to her submission.

Ankle cuffs removed, leash clipped to her collar, Groom Edgar tugs, Sweet Cheeks struggles to turn on the thin mattress of her platform bed, place her feet on the floor and rise.

“Good girl. Slowly. Don’t topple.”

The dichotomy of her care intrigues... led about strictly bound... but with such attentiveness... that given a toddler learning to walk.    

In standing the nipple cones respond to gravity, somewhat dipping in reminding of their constant presence. And with her first step, the cones of her labia brush her inner thighs, making her mindful of the slow, steady transition... her pudendum to be turned to an exhibition of her Master’s control.

Yes, the curious device... a modified breast pump... has finally been used to suction, stretch and ultimately encase her inner labia in tight rubber cones... just as with her nipples beginning weeks ago. The twice daily finger work of Groom Edgar, rolling about the sentient flesh and pulling with fervor, has been replaced... the cones offering constant modification. Yes the hiss of suctioning air and the snap of rubber on nipples right and left has now been joined by the sound of snaps at the entrance of Sweet Cheeks’ mons. Pink strips approaching two inches in length result. Such now join the grotesque presentation of elongated nipples.

So yes, Sweet feels her Master’s control... first at the nipples... now at the labia.

Groom Edgar leads to the long corridor separating stalls right and left. Step, step, step, her sentient pink female parts sway about to announce her alteration... it’s bizarre... yet the sensation thrills.  

Into a stall near Gum Drop, in seeing the low bench framed by broad straps of foam lined canvas Sweet Cheeks feels like a condemned prisoner led being to the gallows. But she reminds herself... yes... she will hang... yet not in death... but in unending humiliation.

Why does such thought bring about twinges?

“You’ve seen Gum Drop... know how to present yourself,” Groom Edgar gesturing between the waiting straps.

“Yes, Sir.” moving accordingly, stepping up on the low bench, parting her thighs to the maximum without losing her balance.

“Good girl. You seem reluctant, Sweet Cheeks. But you’re quite fragrant. To have your own Ben wa bell... it excites.”

Right thigh encircled then the left, Groom Edgar smiles in detecting much moisture as he adjusts the straps high between the thighs. 

Pony girls, he thinks to himself, they hate the degradation... yet they crave it... not understanding their own needs... their hunger.

“I have a pair of nipple rings we can try. Would you like for me to remove the nipple cones for a while... give you a feel for some breast jewelry in addition to your Ben wa bell?”

A sheepish Sweet Cheeks offers no reply, Edgar adjusting the straps. Finally, as Edgar cuffs the ankles, he notes Sweet Cheeks nodding in concurrence. He chuckles.

“Yes, you’re ceding, Sweet Cheeks. Accepting your status, letting your deepest desires govern.”

Having so often put up a naked form, within moments Sweet Cheeks finds herself in full body suspension, resting prostrate, weight born by thick canvas straps and ankle cuffs, balanced by cables hooked to her ear grommets.

Having so often seen Gum Drop, the sensation should not be foreign. Yes, she tells herself, it has finally come, trussed as would a prized pony girl. The odd glee... it overwhelms.

Sweet Cheeks looks before her. Just as when riding the horse there is a large mirror reflecting her full nakedness. The psychological subjugation seems endless... made to observe one’s bound body while idly hanging. Hairless, even her eyebrows regularly shaven, her own image brings repulsion.

Vulnerable, sex gaping... breasts dangling... immobility thorough... there are contrasting emotions. Sweet Cheeks tears up... such a sense of helplessness. Yet there is solace. It is Edgar... a part of her justifies... her groom... he who knows her so well... physically... mentally... emotionally. The notion soothes. He is here for her. Though he can do with her whatever he wishes... there will come no harm... not physically. She hangs as would treasured artwork.

But what of her psyche... her vanquished pride? She quashes such a question. That is not for her to consider.  

