'Trainee to Pony Girl', Segment XIII

Winter at Dyson farms precludes being run outdoors. Still Sweet Cheeks is exercised, hours on the wooden horse... shaping the buttocks... much time on the treadmill... her stamina to be maximized. She languishes nights in suspension, ear grommets hooked, thigh straps forcibly splaying open her sex, weights stretching both labia and nipples of course.

The process of shaping... objectifying for Lady Dyson is continuous.

Odd that she finds herself missing the sting of the crop, her owner’s crisp commands, Sweet Cheeks’ response to commands ingrained and instantaneous.

There is affection for her groom. Sweet Cheeks has come to realize that her body... well... it’s not really hers. The knowing hands and fingers of Groom Edgar inspect, cleanse, explore, massage and palpate everywhere... within her quim... within her mouth... within her anal cavity... the latter earning much attention... her proclivity unveiled. 

She is no longer overly embarrassed when he tends to her during her time of the month. Is it acceptable to have a man care for a woman during her intimate cycle? Not entirely. She blushes... but is curiously grateful for his attention.   

She has come to understand that not only is her nakedness open and on constant exhibition... but her thoughts and feelings as well. Her most secret desires and penchants have been exposed.

Should she curse Dr. Bob? The counseling sessions, thought to be confidential, instead were so well documented and disseminated.

No. She has come to understand it is for the best... that her masochism... her exhibitionism... is... how would she best explain... put to good use?

Perhaps this is why she has missed being harnessed and run, cropped into a lather, brought to her best... bells chiming, labia flopping about, elongated nipples stiff and straight to welcome a snap of correcting and encouraging leather. 

Spring arrives. With the stable kept at low a temperature, making a pony girl eager to be exercised, there is no discomfort in Groom Edgar leading Sweet Cheeks’ naked form into the outdoors despite the cool air. Fully decorated, vagina stuffed, anus plugged, hands at the back of her neck, secured in the reverse prayer position, Sweet Cheeks spies the low, sleek racing cart. Her heart thumps. After many weeks she will again be run outdoors, feel the cooling air, the directing tugs of the reins, hear her master’s voice, show herself off... a body honed to athletic perfection... demonstrate her obedience... her abject submission to a woman’s control. Harnessed, she waits. To warm herself she lifts her feet... right, left, right, left... the slightest motion bringing her bells to ring.

The sound brings strange quiescence.

Finally, Lady Dyson exits the farmhouse, stepping to the porch, crop in hand, pausing to enjoy the sunlight of early Spring. She smiles in seeing her naked steed, harnessed, bells chiming, leg muscles rippling, foot motion communicating her steed’s eagerness to be run.

Seeing the crinkled nipples spearing forth, now stretched to some four inches, Lady Dyson knows the sensitive pink will so much welcome crisp snaps of leather. Though physically painful, it will bring warmth. And emotionally such will manifest the exchange of power.

“Good morning, Sweet Cheeks. You’ve missed me?” Lady Dyson finally deigning to approach.

Bit and bridle in place, Sweet Cheeks wordlessly nods, with enthusiasm, the motion bringing her bells to peel raucously. 

“Yes, of course. You want to perform for me... show off your nakedness, your well subjugated body.”

The words come as Lady Dyson lowers her freed hand, open palm upturned. Showing obeisance, Sweet Cheeks knows to step forth the few inches, placing her mons into the hand in both greeting and symbolic submission. When one then two fingers deftly part the lengthy labia and slip inward, Sweet Cheeks closes her eyes. In welcome? In joy? Reveling in ceding her most intimate anatomy?

In her mind, it matters not. Surrendering herself, she is open to all.

“Yes, your vagina is sopping wet already... and I have not even begun to work you. Is it your Ben wa bell... your decorated nipples... your nice stout butt plug... or you like having you cunny fondled?” Lady Dyson knowingly snickers. “You can leave Dyson Farms anytime, Sweet Cheeks. That you know. Become Susan Cheevers again. You must always keep that in mind. But for now, I’ll warm you up. To the hilltop... only a three mile jaunt... and then a couple of timed laps about the track,” the hand withdrawing, wet fingers held before Sweet Cheeks’ embarrassed eyes. 

The leather tacking is checked, bridle, waist belt, then Sweet Cheeks feels the prongs stress her waist belt as Lady Dyson mounts.

“Haw!” the crop finding its way around the shoulders, the very tip of the right nipple receiving a painful swat.  

Sweet Cheeks digs, muscles exploding, beginning her day in harness... grueling... exhausting... but now so acceptable... so welcomed. She is in her element, suffering under a master’s exacting hands and commands.

But does she indeed suffer? Sweet Cheeks ponders.

The reins direct to the hill path. Sweet Cheeks accelerates then brings her ringing bells in cadence with her footwork. Step, chime, step, chime, she is proud. The warming sun brings exhilaration. The incline increases. Though she labors, air whistling through the bit, the cadence remains steady. Then comes more steepness. The crop hand swings. Then the leather works between her straining thighs. The long dangling labia begin to receive taps... encouraging taps. Sweet Cheeks redoubles her efforts, keeping the cadence despite the challenge.   

Sensing her pores opening, beads of sweat begin to roll. She is in her element she realizes. Open to renounce her servitude at any time, there come thoughts of clothing... covering... not felt in months... and so often denied her at the orphanage. By her choice? 

Well bound in harness, only her feet and legs to move... under strict direction... what would the freedom to move about on her on volition feel like?

Can that happen? Does she want that to happen? To feed herself. Bathe herself. Concern herself with her appearance. Groom herself? Urinate... defecate... without supervision? Cleanse her own menses?

Who would crop her... ensure her conditioning.... run her?

To whom would she exhibit herself?

Thirty minutes, the apex is reached. Such a sense of accomplishment. She has pleased. She knows she has pleased. The reins direct to a rock outcropping. There comes the command to halt.

“Good girl,” Lady Dyson dismounting.

The bit is slipped away. A water bottle is held, straw slipped into Sweet Cheeks’ mouth. Thumb and forefinger of the free hand gently pinch the left nipple at the base near the ring, then soothingly draw to the tip. Sweet Cheeks closes her eyes, soaking up the blissful reward. 

“Such obedience... working so hard to please. Give me a good half mile time on the track and I’ll have Edgar masturbate you. To full climax. Would you like that?”

The thought brings a brisance. Masturbation! Full... so often promised... dangled... teased. But pony girls seemingly always held on the edge of orgasm. In being kept frisky... made eager to perform... the anguish of the crop becomes bizarrely acceptable in countering the unending concupiscence.

“Oh yes, Ma’am,” Sweet Cheeks gushes between deep gasps of air.

“Are you sure? I think the pain of the crop has become a substitute for pleasure. That can happen with girls with your penchant for masochism. Perhaps a thorough caning instead.”

“No please... have me masturbated. It’s... it’s... been...”

“Been since you arrived here. Held in strict chastity... tsk, tsk, tsk. Yes, this is not the orphanage, Sweet Cheeks. We don’t allow naughty fingers to play and then punish... though it seems the punishments there were quite welcomed. But we do reward.”

Water consumed, Lady Dyson stows the bottle then returns her attention. Sweet Cheeks is surprised when the bit, reins attached, is completely removed..

