'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. 

'The Groom and the Trainee', Segment V

Happy New Year

*****

A new day in the stables, Sweet Cheeks stands on toes, bent at the waist, mitten covered hands held high behind her back by a cable strung from the ceiling. Before her is a full length mirror, her reflection filling the glass. Another protocol at Dyson Farms, psychological subjugation... made to observe one’s naked and bound capitulation.

She rides the horse, really just an upturned horizontal wooden plank, also held in place by cables, the gruff top edge just grazing the entrance to her mons. Labia parted, her moist pink flesh moistens the board.

She feels posed as would a swimmer about to take a dive. But there will be no splash. She cannot move.

“Comfortable, Cheeks?” Groom Edgar inquires, expressing paternal care.

“No, Sir... it’s... it’s straining my legs.”

“As intended. Calves, thighs, gluteus maximus... your buttocks... all need to be strengthened... and molded. How is your cunny?”      

“The wood... it’s rough... I have to stay on my toes... so that it doesn’t hurt.”

“Yes,” Groom Edgar chuckling. “Rather devious... working you on the horse. But it’s for the best.”

Standing to the pony girl’s left side, an arm reaches, a hand smoothing over a smooth young globe, Sweet Cheeks is exercised completely naked course. The muscling there is tensed. Clenched rock hard in maintaining the demanded pose, protecting her opening. With the soft covering of epidermis there is shapely allure.  

“It’s time we worked your nipples as well... another step... accelerate the stretching... just a little. We don’t go quickly in modifying a pony girl. In rushing, your titties would lose sensation... numb the skin. And we wouldn’t want that. You need to feel the crop... for correction... and encouragement.”

With the words, the hand retracts, Groom Edgar stepping to the pony girl’s front, fingers gently taking the nipples cones, pinching and smoothing down the inch and a half lengths, tugging toward the floor below.

“How’s my touch?” the defrocked doctor seemingly proud of his efforts.

“Like I’m being suckled.”

“Well you are. But we’re going to be adding some weight... during your morning rides. That’s why your hands and arms are held high, chest to the floor,” releasing to retrieve slim cords from his pocket. “Just a few ounces to begin,” winding a cord about the rubber cone covering the left nipple. “And then a little more every day. You’re going to a proud pony girl, Cheeks.”

Left nipple cone entwined, right nipple cone follows. Sweet Cheeks gasps when hands right and left each take a dangling loose cord and pull. 

“Hurt?”

Sweet Cheeks shakes her head, chagrined to find the gentle pulls to be instead sensuous. Indeed, Groom Edgar tilts his head, looking aside to the inner thighs where the edge of the plank darkens with more flow of moisture, cunny secreting. The evidence of arousal brings a knowing smile.

“Good. Girls of your ilk come to enjoy their submission. Now some weights... three ounces... get you acclimated... to control... to yielding... to subordinating your tender anatomy to modification,” attaching small baubles of metal to the end of each cord. “Weights... for fishing lines... cheap, easily procured... readily increased.”     

“Oh, Sir I don’t think...”

“But you will... take it. We know girls like you. You want to obey... want to perform... want to please... want to be displayed... so proud of subordinating to your masters.”

With the words, a finger pokes the weights. Sweet Cheeks gasps anew, closing her eyes in the shame of being oddly excited... of the realization... that Groom Edgar knows girls with her predilection... knows her.

“Edgar, tack Candy Bar for me,” the stern alto voice of Lady Dyson calls out,” strolling the long stable corridor, passing stalls to where she encounters the stressed trainee. “I want to work her at the end of a lunge line before running Gum Drop.”  

The sound of tapping boots ends. Sweet Cheeks opens her eyes, the regal owner, Mistress of Dyson Farms, riding crop in hand, observes.

“Well, well, well. My nose suggests my new girl enjoys riding the horse.”

Sweet Cheeks blushes unaware that evidence of her arousal is so apparent.

“It’s time for weighting her... nipples only for now,” Groom Edgar explains.

“So I see,” Lady Dyson stepping proximate, her crop hand extending. “You’ve progressed her nipples to well over an inch.”

“An inch and a half, Ma’am.” 

“And the labia?” the tip of the crop pushing about the weights... bringing another gasp of joy. 

“Still retracted... but with twice daily finger work I’ll soon have her in stretching cones there as well.”

“Good. And the vaginal walls? Breeding material?”

“Firm. This one will drop some foals for you... when the time comes.”