“I’ve stopped wondering why there’s never any need for lubrication in vaginally stuffing a pony girl,” Groom Edgar remarks in stepping between the widely part upturned legs. “Such secretions,” fingers diddling between the encased inner labia. “You’re all so naughty... ‘please don’t penetrate me, Mr. Edgar’. And then I find a welcoming wellspring... a river of arousal.”

The words come as Sweet Cheeks indeed feels the penetration, her labia parting, the two inch plus Ben wa ball being worked inward... so slowly... so tenderly.

“This will rest right at your cervix. Your girly anatomy... the pubo coccygeus muscles... will suction it... hold it tightly in place.”

As the sphere glides inward, Sweet Cheeks feels the smaller ball greet the entrance to her love canal. She sighs in delight, then admonishes herself.

This shouldn’t be... the humiliation... the objectification... spread open for viewing... being hung like a decoration. Yes, the conflicting thoughts... the sensations... overwhelm anew.   

She feels the fingers retreat. She cannot help but wriggle about, as she has so often seen Gum Drop when so hung. She closes her eyes in shame... hearing the Ben wa bell ring... announcing her futile attempt to pleasure herself... realizing... that she enjoys... realizing that Groom Edgar knows so well that she enjoys.

Drat his knowledge... his awareness... of a girl’s most intimate parts.

Yes, Maestro Edgar plays, a hand pushing her naked form, having her swing in suspension to enhance the motion of that which so wickedly tantalizes.

“Seems to fit rather well. Over the years I’ve gotten to know a girl’s size... internally.” 

Stepping back, he admires, knowing of the pony girl’s self induced pleasure as she wriggles in bondage, the bell tinkling.

“I’ll let you relax and enjoy the subjugation for a while. Then perhaps some nipple rings... and some treadmill work” 

'The Groom and the Trainee', Segment IX

The training, the indoctrination, the modifications progress. Sweet Cheeks more and more bonds with the knowing groom, noting his hands and fingers are so... well... not only caring... but exacting. He knows a girl... knows her most intimate parts. 

The medical training is evident. Sweet Cheeks is regularly weighed. Calipers measure the thickness of her epidermis. Regular samples are taken for analysis... blood, urine, stool... her diet and caloric intake monitored and adjusted, her body mass to be perfected. The shavings, head... yes the eyebrows... pudendum of course... all accomplished without a nick... slowly... with the precision of a surgeon... a doctor’s hands. Despite the constant nudity, exposing all a girl has, Sweet Cheeks cannot fully acclimate to having her most intimate female anatomy so clinically handled. Deep within, does she want to acclimate? Dispense with the thrill of yielding to he so knowing. Masturbation mittens in place, she cannot tend to herself, blushing endlessly... supervised bladder relief... urination well controlled by a single digit. There is particular ignominy when attention is required during menses.

When time comes for labia stretching, she finds herself moistening with Groom Edgar’s simple directive to lie back on the examination table and spread... Sweet Cheeks finding odd eagerness in drawing her knees to her chest then parting her thighs... most obscenely... opening herself for knowing fingers.

In secreting... and the pose indeed brings her to secrete... she can smell herself... her excitement... her arousal... douching and normal feminine hygiene forsaken at Dyson Farms. Strangely, though embarrassed, Sweet Cheeks is sanguine... in her own way communicating the enjoyment of  submitting to he who masters... that she moistens for her groom... welcoming his touch... his handling.

And then, in applying special lotion, pinching, rolling about between thumb and forefinger, and gently pulling her labia... minutes which seem to become hours... she finds herself repressing words of gratitude. Yes, the chastity, the hormonal build up continues... and continues. The near masturbation of labia stretching becomes welcomed. Though the finger work will forever alter her appearance... she does not want it to end.

The ears... finally... not so much pierced as having holes punched within... as stated through the thick cartilage just behind the ear hole. With a circlet of metal inserted into the opening... yes, a grommet... when fully healed the mirror reveals the presentation to be hideous. Yet, it is for him... for Groom Edgar... that her look is altered.