“You’ll walk me to the track. No bit. No guiding reins. No crop. Your buttocks... so nicely sculpted. I’ll relax and watch... and you can focus on your insertions... revel in the sensation of being so nicely stuffed. Yes, a nice slow pace. Then at the track I will run you... hard and fast.”

As Sweet nods, rarely having moved under her own direction at Dyson Farms, there come images of old western movies, a well trained and loyal horse sauntering with his rider lazing in the saddle, no enmity, no inclination to stray... to bolt... no show of animosity. Just subordination... acquiescence to life as a beast of burden.

Lady Dyson smiles, fingers going to the untouched right nipple to similarly soothe and placate.

“Hot,” softly laughing in sensing the heat of excoriated flesh, “you run well under the crop,” the strokes many over the three mile jaunt. “And you enjoy.”

Sweet Cheeks finds herself reluctantly nodding in agreement. Then Lady Dyson’s free hand slips within the folds of her jodhpurs, the design making her mons readily available for the head and face of her neutered oral servant Gabbie. She gathers a sample of her own juices. Hand retracting, wet fingers go to the mouth and lips of Sweet Cheeks.

“Lick... enjoy my taste.”

Alarmed yet intrigued, Sweet Cheeks extends her tongue, indeed sampling her master’s taste.

“Yes. Edgar nicely snipped that lingual frenulum of yours. A very long and supple tongue. Perhaps there will be another reward for you.”

Sweet Cheeks knows not how to respond. She should be repulsed, her homophobia roiling. But this is Dyson Farms, she reminds herself in repressing any disgust.

“You’re serving me well, Sweet Cheeks... each day more and more relishing the humiliation... the degradation. You’ll also serve me as does Gabbie. Not as well... not initially anyway.” 

Fingers licked clean, Lady Dyson laughs with the fastidiousness... the eagerness?

The reins and bit are gathered. Lady Dyson again mounts.

“You know the way to the track. You choose the pace. Just take your master for a walk. Show your fealty.”   

'Trainee to Pony Girl', Segment XII

 "How do you feel, Cheeks? You’re trembling. Water not warm enough?”

“Oh Sir, please no more. I’m quite full. It’s... it’s... too much.”

“Just a little more. I know deep within you want to take it for me. How does your anus feel? It’s quite stretched... the nozzle has to be tight and therefore well inflated.”

Dare Sweet Cheeks admit... the sensation... it brings both suffering and joy. 

A hand goes to the bloated lower belly, gently rubbing about... highlighting the distension.

“Sir... please I need...”

“I’ll decide what you need, Cheeks. A little more flow... then I’ll walk you.”

“No. Please. I don’t think I can do that... you know... stuffed and filled like this.”

“But you ran plugged for Lady Dyson. It was only a number two. But I think you enjoyed it... and want to take more. Enemas will help... both physically opening you... and satiating your need.”

Enema bag empty, Groom Edgar’s free hand reaches to the tube and closes the valve. He then  smooths over buttocks sculpted to perfection, the months of pony girl training evident. The trembling continues. Groom Edgar knows it is not distress. Instead the girl is in a masochistic trance... her words of concern in conflict with the nirvana experienced in being so subjugated. Yes, the threat of being walked and displayed... anally penetrated with protruding belly... triggers her exhibitionist paraphilia.

“You’ll not expel here in the stall, Cheeks. Not in the basin. It’s too small.”

“Please Sir, I can’t be walked like this.”  

“But you will,” disconnecting the tube, leaving the enema nozzle in place. “I’ll get your leash. You can show yourself to Gum Drop and Candy Bar. Tell them how good it feels... being anally filled... sphincter stretched... feeling another’s dominion deep within... the intensity of the humiliation. Then I’ll lead you to the washroom, string you up, and you can decide whether to end your colonic... expelling to the drain... or just continue to bask in the glow of being so degraded.”

Groom Edgar steps away, returning with the length of leather.

“You can do this, Cheeks. You want to do it. And if you ask, I’ll take you to the farmhouse before you’re emptied. You can explain to Lady Dyson how good this feels to you. She may have guests. Wouldn’t that feed a need? Putting your anal fixation on display.”

As Sweet Cheeks whimpers, not able to find a reply, the ankle cuffs are released, feet slowly lowering to the stall floor. The thigh straps are unhooked. Groom Edgar notes the trembling is magnified.

“Cunt wet?” dispensing with medical jargon, aware of the delicious combination of dread and joy.

Words not forthcoming, Sweet Cheeks nods. She ruminates... he knows her... body, mind and soul. Once again maestro Edgar is performing in concert, her nakedness a mere instrument for recital.

“Remember... on toes, Cheeks. Always on toes,” slipping away the thigh straps and releasing the ear grommets.     

Leash clipped in place, Groom Edgar leads, Sweet Cheeks follows, the enema nozzle, inflated to the maximum. As would a tail, it flips side to side with every step, lower belly sloshing. Adding to the sensual input, the elongated labia brush her inner thighs... the endless chastity turning her quim to a time bomb nearing explosion. 

“Gum Drop... then Candy Bar... and you can tell me if you’d like to show yourself off to Lady Dyson.” 

*****

“Being walked like this... it’s... it’s... so... strange!”

“Strange good... or strange bad?”

“I’m so full... and I can’t...”

“Of course you can’t, Cheeks. To purge is not your decision. I’ll decide when you are to empty your bowels for me. I think Gum Drop and Candy Bar were greatly amused... a well shaped and conditioned pony girl with a nice plump belly.”

The exchange of words comes as Groom Edgar leads, Sweet Cheeks follows, from the stall of Candy Bar where she has been put up for the night in suspension.

“But you do have one decision I will grant you,” heading to the washroom where Lady Dyson’s steeds are known to trib and entertain. “And I think, nozzle well inflated, that you’ll hold the enema for me... just long enough for a visit to farmhouse... and Lady Dyson.” 

“No... please, Sir. Not like this.”

“But you so exhibited yourself at the orphanage. Kneeling before the other girls while you received a punishment enema... and quite frequently... according to the reports.”

Groom Edgar stops the parade of two, turning to face his charge. A free hand lowers, palm pressed to the hairless mons, one finger slipping between the extended labia.

“You’re so wet, Cheeks. And quite fragrant. Yet you decline more thrill. The farmhouse is nearby. And as I said, Lady Dyson may have a visitor. You can show off... revel in your fixation... your fixations, I should say. So exposed... so humiliated... objectified... filled as a vessel... stretched opened and plugged at a man’s behest. And there’s nothing you can do about it... helpless... vulnerable. Yet most importantly... you don’t want to do anything about it.”.   

The trembling resumes. Sweet Cheeks bows her head. Groom Edgar wriggles his finger within her vagina, knowing the pony girl is in thought.

“She would be pleased... Lady Dyson?”

“She will find amusement. You will find satiation... quirky... but satiation.”

In silence, Sweet Cheeks nods. Groom Edgar withdraws his hand and finger and turns to lead. 

“What do think the psychiatrist would have to say about this, Cheeks? A life long quest... for... for something. Perhaps you have found it here... at Dyson Farms.” 