Lady Dyson nods, moving to the side. Sweet Cheeks turns her head, noting the woman seems to glow in observing a naked girl in toil... legs straining, direly protecting the entrance to her opening. A gloved hand smooths over the buttocks, examining.

“She clenches her buttocks delightfully. Nice basic shape... but in much need of development here, Edgar.”    

“She’s young, Ma’am. Development yes, but such will come soon. Diet and exercise.”

“Yes, you do marvelous work, Edgar. Have her in harness in no time.”

Lady Dyson returns to the front, peering into the face.

“Nice even features. Have you needed to shave her... other than the head?”

“Yes, some pubic hair... not yet requiring daily attention... quickly removed.”

“Well, when next putting her under the razor, shave her eyebrows. Even in baldness I detect a degree of pride in the girl... dignity. That won’t do. Pride is something we’ll bestow... proud to be mastered... to prance naked... to serve in harness. And dignity... well that will only come when she’s put in bit and bridle... and run under the crop”

A gloved hand reaches, a finger smoothing over the limited strips of hair above the eyes.

“Yes, it will give her an eery, alien look. Somewhat freakish... but needed. As I said, pride... any pride in appearance will come from what we bestow... what we permit.”

Sweet Cheeks begins to well up, her emotions on a roller coast, enjoying Groom Edgar’s sensuous handling, now her appearance to be further altered. As Lady Dyson steps away, Sweet Cheeks looks into the mirror. Having acclimated... somewhat... to baldness... complete glabrousness will next come. Yes, eery... freakish... not a strand of hair anywhere.  

“And I want Candy Bar figged. She can be a little torpid. Some ginger root will help.”

The sound of tapping boots fades, Lady Dyson leaving for the training corral.

Groom Edgar notes the tears, rivulets streaming, a droplet to the floor.

“Your eyebrows will grow back... when permitted,” Edgar softly counsels.

“How I am to be shown... looking freakish?”

A hand reaches, a finger tenderly wiping the wet cheeks. Curious, Groom Edgar thinks to himself. The conditioning, the psychological duress, Sweet Cheeks is acclimating to her servitude... disappointed that her prospective appearance... all hair gone... will deter from any pageants. Even such otherwise insignificant strips of facial hair... when removed... will preclude her complete nakedness from posing before judges... some dozen eyes assessing... hands poking and prodding. She will not be a show pony looking like a creature.   

Groom Edgar smiles inwardly. The girl is succumbing. There is relent in not being displayed in her nakedness.

“You can be raced, Cheeks. Your conditioning has yet to begin. First proper muscle formation... many hours riding the horse... then the treadmill, training corral and finally to be harnessed and run. But you’ll need to be... presentable... as well,” the hands returning to the dangling cords, pushing such that the weights swing about, leaving no doubt as to ‘presentable’.

“Yes, Sir. I understand, Sir... what a Dyson Farms pony girl looks like. There will be more weights?” the tone seeming hopeful.

“Oh yes. And your cunny as well. You’ve seen Gum Drop.”

Sweet Cheeks nods, the reply seeming to bring cheer. The labial infusion. Is there odd attraction? Can she dichotomously feel the induced sensuality of labia turned to small balloons?   

“I can’t work the fields, Sir. Whipped, caned.... and you said made supple... you know... back there,” Sweet Cheeks’ head tilting and nodding, ‘back there’ being her fine posterior.

So, Groom Edgar’s brief description of what it is to work the fields has left an indelible impression, trainee Sweet Cheeks almost beseeching to either be shown or be exhaustively run in harness. Perhaps her aptitude for Lady Dyson’s training and curious body modifications can be heightened.

“Another hour on the horse and I’ll walk you, Cheeks. Leashed of course... whenever outside the stable pony girls are tethered. Would you like that?” 

Not having seen the outdoors for many weeks, Sweet Cheeks effusively nods her head.

“Oh, yes Sir. Thank you, Sir. So kind of you.”  

'The Groom and the Trainee', Segment IV

Merry Christmas!

*****

Sweet Cheeks lies supine on a wooden platform, thin mattress offering a degree of comfort. As Groom Edgar stands above, food bowl in hand, she looks into the handsome face. She finds the man to be attractive... in a paternal manner. With hair slightly graying at the temples, perhaps he is the father she never knew. Since her arrival at Dyson Farms he has been most kindly... his touch firm and directing but caring and tender... and yet degrading in so often taking liberty with her intimate girl parts... closely supervised toileting being just one of many embarrassing protocols.