‘Good for pony girl poise,” Groom Edgar comments in leading Sweet Cheeks to the treadmill for the first time. And Sweet Cheeks quickly understands, the grommets hooked to cables above, proudly holding high her head as she is run... and run.... and run... on the rotating canvas.... stamina... leg work... tempo. And when the elongated labia are finally deemed sufficient... ... the daily finger-pulling finally producing enough elongated flesh for advanced stretching... cones are slipped in place. With this the simple exercise turns to slow arousal, the motion of Sweet Cheeks’ own anatomical parts inflaming her loins.

“Another step, Sweet Cheeks,” the paternal authoritative voice of Groom Edgar proclaims months into her training. “Your own stall. Your own collar. And no more masturbation mittens.”

Sweet Cheeks lies in four point restraint, as always when not being exercised or tended to. In presenting a thick collar of leather, Sweet Cheeks smiles, lifting her head, proud in her advancement, permitting Groom Edgar to encircle her neck and buckle in place.

“And cuffs of course,” releasing her wrists and carefully unlocking the masturbation mittens.

“Oh, thank you, Sir. Thank you.”

“You’ll rest in suspension... like a big pony girl.”

Having assisted in grooming Gum Drop, Sweet Cheeks knows too well what such entails, dangling from cables... held spread open and vulnerable.

She finds curious acceptance. Some things which would have brought consternation many weeks ago now seem like sensible steps in her capitulation. Yes, to hang in the nude, every body part accessible to examination and cleansing. It’s pony girl life at Dyson Farms.

Wrist cuffs buckled in place, there comes the directive to sit up.

“The stretching will come easier... and more quickly,” Groom Edgar advises in gently drawing Sweet Cheeks’ arms behind her back.

Well aware of pony girl comportment, Sweet Cheeks draws up her hands, elbows bending, assuming the reverse prayer position mandated of every pony girl.

“Good girl,” Groom Edgar clipping the wrist cuffs to the back of the neck collar. “Comfortable?”

“A little... tight... Sir.”

“It will feel that way... for now. In time the tendons will loosen... and then I’ll bind your hands and wrists higher. It’s important... to appear to be supplicating,” Groom Edgar reaching to lift the hands even higher.  

Sweet Cheeks huffs, the discomfort intolerable. Gratefully, Groom Edgar releases, the bound hands slipping lower past the shoulder blades. She cannot help wondering how the many Dyson Farms pony girls can tolerate such a pose. But then she realizes in time, she shall as well.

“So a nice run on the treadmill and I’ll hose you down, bathe and put you up in suspension. Not a full day, but I can better weight your nipples and labia while hanging prostrate,” fingers going to tug at the ever present nipple cones.

“How much Sir, longer?”

Groom Edgar shrugs.

“You’re nearly three inches here,” fingers flicking the covered nipples, standing at full attention with Groom Edgar’s touch. “And the labia can be worked faster while in suspension. But it’s Lady Dyson’s decision. She relishes the notion of modifying a girl... as you’ve come to realize. Change a girl’s appearance at her whim. When she begins to run you in harness... that’s when she makes a decision... what a girl’s pink parts will look like... how receptive to the crop.”

Sweet Cheeks quivers, thinking of the suffering, having seen her Ladyship so callously flick a girl’s nipples with the correcting length of leather.

“Will she... you know... use the crop... down there?” Sweet Cheeks nodding to wthere her rubber coated labia drape between bound and spread thighs.  

Groom Edgar smiles.

“She’ll use the crop wherever it pleases her. So when the time comes.... run for her... hard... and fast... and obediently. Do your best to please. But perhaps this will take your mind off the required measures of discipline.”

Groom Edgar holds before concerned eyes a configuration of baubles, thumb and forefinger grasping a steel ball of some two and a half inches in diameter. Hanging below by a thin filament is a smaller ball of one inch, below that a bell. Sweet Cheeks recognizes the wicked trinkets. She both smiles and blushes.

“Yes, time to have your cunny stuffed... while exercising. And if you’re a good girl for me... maybe while hanging in suspension.”

“Oh, Sir. It drives Gum Drop crazy... makes her so wet.”