Groom Edgar decides to end the ordeal, physical duress maximized, Sweet Cheeks’ mind barraged with thoughts of her depthless needs... for exhibition... for humiliation... for submission... for the need to please. Subterfuge ending, he leads in silence to the shower area. Lady Dyson would no doubt to be appreciative of the display but unlikely to tolerate the sloppy release of a massive enema... not in her farm house. 

“Squat... over the drain. But there will be a time when you’ll want to so humbly perform for Lady Dyson. Better perhaps to squat once again for the enema matron from the orphanage. Maybe she can visit us sometime.”

The words bring no response. Groom Edgar smiles to himself... such pleasant memories for Sweet Cheeks. 

'Trainee to Pony Girl', Segment XI

Accustomed to being returned to the stables with nipples and buttocks afire, Sweet Cheeks feels the burn as well at her stretched inner labia. Lady Dyson proved to be a martinet when running a pony girl for time. Yes, the crop slipped between pounding thighs, the tip flailing upward to work a girl’s most sensitive parts. Such incentive to perform, Sweet Cheeks dashing about the track, sucking oxygen, throat inflamed, lungs bursting, running with abandon with her only thought to perform and avoid more flicks of leather.

Whereas Lady Dyson explained the efficiency of excoriating the nipples.... minimal effort, maximum pain... to be thrashed below... however light the strokes... brought agony... and fast legwork. Proud of her ability to coordinate the ringing of her bells with her footwork, Sweet Cheeks’ strained output brought a cacophony... the chiming out of synch.

For some reason this brought mental stress. And in the return trip from the track, Sweet Cheeks trots and resumes her focus, concentrating, each footstep resulting in sonorous chiming... nipple bells... Ben wa bell. It is sure to please Lady Dyson... and therefore it pleases her.

There come strokes to the buttocks, quite tolerable, Lady Dyson well aware that the skin of the nipples and labia are scorched. Such gentle taps are reminders, Sweet Cheeks to fully understand... as to who is in charge... who is vulnerable... and who is to cede to her Master’s dominion.            

Groom Edgar comes into view at the stable entrance door. His image fosters a sense of relief. The day’s exertion is to end. Sweet Cheeks will be suspended, bathed, watered, fed, weighed, measured and massaged. There will be soothing ointment for her blistering pink flesh... gently applied and worked in by caring hands and fingers, a touch she has come to crave. Yes, the objectification of her body is acceptable... nothing... no part of her anatomy... not subjected to inspection, palpation... and modification.

Indeed, grooming completed, the rubber cones will be sucked in place... nipples and labia... and weighted for the night... the stretching never to end. Hopefully the ointment will beforehand put out the fires.

“A good run, Lady Dyson?” Groom Edgar reaching to the bridle to take hold of the reins.

“Adequate. But she responds well to the crop. Do take care of her nipples. And you’ll find her labia will require attention as well.”

Lady Dyson dismounts stepping to join Groom Edgar standing at Sweet Cheeks’ front.

“A larger anal insertion, Edgar. I would say a number four... if not a number five. It seems her punishment enemas at the orphanage have somewhat opened her.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

With the observation, Sweet Cheeks senses shame. The counseling with the psychiatrist again comes to mind... her admission... ‘something that fulfills a need’. Acknowledged in confidence, it now seems the whole world will know of her proclivity. Indeed, the flange of the butt plug is for sure visible in being wedged between her cheeks... announcing her fixation to all.

Sweet Cheeks’ thoughts are distracted as Lady Dyson slips away her bit, normally the task of Groom Edgar at day’s end.

“And she needs tongue work, Edgar. You’ve snipped her,” fingers brusquely entering the pony girl’s mouth to capture the appendage and pull into the view. “And it’s somewhat supple... but it needs strengthening... and lengthening,” Lady Dyson smirking. 

“Yes, Ma’am.”  

“Not likely she’ll ever lick me as well as Gabbie. But a good pony girl should be conditioned to pay proper homage.”

“Of course, Ma’am. Any reward?” 

“You mean should she be masturbated? No. She’ll need to perform better for me... and I want her kept frisky. Feather her to near climax and be sure to measure her clitoris. And no tribbing.”

With that, Lady Dyson strolls off to the farmhouse.

“Well Cheeks, adequate... that’s not good enough for Lady Dyson.”

“Yes, Sir. I’m sorry. But can you... you know... use the ointment?”

Such a heartfelt plea for fingers to work her most intimate parts. There is no feminine shyness in the life of a pony girl, Groom Edgar thinks to himself, noting that indeed the long strips of flesh are of bright red.

“Of course Cheeks,” reaching to detach the prongs from the waist belt, freeing the pony girl from the cart. “And this evening... how about a nice deep colonic irrigation for you. Relax you... and ready your sphincter for a number five anal plug. You can hang in your stall and slowly fill.”-

The words spur thought, Sweet Cheeks berating herself for finding that the suggestion is oddly enticing. Was such as enticing at the orphanage? The matron lecturing, belly bloating, being exposed to so many eyes? No, she tells herself. Submitting to the care of her idolized groom... her body brought to yield, her dignity surrendered... that entices.

“If you think that is best for me, Sir.”  

*****

Decorations removed, Sweet Cheeks hangs in her stall, body weight born by cuffs at her upturned ankles and thick padded straps about her thighs which also serve to assure she is spread open. Wrist cuffs at the back of her neck collar, ear grommets hooked, ceiling cables steady her head and immobilize. Nipples and labia gratefully coated with pain relieving ointment, she feels fingers tugging at the flange of her anal plug.

“Press yourself open for me, Cheeks. Even though it’s only a number two, your sphincter is gripping... like a drowning man holding a lifeline, ha, ha, ha. Imagine you’re moving your bowels for me.”

Sweet Cheeks closes her eyes in shame, the ignominy of filling the morning basin to be replicated. Yet she obediently presses to open, feeling the bulbous lump of rubber slowly slide out, aided by her groom.

Next the fingers smooth about her gluteal cleft, more unguent applied. Within moments her sphincter is invaded anew, an enema nozzle, the sensation too familiar.

“Thinking about the orphanage, Cheeks? Naked and on all fours, head down, buttocks high, your tummy to fill. It’s only me with you... no audience to watch you being punished. Is that disappointing for you?”

There comes a hiss of air, the nozzle expanding.

“Or was it punishment? So often submitting to the matron’s degradation. Such a need that required fulfillment. Did it feel good to you?”

“I... ah... don’t know, Sir. It did not matter. I had no choice.”

“You could have behaved, Cheeks. Stilled your fingers, particularly when you were already under reprimand. So naughty of you. No, you had a choice. Just as you had this evening. Recall my words... suggesting a high colonic... phrased in the form of a question. It was not a directive. And your reply?”

Groom Edgar’s words bring spinning, Sweet Cheeks’ thoughts fomenting with the realization... his words... her reply... ‘if you think it is best for me, Sir’.

Deciding on silence, no response to be formulated, there comes curious despair when Groom Edgar steps away momentarily leaving her alone. Does she indeed miss the audience of her mocking, tittering cohorts? Such a perverse thought.

Groom Edgar returns, enema bag in hand. He hangs high from a stanchion, connecting a tube to the enema nozzle.