The man sits to her side, spoon scooping.

“I can feed myself, Sir.”

“Yes, Cheeks, but that would mean removing your masturbation mittens and unbuckling your wrist cuffs. Bondage... for pony girls it is best.”

Yes, Sweet Cheeks and the platform bed are one, lying in four point restraint, arms held over her head at the corners, ankles likewise secured... and of course her legs obscenely parted, hairless cunny well exposed.

“And other than that, you should understand that here the rituals and protocols are framed to ensure a sense of dependency. A pony girl has needs... we take care of those needs. You’ll not have a worry or care in the world... other than to obey and perform.”

A spoon laden hand presents a pile of brown gruel. Sweet Cheeks, though hungry, demurs... passive resistance.   

“Oh come now, Cheeks. We can use a gastric tube. You would not be the first girl so fed.”

A free hand goes to the girl’s nose, a finger pushing into the right nostril, gently but hinting at the discomfort of being so intubated.

“You can do that sir... would do that?”

“Oh yes, we have some very nutritious concoctions for recalcitrant pony girls. Particularly those destined to work the fields. We make them nice and plump... better for long working days naked in the cool air.”

Sweet Cheeks shudders, bristling with the power... and her compelled submission... the thought that in addition to modifying pink parts... nipples and labia... a girl’s entire body is to be molded into... whatever. Groom Edgar smiles in seeing the reaction of fear and concern, withdrawing his finger as a mouth opens in acceptance. The spoon enters, the tasteless mush masticated.

The exchange gives rise to questions. Just who is Groom Edgar?.. so knowledgeable... able to play with a girl’s anatomy like a Maestro violinist. He toys... but with purpose... psychologically... emotionally... physically transforming. The supervised toilet, the nipple cones... her tender nubs handled with exacting care... becoming some exotic extravagant fare, an exotic recipe prepared for royal consumption... slowly pulled, twisted, further pulled to grotesque length... then finally suctioned into tight rubber cones. All performed with knowing exactness.

And there is the attention paid to her labia... examined and palpated twice daily... for now deemed too undeveloped for alternation. But for sure Sweet Cheeks is destined for the prominent dangling strips of pink girl flesh borne by Gum Drop.

Sustenance spooned and consumed in silence, Groom Edgar puts aside the bowl. Sweet Cheeks knows it is time for her nightly examination... more ignominy.        

“How do your breasts feel, Cheeks?”

“Like... you know... someone, something... is constantly pulling.”

With the words, fingers go to the rubber cones. Sweet Cheeks knows what is to come. Maestro is to play his violin... her body.

“That’s good,” fingers deftly peeling, unrolling the tightly fitting left rubber cone down to the nipple tip for removal.

The right cone is likewise rolled off. Sweet Cheeks gazes down in horror to see her nubs do not retract. Forced to spear forth some two inches when encapsulated, on prior evenings such have shrunk back somewhat to normalcy. Not on this evening. And Groom Edgar notices as well, smiling in satisfaction.

Putting aside the rubber, the hands return, Sweet Cheeks to endure the twice daily breast massage. It feels good... it feels distressing... it embarrasses... yet she must helplessly lie and accept the attention.

Worse, she feels twinges. The shame brings arousal. She berates herself. Groom Edgar compliments.

“You’re becoming fragrant, Cheeks... learning to enjoy a mastering touch. That is good... you’re here to be mastered.”

Sweet Cheeks blushes, once again her groom’s knowledge concerning things girlishly private brings both admiration and frustration. He plays such magical violin. Yes, masterfully. 

The nipples made supple, Groom Edgar reaches for the horrid device Sweet Cheeks knows to bring transformation... forced transformation. It appears to be a modified breast pump, suctioning strongly as fingers squeeze an attached puffolator. The right nipple is pulled firmly, engulfed, and then when a trigger-like lever is pulled, with a notable click a fresh rubber cone... seemingly tighter and certainly longer... is snapped into place covering anew a length of sensitive flesh.

“Ugh,” the exclamation of discomfort bringing Groom Edgar to smile.

“You’re becoming acclimated to elongation, Cheeks,” a finger playfully tapping her nose. “You squealed the first time. Do I detect a level of acceptance,” spoken as the device is reloaded,    

Left nipple similarly encased, the device disappears and Groom Edgar slips down the side of the mattress. Sweet Cheeks closes her eyes... more shame... more play... Maestro to intimately examine as the outer labia are splayed, the inner labia brought fully into the room light, the vaginal opening gaping.