"And will do that for you as well. I think I’ve sized you right, Sweet Cheeks. Obviously know your cunt... ah... your vagina... by now. The upper ball must be of size to be held tight near the cervix. The lower... well that will bob about, stimulate and tease. And of course the bell... ringing to proclaim your subjugation. Let’s test your restraints and get your cunny stuffed... for some treadmill work."    

'The Groom and the Trainee', Segment VIII

Into the stables, leash in one hand, reins in the other, Edgar leads the naked forms of Sweet Cheeks and Gum Drop to a special stall, ostensibly for bathing but more a stage where Lady Dyson is entertained.

The flooring is tiled and well drained. Pumping fixtures above provide for bathing. And two trapeze-like bars hang from the ceiling some two feet overhead.  Sweet Cheeks’ leash is again tied off and Gum Drop is first prepared. Groom Edgar speaks as he unbuckles the pony girl’s waist belt and bridle then slips away the bit.

“You were almost to be masturbated, Gum Drop. You must have run well indeed.” 

“She worked me hard, Sir. Some ointment please... for my nipples... and buttocks.”

“Ointment in time. And, we’ll see if you can get off. Sweet Cheeks... I’m sure she’ll work you into another lather, ha, ha, ha.” 

Collar remaining in place, hands held high behind the back in the reverse prayer position, Gum Drop knows to step under one of the trapeze bars, humbly waiting as Groom Edgar reaches high and lowers two cords attached to the bar. Such end with hooks which are threaded through Gum Drop’s ear grommets. He then steps to the wall, pulling a rope, raising the bar, forcing Gum Drop to rise onto her toes.

“I’ll need to soon grommet your ears, Sweet Cheeks. Makes for efficient bondage... as you can see. Two openings through the meaty cartilage of the ears. Surprisingly not painful... and quite practical in terms of binding girl.... made completely helpless... and most vulnerable.”

Hands reach forth, fingers demonstrate, playfully pinching, poking and prodding Gum Drop’s bare flesh. Sweet Cheeks notes the girl cannot even kick her feet in protest or resistance, having to remain on toes.  

“So for now... we bind your wrists,” Groom Edgar stepping to untie the leash and lead under the second trapeze. “Lift your arms for me.”

Within moments, Sweet Cheeks’ wrists are secured to the bar above. Leash unclipped, Groom Edgar again moves to the wall. As he pulls the rope of the second trapeze bar, Sweet Cheeks not only must rise to her toes, but also step toward Gum Drop. Tight, tighter, the girls’ naked forms osculate, face to face, breasts to breasts, tummy to tummy, thighs to thighs.

“And we must make it enjoyable for you Sweet Cheeks,” Groom Edgar stepping forth, hands going to the breasts, fingers working to peel away the rubber cones of the elongated nipples. 

Sweet Cheeks feels oddly bared... her only covering displaced.

Stepping back, Groom Edgar smiles in satisfaction. Two naked bodies forcibly pressed together. When Gum Drop begins wriggling about in earnest, nipples to nipples, Groom Edgar notes she also moves her feet, parting her thighs, working to enclose about the left thigh of Sweet Cheeks and clench.

“A little scissoring, Sweet Cheeks... she’s trying to frottage her little nub against your bare skin... as best she can. And you can do the same... plus your titties. The girls term this dancing. Do enjoy.”

Groom Edgar steps forth, giving Sweet Cheeks’ right buttock a brisk slap, forcing the girl to likewise grind against Gum Drop. He then takes up a hose, turns on a valve, adjusts the water temperature and adds a spray of soothing warmth to the scene of girl on girl debauchery. Gum Drop begins grinding with fervor, Ben wa bell chiming. Denied the full masturbation that Lady Dyson initially suggested, she knows... this is how a pony girl gets off after being worked hard. She needs it, nipples to nipples, mons to thigh, struggling for clitoral stimulation... quite awkward and fleeting in being held standing upright.

And this Groom Edgar knows... too much aware of the female anatomy. Gum Drop will work... her thighs... her breasts... he even sees her open mouth pressed to that of Sweet Cheeks in a libidinous Sapphic oral embrace.