“Nice and hot for you, Cheeks. And since it’s not for punishment, I’m going to slowly fill and have to you retain. Which means the nozzle must be well inflated to be secure. And since you have no one to view your debasement, perhaps I’ll walk you bit... with a nice full belly. Show you to the other pony girls. Perhaps a stroll to the farmhouse. That would certainly fulfill a need... wouldn’t it?”

The words bring horripilation, such humiliation to exceed anything offered at the orphanage.

“Please no, Sir.”

“You’ll so much enjoy, Cheeks. So arousing for you. If I check your cunt... your vagina... I’ll bet it’s secreting for me.”

Sweet Cheeks again closes her eyes, her shame blossoming. He knows me... knows my penchants... my proclivities... my needs... she realizes. Then comes a reply which is instantly regretted... but for some reason she cannot forestall. To be taken as an admission! 

“There’s no need to do that, Sir,” acknowledging in that she can feel her own wetness.     

Groom Edgar chuckles, hand squeezing to bring more hissing of air. Sweet Cheeks feels the conflicting sensations... discomfort... and unwanted delight... the nozzle further expanding. A valve opens. There comes the ebb of warmth... to both fill... and fulfill.

'Trainee to Pony Girl', Segment X

Fully decorated, tacked, anus impaled, Sweet Cheeks waits hitched to a racing cart, arms tethered behind, wrists high. Though the sun shines brightly, the cool air of late autumn brings a chill. Shoulders forced back, her elongated crinkled nipples spear forth... her naked flesh covered in goose bumps.

Though she finds doubt in being able to properly perform for Lady Dyson... insertions bringing pangs... her quim twitching... she is eager to be run... needs to be run. She thinks about Lady Dyson’s riding crop, curiously realizing it will bring the comfort of heat. 

Needing to stay warm, Sweet Cheeks shifts about her feet, bringing her bells to chime, the lower Ben wa ball tantalizingly shifting within her quim, extended labia brushing her inner thighs.

What is happening to her? So much looking forward to the humiliation of being run naked... parts pink to endure excoriation! 

Finally Lady Dyson exits and steps to the porch of the farmhouse, smiling in seeing her steed impatiently waiting, hearing the bells ring. She pauses to survey, then leisurely steps, boots crunching the compacted soil, crop tapping the palm of her left hand.

“Good morning Sweet Cheeks,” left hand lowering, palm up.

Sweet Cheeks knows to move her feet, parting her thighs in welcome, her pubes to be quickly fondled in greeting. The hand presses to the clitoral hood, a finger alacritously slips between the loose labia and briefly diddles within.

“You’re already wet. Looking forward to being cropped... or being anally plugged excites?”

Bit in place, Sweet Cheeks cannot reply. For that she is grateful. How can she describe the inner conflict... humiliation leading to unwanted arousal?

“Your cunt speaks for you, pony girl. Yes, I’ve been reviewing your reports again. What did you say to the psychiatrist about your punishment enemas... in being stuffed, stretched, filled and humiliated? That it seemed to be something that fulfills a need?”

With the query, Lady Dyson smirks, hands rising, thumbs and forefingers gently pinching nipples right and left. She jostles to make the nipple bells chime, then laughs, masterful in objecfying a girl.

“Your interest in my gaped work pony gave you away, Sweet Cheeks. Overall your anal fixation is of little concern to us here at Dyson Farms. What is of concern is that we have not been addressing all your needs.”

Nipples released, Lady Dyson steps to the side and mounts. Sweet Cheeks feels the weight, the prongs tugging at her waist belt. Why does she feel sanguine... knowing that her nipples and buttocks are about to feel the sting of a flailing crop?    

“”Haw!” the directive coming with crop nipping right nipple then left.

Sweet Cheeks digs in, muscles clenching, feet pounding, bells ringing, sensing the addition of the number two butt plug. Gratefully she warms, oddly trying to divert her thoughts in avoiding an orgasm... so much needed ... yet not wanted... not while performing... not while trying to please her Master. Should she falter... stutter step in the growing ecstasy... her racing career would end before properly beginning.

She berates herself, speaking so freely with the orphanage psychiatrist, divulging the quirky sense of fulfillment in kneeling, naked, exposed to all as she was anally impaled, the enema nozzle slowly inflating, her colon filling, the admonishing words of the matron. Yes, her so termed punishment did not bring contrition but instead... well... what did it bring?   

Cropped to a steady but quick pace, Sweet Cheeks brings the bells in cadence with her steps, thankful that feeling the pain of the crop on her bare buttocks distracts from the pleasure. One mile, two, the reins guide, responding nimbly to tugs right and left. In time a sense of pride further diverts her thoughts... she is pleasing... her accomplished performance satiates. The sensations of the vaginal and anal insertions are cast aside.  

There comes an incline. The cart slows, the crop vigorously works the buttocks in response. Air whistles past the opening in her bit. Then comes the ultimate in both encouragement and humiliation. The crop slips between her pumping thighs and snaps upwards. It is a moderate stroke but nips the flopping labia. Sweet Cheeks redoubles her efforts, the deft hand of Lady Dyson causing her Ben wa bell to loudly peel... seemingly in protest.

Finally, reaching the apex of a broad hill, the crop withdraws, there come tugs on the reins. Sweet Cheeks slows then draws to a halt.

“Good pony girl,” the words of inspiration coming by rote.

Lady Dyson dismounts. Sweet Cheeks is amazed in sensing beads of perspiration, her exertion countering the cold.

“How do you feel?” Lady Dyson loosening the bridle and slipping away the bit.

“I can do more,” a gasping Sweet Cheeks replies with pride.

“I mean with the insertions... cunt stuffed... anus impaled.”

“I... ah... well... “ Sweet Cheeks searching.

“Edgar told me he’s starting you with a number two anal plug. Perhaps you can do more,” Lady Dyson mirthfully suggests.

“It’s... distracting,” Sweet Cheeks reluctant to divulge her joy. 

“But you ran well for me. I think moving to a number three would be counterproductive, pony girl. A number four at least... possibly a number five,” Lady Dyson once again taking right nipple and left into her thumbs and fingers.

“I’d... ah... rather not,” though gasping in pain finding the temerity to disagree.

“Concerned... that I’ll have you gaped?”

Cream Puff comes to mind, her yawning opening... anus grotesquely stretched... seeming to beckon deep pegging. Sweet Cheeks shudders in envisioning the most subjugating modification. Lady Dyson feels the somatic reaction.

“Avoid working the fields. Run well for me. And we’ll address your anal fixation. We know how to handle girls here... girls with proclivities... and predilections. But if I want you gaped... you’ll be gaped.”

Sweet Cheeks finds herself nodding, mentally capitulating.

“Now, Edgar says he snipped your tongue. Has he been working it for me?”      

Working it for Lady Dyson? The question perplexes!

“No Ma’am.”

“That needs to be addressed as well. I’ll remind Edgar. Let’s get you watered and back on the trail. To the track. Now that I’ve warmed you up I want a timed half mile from you. A fast half mile.”   

'Trainee to Pony Girl', Segment IX

“Your tongue tires quickly, Edgar.”