“Yes, Quite moist, Sweet Cheeks. You’re coming to enjoy being examined... being handled.”

“Must you Sir... every day?”

“Twice per day. You have no privacy here at Dyson Farms, Cheeks. You’ll be shown and put on display... at Lady Dyson’s whim. So an intimate gynecological examination will become quite acceptable... in time.”

As per twice per day, the fingers slip past the outer lips and gently pinch the inner labia,... limited on a girl of Cheeks age... then roll about beginning a tugging action just as with the nipples. Sweet Cheeks comes to realize... the horrid device bestowing tight rubber to her nipples will also be applied... first suctioning then, with a pull of a mastering finger and a click, likewise encase her precious girl parts below.

When? When will her beauty lips succumb as well?

The Maestro’s touch brings more twinges... and for sure more moisture. Sweet Cheeks begins to smell herself... more ignominy. She berates herself, stifling a quest to plead... for more attention... to likewise toy with her clitoris... to finally bring climax... to light the fuse leading to an explosive orgasm. She feels sheepish with the thought. Drat the unending chastity! 

Her thoughts worsen. There comes the sound of squishing, her cunny sopping wet, fingers turning her vagina into a wellspring.  

Then she thinks of Groom Edgar’s words... gynecological exam. Could it be?

“Are you a doctor, Sir?” the finger work continuing, the sensation both arousing and demeaning.

“You’re maturing here nicely, Sweet Cheeks. In bathing Gum Drop, you’re aware of the... ah... presentation... the Dyson Farms look for pony girls. You’re going to be so proud... and so excited to be run... sensing your girl bits flopping about.”

“Well?” her question not to be evaded.

“I have medical training. Yes. You’re in good hands... and fingers,” Groom Edgar humorously adds.

Should this bring comfort? Awareness that... though extensive and bizarre modification is to come... her body will not be the instrument of a Maestro... to be played... but instead a sculpture... clay for an artist.

“So not a doctor?”

“I was,’ the fingers of left hand and right managing to coax tufts of labial flesh from the vaginal opening... to be tugged forth and rolled about firmly... more firmly than other morning and evening sessions.

Sweet Cheeks feels more open and vulnerable than ever, gasping with unwanted joy, arms and legs tugging at her restraints.

“The medical board chose to retract my license,” Groom Edgar fesses up. “And Lady Dyson graciously assures my... financial requirements.” 

Should this alleviate concerns... naked and bound body subjected to the caprice of examining, marauding hands and fingers... but clinically trained?

“In a few weeks, Sweet Cheeks. While working your buttocks, legs and thighs on the horse, you’ll also have another set of training cones. More stretching. You’ll come to enjoy the feel. And we go slowly... your girl parts will not lose any sensation. Trust me, I know.” 

Yes, you’re a doctor... license revoked for obvious reasons, Sweet Cheeks thinks but dares not say...  medical training bastardized.     

'The Groom and the Trainee', Segment III

 Groom Edgar holds up the masturbation mittens... carefully. The outer mesh steel covering can engender cuts and scrapes. Sweet Cheeks knows to step forth and offer her hands for encapsulation.

“You’re aroused, Cheeks. Gum Drop’s cunny is not the only source feminine fragrance.”

Hands again rendered useless, tiny padlocks left and right are clicked closed. A hand lowers, fingers grazing the vulva, index finger slipping inward with ease. Sweet Cheeks knows not to resist, parting her feet in welcome. Constantly naked, she is open and vulnerable... to examination... to penetration.

“It’s... it’s horrible, sir,” nodding to where Gum Drops futilely continues to stimulate herself, hips rocking, full gratification not to come.

“Pointed words... but your love pouch speaks louder,” hand withdrawing, a wet finger presented.

Sweet Cheeks blushes in shame. Why is she aroused? she asks herself.  

“Your masochism... your need for subjugation... it is what it is, Cheeks. At Dyson Farms, it will be addressed. But never satiated. Ultimately that would not please you.”

Groom Edgar twirls a finger. Sweet Cheeks obediently turns to face away.

“Present,” the command softly uttered.

Sweet Cheeks responds to her early training, fully parting her feet, bending at the waist and arching her back, indeed presenting... a set of buttocks... girlishly shapely and under development... a tight puckered sphincter... the entrance to her hairless mons.