But ultimate satiation will not come. The frustration of near climax will build and build.

“Some soap ladies?..” reaching for a chamois cloth to heighten the sensual embrace.

Yes, an abundance of slippery suds will no doubt enhance the endeavor.   

'The Groom and the Trainee', Segment VII

 Led by a leash, Sweet Cheeks narrates.

The matrons of the orphanage... yes kindly... almost all were middle aged... and beyond. I must suppose over the many years there’s not much they had not seen, raising dozen and dozens of girls. Many belligerent, needing attention... some needing exacting attention.

Daily life there was ritualized as one would assume in most institutions. The schedule was precise... and repetitive... waking, bathing, breakfast, schooling, household duties, modest recreational time, dinner, nightly schoolwork. All done together, as a group, despite the differing ages. There were limited funds to have individualized lessons or class work. The rooms... a single class... one dormitory... one shower room... were open and large. Privacy sparse.

And individual interaction amongst the girls was discouraged... talking, playing... limited.

‘Focus’, a matron would admonished when a girl was found tending to anything other than class study, homework or an assigned chore. 

Well of course in youth there is distraction. Girls talk... about things girlish... and about boys... though there were none to be seen. And there also comes the distraction of puberty. As I said, the girls were of different ages and developing differently. And in bathing as a group, shower time became a time of exploration... initially visual exploration... the older girls shaping... as young women. And of course in time there would come more than visual exploration... furtive hands and fingers, the older girls turning away in the open showers, ostensibly to cleanse in modesty. But we knew otherwise. In the beginning a girl coming into blossom would stealthily attempt to explore herself. But there was so little privacy and the older girls would devilishly discourage. At the orphanage there was group pressure... stinky fingers earned disdain... unless the fragrance was that of another girl. Yes, the older girls... given to masturbate the younger... a rite of passage. 

Yes, with the frustration of burgeoning hormones... we touched. And the matrons of course forbid such ‘wickedness’. In so doing, there came spiteful games among the girls... ‘play with me... or be reported for playing with yourself’.  

Curiously, it took little more then such a disingenuous threat to engage in the verboten. Yes, we explored each other.

Yet, as stated, the matrons were a wise and experienced lot. Girls were often caught... and punished. 

Groom Edgar seems most interested in the orphanage punishments. Gratefully there were no beatings... other than for the most dastardly of transgressions. Instead a typical punishment came in the form of denial. A meal would be withheld for some simple infractions. But for the more... let’s say... libidinous... infringements... it was clothing.

A first offense... a day without shoes and socks. A second, no skirt... then no blouse... then no undergarments. Total nudity became common, a particularly unruly girl deprived of all covering except a blanket... to be worn in class... during meals. Such could be quickly and easily slipped away... by a rebuking matron gaining a girl’s attention... or by a bratty older girl when things were not well supervised.   

The stables in view, a listening Groom Edgar stops. Sweet Cheeks ends her narrative.   

*****

Groom Edgar turns. As his free hand lowers, he notes Sweet Cheeks parts her feet, inviting his touch. His palm presses to her bald pudendum. Once again a knowing finger slips between moist labia, slick and welcoming.

“You’re exciting yourself... with your own words, Cheeks. How often were you left with nothing.... other than a blanket?” finger remaining in place.

Having thoroughly read the reams of orphanage psychological evaluations, Groom Edgar knows too well the answer to his own question. Sweet Cheeks blushes. And she very subtly presses forth her hips, attempting further penetration. Edgar smiles. Tales of punishment bringing stimulation? Perhaps watching the work ponies put through their paces?

He withdraws his hand. Cruel? 

“I... I... well the older girls... they... well... kept telling the matrons...”

“That you had stinky fingers?”

Sweet sheepishly nods.

“It’s common, Cheeks... for a girl to discover herself. But as I inquired... how often?”

“I... well.... the matrons... were... insistent.”

“That you stop toying. And apparently you didn’t. Toying so often... caught so often... that you frequently went without clothing. And the blanket?”