Lady Dyson rises from the hooded face of Groom Edgar. Though she prefers the more knowing and attentive oral efforts of housemaid Gabbie, there is psychic joy in the subjugation of the virile intact male. 

Granting the privilege of servicing her sex would be too permissive, therefore every milking session ends in hooding... never to expose herself to devious eyes... lowering the back of ‘masturbation’ chair, and sitting... her bottom covering face and head. Rimming and analingus follow, the sordid deed keeping her groom in his place. Later, in sharing her bed with Gabbie, his/her long tongue and heedful lips will offer ultimate gratification.  

“I think you should exercise it. Gabbie would be appreciative. Perhaps weekly analingus for him. And you can lick that plundered scrotal sac. He’d like that,” stepping to don her panties, jodhpurs and boots.

“I’d... ah... rather not, Lady Dyson,” Groom Edgar remaining sightless and well secured in the chair.

“Well you will. And you’ll begin now,” gesturing for Gabbie to straddle the hooded head and lower himself. “He takes care of you... your prostate. You should return the favor. And it’s good for your silly homophobia. Snipped... no balls... he’s more female than male. You, with all your medical training, are well aware. You need to modify your thinking.”

Lady Dyson smiles triumphantly as the cherubic body straddles and squats, first presenting his empty sac, the loose flesh remaining an erogenous zone. Gabbie giggles, hands lowering to the covered ears to guide the head, mouth and lips.  

Though Lady Dyson very much prefers her dominion over her many pony girls, her mastery of things with a penis can bring delight as well. As she peers at the deflated penis, Edgar not yet returned to chastity, she conspires.

“I’ll make you an offer Edgar... since you’re so much infatuated with the prospects of ejaculating for me. For your next monthly unlocking, Gabbie will sit, you will orally service him and he’ll fellate you... fully... to completion.”

Mouth covered, Edgar cannot reply. But in hearing somewhat energetic slurps, perhaps there is a growing acceptance... his reservations diminishing. Lady Dyson moves to the near wall, a riding crop hanging in wait. She grabs and steps between the well spread and upturned legs and thighs, hand lowering, crop to begin fondling first the hairless scrotum then moving to the penis. She smiles in seeing it stir, somewhat coming to life despite the lengthy milking and slow expulsion of sperm.     

“Yes, Edgar, your homophobia... it’s either eroding... or you’ve been feigning revulsion.”

Gabbie momentarily rises, allowing a lung full of air. Edgar gasps and denies.

“No Ma’am.”

“Oh but yes, Edgar. You’re becoming erect for me. You say ‘no’ but your penis says yes. This will become the only way you’ll again achieve full climax... licking Gabbie’s rectum. And be cheered. Gabbie is very good... his fellatio is almost as accomplished as his cunnilingus.” 

*****

It is morning. Sweet Cheeks hangs in suspension, withholding the contents of her bladder, sensing rumbling in her bowels. She must wait, indoctrinated over the many months to relieve herself only under the close supervision of Groom Edgar. To divert her thoughts of disobediently soiling the stable floor, she wriggles her shoulders and hips, feeling the now sensuous motion of her nipple and labia weights. Curious how she has come to embrace the unending body modifications.   

Finally come footsteps, Groom Edgar entering her stall. She is heartened to see the long narrow basin in hand, inviting relief.

“Good morning, Cheeks.”

“Good morning, Sir.”

The basin is tucked between spread thighs. Sweet Cheeks feels the glee of a penetrating finger, slipping between elongated labia, instantly finding the urethral sponge. Sweet Cheeks knows to open herself, letting her groom take control.

“You’re wet, naughty girl. Been trying to frottage?”

Such a question would formerly bring embarrassment. Now there is realization.... no part or aspect of her anatomy is to be veiled from her groom’s eyes and touch.

“And quite fragrant,” adding to the frank observation as a flow begins and is quickly curtailed, finger pressing.    

“The weights, Sir. They make a girl... well... I guess a little excited.”

“Yes, a girl such as you. And when you try to please yourself by squirming in your bonds.”

The finger releases... presses... releases... Sweet Cheeks aware of the Dyson Farms manner of expressing control... bodily functions subordinated. She hears her excretions ping the basin with each release. Finally allowed to finish, she then knows to move her bowels, the timing exacting, emptying herself there within the allotted one minute.

She begins to perform, the deed most humiliating.

“I hope you slept well. Lady Dyson is going to work you today. A few miles in harness then a timed half mile at full pace.”

“Will I be decorated Sir?”

“Oh, Cheeks, you’d not want to be run in any other manner... listening to your bells. Yes, full decorations... and more”

Sweet Cheeks closes her eyes. Despite the indoctrination, the intimacy stultifies, feeling her sphincter open, the sludge evacuating.

“More Sir?” sordid deed completed to bring relief.

“Yes, Lady Dyson wants you...” Groom Edgar pausing, needing sly words other than ‘to be gaped’. “Ah... she feels you may perform better for her with more insertions.”

“Yes, she likes a girl’s cunt... seeing, feeling smelling. But in being decorated I am already well stuffed, Sir.”

“Not your cunt... ah... not your vagina, Cheeks. She feels an anal insertion may suit you. Moderate.”

Moderate to start, Groom Edgar thinks but dares not add. At some point Lady Dyson will elaborate... that there has been a decision to address her anal fixation.

The basin is put aside. There comes cleansing, Sweet Cheeks’ pink openings wiped with a moist cloth as would a toddler in need of potty training. Such embarrassment... yet so acclimated.

“So a plug for you, Cheeks. moderate as I said. A number two,” the cleansing hand withdrawing then returning. “Comprised of rubber, firm but somewhat flexible.”

Sweet Cheeks feels the cool slickness of unguent at her gluteal cleft, suppressing a moan of delight as a finger works within and jiggles about.

“A number two, Sir. How many numbers are there?”

Groom Edgar moves from between the spread thighs and upturned legs to stand at Sweet Cheeks’ face and encumbered head. He holds before her an egg shaped lump of black rubber two inches in diameter, one end tampering to a more narrow neck where a flange is attached.

“The set goes to a size twelve. Now, to make this easy for you, Cheeks, press open your sphincter... just as you do when defecating for me.” 

Groom Edger returns to her bottom. Again, such intimacy. Before her training, simply discussing such a subject would bring embarrassment. Now she responds with obedience, replicating the just completed bowel movement to open herself for penetration, sensing little compunction as she feels knowing hands working. The firm rubber greets her anus then slips inward to fill her rectum. As her sphincter contracts about the narrow neck, she again suppresses a moan, veiling of what Groom Edgar is well aware... anal delight.    

“It feels large Sir.”

“You’ll acclimate. And we have inflatable insertions to work your anus... making you more supple here,” the fingers withdrawing, a hand playfully patting her right buttock.

Yes, inflatable... just as was the enema nozzle so often inserted during your punishments at the orphanage... Groom Edgar’s description intentional.

Sweet Cheeks feels the cool moisture of an alcohol swab. Jabbed, her morning hormone injection, she flinches, her weights swinging to resume self induced arousal, the number two plug enhancing her subtle joy.  

“I don’t know if I can run like this, Sir,” realizing when decorated... vagina stuffed as well... the sensations will distract. 