Can a girl ever become accustomed to the humiliation of so exposing herself? blushing deepening.

She feels hands... tender and caring. Fingers smoothing over her nakedness, squeezing in assessment of the gluteus maximus muscles. Then such palpate the thighs... outer and inner. 

Sweet Cheeks finds sensuality... oddly hoping an impaling finger returns. But she also finds the touch to be clinical. Objectified, her muscling is under evaluation. 

“Lady Dyson will be making a decision about you, Sweet Cheeks. For sure your buttocks will be well developed... that’s what we do here. But for show... for competition... or to work the fields?”

“For show, sir?”

“To be entered more or less in beauty pageants. Stripped naked of course, judged for... well... elements of appearance... shape... form... and comportment... level of obedience.”

Sweet Cheeks shudders. Still not acclimated to baring herself to a presiding male, how will she ever face an audience? Groom Edgar laughs, feeling her somatic reaction.

“Deep within, you’d enjoy, Sweet Cheeks. Perched on a pedestal, dozens of eyes examining. Hands assessing. Your most intimate anatomy open for viewing...”

The words bring Sweet Cheeks to feel twinges, vagina sopping, her scent even more evident. She doesn’t want to be subjected to such degradation... or does she?

“And if Lady Dyson wants you in competition... raced... you’ll be run... daily... for miles. Stamina maximized, weight well monitored, special diet... and hormones. Build the muscling... and you’d most likely develop a nice sized clitoris. Testosterone can do that for a girl.”

With that an examining finger goes to her gaping portal, deftly finding the clitoral hood and diddling suggestively. The simple, quick touch brings a brisance of joy... and a letdown when withdrawn.

Drat the strict chastity! Sweet Cheeks feels a rivulet of feminine essence ooze to her inner thigh.     

“I’m going to bed you and feed you. I’m sure riding the horse and the excitement have tired you.”

“And working the fields sir?”

“You’re best to avoid that... if you can. It’s grueling. You’d be well caned and whipped. And... well... the field hands... they’re gruff. To properly perform I’d need to fatten you... and... you’d need to be opened... for your protection.”

“Opened?”

In response, a thumb goes to the rear portal, pressing against a tight sphincter.

“As I said... the field hands... they’re gruff. Lady Dyson always wants them to be happy... but vaginal penetration is forbidden. No unwanted foals. So you’d be made supple here,” the thumb smoothing up and down, Sweet Cheeks grateful for no penetration.

With that, Groom Edgar steps back and offers a playful but firm swat to the right buttock.

“Food and bedtime. I need to feed Gum Drop as well... if she can stop frottaging. And I think you want to urinate for me.”   

More horror! To relieve herself in a most ignominious manner... closely supervised! Worse... a man’s finger... pressed to her urethral sponge... her flow under another’s control... becoming a man’s fountain... performing at his gist!

“Come now, Cheeks,” Edgar sensing reluctance. “That’s how we do things here. All body functions under guidance... the intimacy... the humiliation... the capitulation.  It is best for you.”

Sweet Cheeks glumly moves from the stall turning toward the back of the structure, stepping on toes  past other stalls... always moving on toes, Groom Edgar following. She feels his gaze, aware that a knowing eye appraises her gait... for sure to advise Lady Dyson when the time comes... show pony... competitor... or lowly draft animal. 

Into the training stall, no suspension cables or straps, Sweet Cheeks knows to move to the odd toilet facility, part her legs and straddle. She is being trained to relieve herself standing, a steel basin with drainage between her thighs, oddly shaped in being narrow yet long, capturing both the splatter of her bladder, and the excretions of her bowels.   

“Good girl,” Edgar noting she places her covered hands on the wall before her, leaning forth, patiently awaiting a penetrating finger and the command to open.

“Must it be like this?” her plea tearful, the humiliation intense.

A well versed finger enters her portal, going to the urethral sponge and hooking in place.

“Oh Cheeks, you’d not want this any other way. You’re blushing divinely. And your quim... so slick... so welcoming.”

The digit finds the urethra, rubbing about. Such thrill... such degradation. How is it the man knows... is so aware?

“Open,” the command finally comes. A flow begins, the sound of splatter embarrassing. And then it stops... control... control... the finger pressing closed her inner plumbing. 

Sweet Cheeks whimpers. Not like this!