“The older girls... they would take it away.”

“I ask again... often?”

Sweet Cheeks returns to silence. Groom Edgar goes to her left nipple, fingers teasingly toying in flipping about the nipple cone.

“The matrons... they didn’t get the blanket back to you?”

Sweet cheeks shakes her head, otherwise remaining motionless, seeming to covet the diddling fingers.

“They... seemed upset with me. One said... ‘it serves me right’.” 

“And of course you fought for the blanket... to get it back from the older girls...”

No reply, Sweet Cheeks’ head lowered, looking to the ground.

“So you were embarrassed... being naked all the time. Yet you didn’t try... to cover yourself  It’s telling... that you went naked.... chose to go naked. For how long?”

“I... I... counted the days... in the beginning. Then... well... there were so many...” 

Yes, the evaluations. In the end, such noted that Sweet Cheeks spent more time in complete deshabille then with clothing. Whatever the many infractions, such became chronic... and prominent.

Wanting to be caught? Wanting to be punished? Wanting to remain nude?

“You have a hunger, Sweet Cheeks. We know how to feed hungry girls here... your masochism... your exhibitionism... and your thirst... for humiliation. At Dyson Farms... you will feast.”

With the words, Sweet Cheeks hears the commanding voice of Lady Dyson and a snap of leather. She looks to see the approach of the regal woman sitting on a pony cart. Before her trots the naked form of Gum Drop, nipple bells, Ben wa bell chiming in cadence with her busy feet. Despite the cool air of early autumn, she is well lathered, perspiration streaming. Sweet Cheeks cannot help but focus, her eyes at the pony girl’s mons. Bright red strips of inner labia flop about, well exposed and remaining somewhat plumped from the saline infusion. 

Groom Edgar smiles, noting his trainee’s fascination.

“That could be you, Cheeks. Work hard for me... accept your submission... yield to your needs... as you did at the orphanage. We’ll shape you, train you,... and as I said feed you... your predilections. You’ll be bound to a cart, worked hard and cropped.”

With the words, Sweet Cheeks watches Lady Dyson continue toward the stable entrance... reaching about the right shoulder of the pony girl, briskly snapping a long crinkled nipple with the riding crop, the dangling nipple bell peeling raucously. Gum Drop stutter steps... but catches herself... responding with renewed effort. 

“The pain, Sir...” Sweet Cheeks mournfully notes with a quiver.

“Yes... and the accomplishment... the vanity of exhibiting herself... her body sculpted at her Ladyship’s whim... the sense of perfection... the pride in ceding... capitulating to a Master. Gum Drop is in her element... at her zenith.”

Lady Dyson draws her steed to a halt. Gum Drop’s chest heaves, breathing hard, the nipple bells tinkling with the motion of her breast plate. Groom Edgar steps forth, gently tugging on the leash for Sweet Cheeks to follow. Lady Dyson looks to her groom.

“Fresh air for my new girl, Edgar. Good. Gum Drop ran well. Warmed her up then ran her hard for a half mile jaunt in near record time. Nipples and buttocks well cropped... as needed to attain performance. So a reward... masturbate her... to full climax,” Lady Dyson dismounting and handing over the reins. “And have my new girl watch... and taste.”

The crop extends to tantalizingly graze right nipple cone then left.

“Yes, I remember her reports... from the orphanage. Quite concupiscent as I recall, so much enjoying her punishment. Maybe instead of masturbating Gum Drop you should string her up... with this one. Have them trib. She has not the lips for it yet, but the titties are coming along,” fingers of the free hand going to the right nipple cone and tugging vigorously. “Yes, they’ll frottage... a communal shower and bath.”

“You’d like to watch, Ma’am?” Groom Edgar well aware of her ladyship’s own voyeuristic concupiscence.

“Not this evening. A most humble and well trained tongue awaits. Cropping a naked pony girl... it excites.”

Lady Dyson returns her attention to Gum Drop, idly standing in harness, chest still heaving, tinkling of the nipple bells continuing, gulping deep breaths.