“Oh you will. That’s what the crop is for.”

'Trainee to Pony Girl', Segment VIII

Sweet Cheeks forces herself to end her reverie... the counseling session of orphan Susan Cheevers, a name seeming foreign to her.

‘Sleep... I must sleep,’ again wriggling, sensing the once bizarre now acceptable comfort of the  stretching weights hanging to bring slow modification to nipples and labia.

Yet, her mind pictures the busy pen filling the notepad of Dr. Bob, documenting her thoughts and feelings... so often being punished... finding contrition... yet her fingers in violation again and again. That she found the penetrating enema nozzle to be less than objectionable... that bristles. That such is now noted in files stacked on Lady Dyson’s desk... that brings consternation. That Groom Edgar has also reviewed her files and subsequently discovered her to be curious about anal penetration... gaping a girl... that brings horror.       

Her answer... to the question... how did that make you feel?.. it haunts. Hearing mocking laughter as her bowels filled and filled... the matron’s lecturing words... explaining the punishment to the other girls.

‘See how Susan squirms, girls. Such suffering she brings herself... having her anus stuffed and stretched... her tummy filling. And it’s all beyond her control. She’s helpless. I’ll decide when she’s had enough. And then I may not permit release. I’ll make her hold and hold... and she’ll think about where naughty fingers shouldn’t play. So learn from this lesson I’m offering. No fondling... no frigging... if you do you’ll be here kneeling for me... bare buttocks high... head low... tummy bloating. Now... tell the girls how you feel, Susan.’

‘Please no more, Matron.’

‘She says that girls... the same plea as her last punishment enema. But here she is again. It seems she enjoys this... possibly more then when her fingers play.’     

And her reply to Dr. Bob... ‘there’s something about the vulnerability, doctor, ceding, offering myself to the matron... that she could do with me whatever she wanted... stuff me, stretch me, fill me... humiliate me before the other girls. It’s suffering... but I almost feel it is something that fulfills a need.’  

Sweet Cheeks recalls the doctor’s nod... an affirmation... and the silence as he wrote... then reading back his note as the pen pointedly underlined his writing... ‘something that fulfills a need’.

It brings to mind an exchange with Groom Edgar... her needs... to be nurtured... a hunger to be sated. Then comes to mind her interview with Lady Dyson, Sweet Cheeks learning that she is free to leave Dyson Farms. Yet here she is, well into being trained as a human equine... endless workouts... bound in nakedness... parts pink modified at a woman’s whim... nipples and buttocks cropped... exhibited and examined by precocious boys... excretions closely supervised. And all in chastity, the promise of orgasm being a carrot to be dangled but withheld.  

*****

“Come Edgar. No drama, take off your clothes and sit in the chair. You know how much Gabbie adores intact men... and I too have an affinity for a naked man... when he’s under lock and key.”

Groom Edgar visits the farmhouse. Things to discuss, Lady Dyson explained, and that Gabbie wants to use her key.

“I’d rather not, Ma’am.”

“Always so shy. But you have no choice in the matter. Besides, ‘doctor’,” sneering the term, “you know better than I that the prostate gland needs attention.”

Chardonnay in hand, Lady Dyson leads from her office den to an adjoining room. There the naked housemaid Gabbie awaits, smiling in expectation, standing next to what Lady Dyson has termed her masturbation chair. Really a gynecological examination chair with standard stirrups for the feet and legs. Straps have been added to make her pony girls ‘comfortable’ in bondage while they entertain their Master. And the chair back can be lowered, the ‘patiuent’ positoned to lie supine, legs bent, calves and feet high.  

“Strip and sit, Edgar. I’m sure you’re eager for release... it’s been a month. Don’t have to tell you how to position yourself.”

The words ‘blackmail’, ‘extortion’ come to mind. But Edgar must face his circumstances. Having been accused of molesting young girls during physical examination, he needed some $200,000 in bail money. He surrendered his medical license rather than contest the matter, crumbling his finances. When he decided not to appear in court and face the many charges, skipping out on bail, he became easy prey for the likes of Lady Dyson. Impoverished and on the lam, he accepted an offer he could not refuse. Room, board, high pay... deferred into a controlled bank account... controlled by Lady Dyson... in exchange for his services. With the added proviso that he additionally surrender control of his masculinity. That to be placed in an ineluctable chastity device.      

“Am I going to get off?” Edgar bluntly inquires.

“You mean will I allow Gabbie to bring you to ejaculation. No, of course not Edgar. Why should a woman like me ever permit male ecstasy. You’re to be milked... slowly... make that otherwise useless strip of man flesh ooze into a dog bowl. But keep your glands primed.”

An obedient Edgar reluctantly disrobes. It’s a monthly ritual, knowing to place his hands to the back of his head and lend himself to inspection. Lady Dyson steps forth, free hand lowering, sensuously palming the steel encased penis and scrotal sac burgeoning with male essence. Edgar closes his eyes, feeling Lady Dyson’s thumb tenderly rub about. 

“Expensive, but well worth the money. Well crafted tungsten steel and precision surgery. It must be so frustrating for you, tending daily to so much feminine pulchritude in the stables and your little pecker can’t even stiffen to lend tribute. Have you ever tried to pull out, Edgar?”

The design of the chastity deice is standard... with modifications insisted upon by Lady Dyson. Having read of the ability for some males to ‘pull out’, disobediently slipping a flaccid organ from beneath the control ring, she had such surgically embedded under the skin at the four, eight, and twelve o’clock positions around the pubes. Other than a reversing surgical procedure, once the steel mesh cock cage is locked in place, the male phallus is not to be touched. When unlocked, the cage can be removed... hygiene and occasional relief for milking... but the control ring stays. It is part of Edgar.    

“No Ma’am.”

The hand releases, rising to sensuously diddle the left nipple.

“Do try. I’d like to watch that sometime. Now sit. Gabbie wants to suck your cock and idolize the erection he can no longer achieve.”

Resigned, it is Edgar’s turn to endure the humiliation he daily bestows on the bevy of Dyson Farms pony girls. He sits, feet in the stirrups, Lady Dyson to watch, taking a comfortable chair opposite.

“After reading your latest briefing on Sweet Cheeks, I reviewed again the psychiatrist’s reports from the orphanage.”

As Lady Dyson speaks, Edgar knows to surrender himself to his keyholder, idly sitting while Gabbie works the many straps... wrists, arms, ankles, thighs secured. Though climactic relief will not come, he knows that a prostate milking will offer hormonal release... spurring a flood of dopamine and oxytocin... terminating the jitters brought by endless chastity. For that he is grateful. And he is indeed aware of the need for prostate stimulation. Just not by another male. Though castrated... a male all the same.   

Restrained to the point of near immobility, Gabbie slips the necklace from his neck. Edgar closes his eyes with the ignominy of feeling dainty manicured fingers work about his male package. Then comes the sound of a click and the steel is slipped away. It is Edgar’s turn to be put on display...objectified... feeling his long neglected manhood instantly begin to engorge, celebrating emancipation.

“The laser hair removal was well advised, Edgar. Besides obviating the need to shave there and avoiding irritation, it provides for a cute display. You have a nice cock... of moderate size... but nicely shaped... well cut.”