“You’re going to trib. Such a lucky pony girl,” the crop hand reaching to the side, the leather tip flicking the extended  nipples right then left.

The sound of leather on sensitive pink flesh brings Sweet Cheeks to grimace, aware of the stab of intense pain. Gum Drop obediently remains still, drawing another massive lungful, chest now heaving in staving the quick agony, air whistling through the bit.  

Lady Dyson smiles, then notes the shifting feet.

“She needs her bladder emptied, Edgar. She’s been well watered.”

A smirking Lady Dyson steps away to the porch of the nearby farm house, supremely in charge, reeking of self confidence, turning to view. Groom Edgar ties off Sweet Cheek’s leash then releases Gum Drop’s waist belt from the prongs of the light, sleek racing cart. The pony girl knows to step forth, bending at the waist, facing away, obscenely parting feet and knees in expectation. Despite having so many times performed such an intimate function, she somewhat blushes, feeling Groom Edgar’s left hand grasp a thick tuft of buttock flesh, a finger of the right slipping between the spread thighs, a single digit deftly gliding into her pouch, expertly avoiding the lower Ben wa ball to find the urethral sponge. He presses.

“Be a good girl, for me Gum Drop, Lady Dyson is watching. Open... for now...”

Despite having herself endured the ritual, Sweet Cheeks watches, also blushing in embarrassment as a strong flow of odorous gold splatters to the soil... then abruptly stops... Groom Edgar showing his mastery of the pony girl plumbing. He waits... he waits... smiling in seeing the bare feet twitching in distress.

“Begin again,” his finger evidently easing to permit more flow.

As the splatter resumes, Sweet Cheeks looks to the porch, Lady Dyson cackling with the scene of humiliation.

Such intensity.    

'The Groom and the Trainee', Segment VI

 "On your toes, Cheeks. Always on your toes.”

Groom Edgar softly admonishes, leash in hand, turning to observe his naked charge, gently tugging to bring acceptable tension to the neck collar.

He smiles in seeing each footfall cause the nipple cones to bobble about, knowing such accentuates the girl’s sense of being forcibly altered. A free hand reaches forth, a finger diddling right nipple cone then left, assuring the girl’s awareness. She sighs in faint joy. 

“Yes, Sir. Thank you for walking me, Sir,” obediently prancing as directed, mitten cover hands carefully held away from her skin.

“To the fields, Cheeks. Harvest time. As you know, Lady Dyson likes to give out pumpkins to the children. And you do enjoy being walked,” pausing, a free hand reaching to the thighs, fingers deftly slipping within a well exposed pudendum to graze and find wetness. “At the end of a leash,” chuckling.

Arousal! Outdoors, for all to see, the girl’s naked and bound exhibition excites! 

With a smug smile, Groom Edgar resumes leading along the soft dirt of the path. He cannot helping thinking of the years of planning, Lady Dyson long funding the care of Sweet Cheeks, and other girls, at the nearby orphanage. The girls are well cared for. In return for her Ladyship’s generosity, there is restitution. The orphanage twice per year performs psychological evaluations for Lady Dyson’s review. Plus there is a demand that any punishment for misbehavior be in a very specific form and manner, the response to such punishment closely monitored and recorded.

Thus when Sweet Cheeks came of age... time for her departure from the institution’s adolescent care and attention... her file of evaluations was thick. Yes, not much of her mental and emotional make up... her penchants and predilections... escaped thorough analysis.

Lady Dyson’s investment paid off with Sweet Cheeks. An estimated one in ten girls coming through the orphanage will have the ingrained masochism and exhibitionism required... the raw clay to be molded into obedient, physically sculpted, mentally subjugated, and emotionally needy human equines.

“Your time at the orphanage, Cheeks. Do you recall being punished?” Groom Edgar prompts, well aware of the reply in having reviewed her files ad nauseam.

“Oh yes, Sir,” the voice soft and contrite.

“You were naughty... frequently naughty.”

“At times, Sir.”

“And how were you punished?”

“Well... the matrons...”