Gabbie puts aside the key and cock cage then returns to kneel between the well parted thighs, hands cradling a plump scrotal sac. A prodigious tongue extends, voraciously licking the upstanding shaft. Then the lips open... mouth engulfing... the stiffness taken notably deeply. Edgar both moans with the unwanted pleasure and grimaces in disgust. 

“Oh, Edgar. Such silly homophobia. Gabbie has no balls... no longer a man... and he certainly can’t harden like you. You need to learn to share,” Lady Dyson chuckling and sipping her Chardonnay. “No ejaculation, Gabbie,” she forewarns. “A little deep throating to prime him, then some ice and fill the dog bowl.”

“Must it be like this,” Edgar protests.

“Yes. Penance Edgar. Think of those young girls you fondled... lying on an examination chair just as you are. Wonderfully ironic... the form of retribution.”

Gabbie’s head bobs, fingers smoothing over the hairless scrotum. Then, fellatio skills apparent, he abruptly withdraws, sensing pending eruption. Lady Dyson outright laughs, ultimate ecstasy denied, erection waggling about... appearing to be a puppy begging for a treat.

“Bitch!” Edgar uncharacteristically effusive.

“I assume you’re referring to my maid. He does have an uncanny awareness of the male reproductive process... can feel the ejaculatory muscles begin to tremulate. Now, let’s talk. Can’t think of a better time for a discussion and attaining a man’s attention than when he’s being milked.”

With the words Gabbie withdraws, returning with a bag of ice and the required dog bowl. Needing to be numbed, penis flaccid, Edgar gasps, Lady Dyson again laughs, the ice bag applied,

“Concerning Sweet Cheeks, Edgar. Your latest report. Her seeming fascination with gaping... Cream Puff made forever opened for ease of penetration. I went through the psychiatric reports once again. The girl more or less volunteered herself for punishment enemas. It could be said she deliberately put herself in violation of the rules... earning more than one high colonic. For most, the first would be the last... behavior thereafter modified.”           

“Ahhh,” Edgar’s discomfort apparent, Gabbie’s left hand pressing the ice bag, the fingers of his right working below the control ring, massaging the perineum and searching for the anus.

“Calm yourself and listen, Edgar. Good boys get an extra treat. Fill the bowl and I’ll have Gabbie hood you. You know what the means.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“I’ll be running Sweet Cheeks often, assessing her racing capability. You’ve been measuring her clitoris... reaction to the hormones?”

“Yes, Ma’am. Only one millimeter to date.”

“Good. Every pony girl’s body responds differently. Too big and it precludes showing her... pony girls with a penis attract eyes... but not the votes of judges. But to race her, she needs stamina and muscle... so the injections are necessary. But this anal fixation. The psychiatrist was quite emphatic in one of his reports, counseling her immediately after an enema punishment session. Quoting Sweet Cheeks... concerning earning frequent mandated visits to the orphanage locker room shower... she said it’s ‘something that fulfills a need’.”

Edgar lurches, feeling penetration, one finger then two slipping past his sphincter, deftly finding the neglected male gland. Lady Dyson smiles.

“Your penis is already drooling, Edgar,” viscous fluid streaming into the bowl from a now flaccid phallus. “I don’t want you unlocked more than once a month, but in between you must be soaking your underwear. Perhaps some doses of anti androgen between milkings will help,” Lady Dyson teases, chemical castration well known to the former doctor.

“No thank you, Ma’am.”

“Well... back to Sweet Cheeks... an anal fixation... and something that fulfills a need. Her masochism and exhibitionism are more than apparent. The one report where she attended her counseling session attired in a brief towel... the limited size selected by her... only to let it slip away such that she knelt before the psychiatrist completely nude... says a lot. Do you recall reading of it?”

“Vaguely,” Edgar gasping with the assiduous finger work within.

“Very good, Gabbie. He’s already expelling sperm... effluent nicely cloudy.”

Edgar looks to see Lady Dyson is correct, glands secreting the seed of life.

“After the girl evacuates her bowels for you, you wipe her clean of course.”

“Yes, Ma’am. Standard protocol... to bring humiliation... to degrade.”

“And her reaction? She objects?”   

“No, Ma’am. Well... at first, yes. Now she thanks me for the attention there.”

“All these things... so much evidence. You must be aware, Edgar... of another need... one we have not addressed.”

“She does not want to be a work pony, Ma’am. The pegging...”

“So no penile penetration... yet an affinity for enduring an inflatable enema nozzle... which fulfills a need. Begin gaping her. And as to pegging? Who knows what a girl of her predilections truly wants. She can be gaped... and raced... and be prepared to be put under the penis when it’s time. We do have to a address girl’s needs here at Dyson Farms... all of them... keep her happy.”

With the command, Lady Dyson rises.

“He’s oozing clear, Gabbie. Milked clean. Good job. Now hood him and lower the chair back. Time for his treat,” Lady Dyson slipping off her boots and unbuckling her belt.  

'Trainee to Pony Girl', Segment VII

Exhausted, physically and emotionally spent, Sweet Cheeks hangs, subtly stimulating herself, moving hips and shoulders. Tightly held in the bondage of the cables and broad straps at her thighs, her action brings the weights of her nipples and labia to swing about. The sensation has come to soothe. Though she knows the rubber encasements further stretch her sentient pink flesh, her psyche has surrendered. She will appear as her Master and groom desire... resigning herself to the look of the Dyson Farms pony girl. 

Thoughts of gaping... Groom Edgar’s frank words... lubrication and patience... ‘insertion after insertion... large... stout... larger... more stout’, cannot leave her mind. Such efforts must have been required for Cream Puff to be gaped. As Groom Edgar described the process, the work pony’s purse string muscle indeed did not seem to retract. 

Finally slumber overtakes, her thoughts leading to dreams... a youthful Susan Cheevers returning to the orphanage...

“So while being punished, you played with yourself again, Susan. Such a stench... your hands... your fingers.”

“I could not help it Matron... they took my blanket... the older girls... and... well... things... when they do that I feel this need...”

“Perhaps that’s why they do it. Knowing you’re weak... no will power... so easily tempted to fondle yourself. Well you know where to report. I’ll make the announcement.”

“Must you, Matron... must the others... you know... be there...”

“Of course. Not much of a deterrent for the other girls if you receive your enema in secret. And it’s best for you... the degradation. Ever think that is why you do these things, girl?”

Shaking her head in denial, the matron smiles wryly.

“You’re to be cleansed... at least internally. Since the psychiatrist is here today, perhaps with your counseling you can be mentally cleansed as well. And we’ll not have you embarrassing the man. After your punishment enema you’ll be given another blanket... no clothing of course. You’ll need to earn that... with appropriate behavior. But do hold on to the only covering we permit.”

“Thank you, Matron.”

In her dream, Susan Cheevers... Sweet Cheeks... sees her bare form sauntering in dejection, hearing over the orphanage loudspeaker of her pending punishment, all girls to gather in the gymnasium shower room.

It’s a basement chamber, thankfully windowless. Yet such is of little comfort in knowing of the many witnesses to her subjugating punishment. Then comes laughter, seeming to echo in the orphanage hallways, her punishment proclaimed for all.