“Did they beat you?”

“Oh, no Sir. They were... well... firm... but kind...”

“Yes, but you were punished.”

The words come as the trees and shrubbery yield to an open field. Sweet Cheeks notes the activity, pausing, causing the leash to become taut. Groom Edgar in turn stops, his thoughts interrupted, letting the girl observe, noting the look of astonishment and concern on her face.

It’s a pumpkin patch indeed. Some dozen field hands, large men of color, work the rows of green vines and well ripened globes of orange. Such are brief in their attire, shirtless, chests of brawn, no shoes, the only covering being white loin clothes, in some cases loosely and carelessly strung about the waists. Some have short thick whips, though most are focused on harvesting the pumpkins. 

Yet it’s the carts that bring focus... large, heavy open boxes of wood, perched on ancient wooden wheels. Three in number, tethered to the front of each is a pair of naked girls in bit, bridle and harness, each made one with the cart in being secured to prongs at the front. 

“Oh Sir,” Sweet Cheeks gasps in gawking at the scene of grime, sweat and apparent misery.

“Work ponies, Cheeks. Quite strong, well restrained...”

With the words, a field worker offers a generous tap of his whip to the bare buttocks of a work pony. She lunges, then pulls forth with her partner, the obviously well burdened cart moving forward a few feet to accept more pumpkins.

“You’ll note the broad hips, huge buttocks, well muscled legs. And the thick layer of epidermis... so they can stay warm in the cool autumn air. We put a nice even inch of fat on them... no more no less.” 

“You can do that, Sir?” Sweet Cheeks incredulous. “Make a girl look like that? They’re... they’re... beastly!”

“We can make a girl look any way we want, Cheeks. But in all cases... do what is best for them.”

Sweet Cheeks nods, noting the bald heads, the extended labia draped between the thighs... the elongated nipples. Alas... the Dyson Farms look.

“I’ve... I’ve... not seen them... in the stables.”

“Separate barn for them. They don’t need the care... of a groom. Once conditioned for working the fields I only examine them once or twice per year.... and for any injuries.”             

Sweet Cheeks’ eyes remain glued, noting the whips swing freely. Then a dark hand goes to the tack of one girl, slipping aside the bit, the other hand rummaging about the loin cloth. A massive phallus of black is pressed to the pony girl’s lips. Sweet Cheeks notes the girl’s head bobs... energetically. Limited contact with males during her orphanage years, she is naive concerning fellatio. Yet, it requires not much imagination to understand the level of abject oral servitude.

“What is that work pony doing to him... the field hand?”

“She’s sucking his cock, Cheeks. Something you obviously did not do at the orphanage. As I said, Lady Dyson assures the field hands are kept... happy,” the term snickered. “And rest assured, that pony girl will please... or be fanny fucked. Possibly both,” Groom Edgar outright laughing. “It not only makes the man feel physically better, but inures a sense of hierarchy... he dominates... she submits. Work ponies come to enjoy the taste of cock.” 

“Will I...”

“That’s to be decided... by Lady Dyson. So, you‘ve now seen some work ponies, Cheeks. We’ll avoid visiting the barn... for now. Unless watching a girl get a good deep pegging is... of interest.”

“Pegging?”

“Anal penetration.”

“Oh no, Sir,” shuddering in hearing a snap of leather, seeing a short thick whip scourge another set of buttocks.

“The whip is short for easy application, by the way... and thick... still painful but breaks not the skin,” Groom Edgar tugging to lead back down the path. “So... as I said... best to avoid becoming a work pony, Cheeks. Do work hard for me. No resistance. I can make you... into whatever you want to be... here at Dyson Farms.”

“Yes, Sir... thank you Sir. Will you... well... the saline, Sir... you know... with Gum Drop...”

“A labial infusion. Yes, Cheeks. You’d enjoy that. In time... it will come. Nice plump and long strips of girl flesh... for exhibition. And now... do tell me. Punishment time... at the orphanage. The Matrons... kindly... yet firm...” Groom Edgar prompts anew.