Matron termed the public exhibition a deterrent... it would seem more like entertainment.

Susan reports, the enema matron kindly yet firm.

“Oh my, into my hands again. And no blanket... not a stitch. Where did you leave it this time, naughty girl?”

“They took it from me Matron... the older girls.”

“So you say. But none of the girls own up to it... and none of the girls report seeing it taken from you, tsk, tsk tsk.”

The matron, points to the middle of the large shower area.

“You know how I want you.... hands and knees... head down... buttocks high. You can wait like that for the other girls while I prepare. I’ll need to make this memorable for you, Susan... otherwise you’ll be back... again and again.”

In Sweet Cheeks’ dream she sees her lithe pubescent form lower, the cool bringing conflicting thoughts. Nipples crinkling, she is chilled... for now... the cavernous chamber of concrete and tile radiating little heat. Yet should she wish for warmth, knowing that it will come from being internally filled, her bowels to slowly fill with heated soapiness?

She trembles. In hearing footsteps she cannot bring herself to look up... peer into the gloating faces as her cohorts assemble. Instead she closes her eyes, listening as the girls snicker and the matron prepares. Not her first infraction... impudently breaking more rules while being punished for breaking rules... wayward fingers not to be stilled... a young Susan Cheevers knows there will come interminable suffering.

In time there will be release, bowels to gush. Yet there will come a second filling... possibly a third. And the nozzle... inflated... with deliberation... the slow expansion so much augmenting... 

Sweet Cheeks stirs from her dream. She awakens. She has disturbed herself. The enema nozzle... the insertion.... the penetration... large, stout... becoming larger and more stout... the hand of the matron squeezing... air hissing... hand squeezing... air hissing.

‘Please, no more, Matron,’ the laughter of her cohorts seeming to drown out her plea.           

Gaped... at the orphanage... is that what prompted the horripilation in noting Cream Puff’s yawning opening?

Again the words of Groom Edgar come to haunt... whether he will report their conversation to Lady Dyson. His response echoes... ‘of course I will Cheeks. You’d not want it any other way... to have yourself exposed... your body... your thoughts... your penchants. That which secretly excites’.

In the darkness, a conscious Sweet Cheeks feels twinges... those which attracted young toying fingers... now frustratingly held in bondage. She feels moisture within her loins... able to smell her own arousal. Her dream... it is ostensibly a nightmare in reliving the horror of being publically cleansed... bowels filling then made to gush. Yet instead she is wet, once again wriggling in her bonds, utilizing the weights of nipples and labia for self stimulation, desperately trying to finish what the evening of tribbing began.  

Deep within, gaping... extensive anal penetration... excites! And such disgusts... or does it?

What hath the orphanage wrought? What hath she wrought upon herself? Were the punishment enemas coveted?

In attempting to return to sleep... rest needed after miles of being run in harness... Sweet Cheeks tries to console herself. She recalls her monthly counseling, the psychiatrist most paternal, never admonishing despite the frequent sessions while being punished... a blanket her only covering.    

“Come in Susan, come in,” the orphanage providing a splendid office for the sessions... homey, appearing to be the den study of a wealthy magnate.

Tightly gripping her only covering, Susan tiptoes within, managing to awkwardly free one hand to close the door. The carpet is plush... bare feet reveling.

“I see you’re being punished again.”

“Yes Sir.”

“Well just remain standing for now... we’ll figure out something. No blanket?”

“I... ah... came from the gymnasium and the matron... ah... she had no blanket.” 

“So a towel.”

“Yes Sir, she told me to take a towel... for covering.”

“So she did not give you a towel... you took it.”

“Yes, Sir.”   

“It’s rather brief... a small towel... requiring both hands to provide modesty... and a firm grip. Were there larger towels?”

“I... don’t...”

“There were Susan... weren’t there.”

A near naked Susan Cheevers glumly nods.

“But a small towel... requires effort to cover yourself with it.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The counselor, sitting in a large leather chair, leans and takes a pad and pen from the dark wooden desk. He jots some notes leaving Susan Cheevers... naughty Susan Cheevers... to stand.

“So you came here from the gym... athletics?”

“No Sir.”

“But your hair is wet. So you showered?”

“I... ah... was cleansed.”

“You may as well tell me about it, Susan. I suspect you were punished again, apparently deserving more than the removal of your clothing. You’ve appeared before me a number of times with only a blanket... and now you’re wet... with only a towel... selected to be limited in size.”

“May I sit, Sir?”

“Not on the furniture with wet hair,” a hand gesturing to the carpet.

Susan Cheevers lowers herself, more awkwardness coming as the towel flips about, flashing her youthful charms. The notion of exposing her pink parts to a man would normally bring distress. But the doctor... Dr. Bob... is so kindly... and understanding... not viewed as provocative. Still in being nearly nude in the presence of a fully clad man there come the twinges... and no possibility of digital relief. In noting his patient struggling, hands not able to adjust the garment to cover both her breasts and mons, Dr. Bob smiles... and advises.

“You should have chosen a larger towel, Susan. You knew you were coming to see me. Cover yourself as best to can. But do make yourself comfortable.”

The hands work, assuring her thighs and pubes no longer flash, but to relax and continually hold up her brief garb and cover developing breasts is ungainly. Dr. Bob notes the efforts, the pen again jotting. In completing, he looks up, seemingly ignoring the show of nipples and pubescent hillocks.

“So no athletics... no shower... but you’ve been cleansed. Tell me about it.”  

Susan realizes... the announcement... of her punishment... ‘enema time... all orphanage girls to gather in the gymnasium shower room’. With males being infrequent visitors at the all girl facility... overt proclamations are regularly made without gender consideration. 

He must have heard! Dr. Bob so confirms.

“A girl was punished today... within the last hour or two. An announcement was made... all girls to the shower room... a punishment enema to be administered. And here you are, Susan... scant covering... and wet hair.”

“I... yes... was punished.”

“I am told it’s the highest level of discipline here at the orphanage. No corporal punishment... the matrons were are very considerate. So bad girls simply go without clothing... and very bad girls are cleansed.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“It’s very uncomfortable Sir.”

“As it should be... it’s punishment after all.”

“I mean to talk about it.”

“As it should be. It must be quite humiliating for you.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Would you like to show me... how you’re positioned?”

Susan Cheevers rises from sitting on her haunches, shifts about, assuming the mandated position, kneeling on all fours, doing her best to cover her back and raised buttocks with the towel. It remains draped over her back as she goes to her elbows, forehead to the carpet. She cranes her neck to see the pen scribbling.    

“Very telling, Susan, I asked if you’d like to show me... not show me,” softly chuckling. “But do stay like that... you seem comfortable. Careful not to let the towel slip away.”

Susan feels chagrined, misled... word games.

“So you were being punished... denied clothing... and further punishment was deemed necessary. Would you like to tell me about the infraction?” 

“No, Sir,” not falling for another subterfuge.  

“I see the way you’ve parted your knees... by rote. Did you do that for the matron? Opening yourself... to be penetrated?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“She asked you?”

“No... I... just... well...”

“It was not your first was it, Susan? Your first high colonic?”

“No, Sir,” the reply reluctant, Susan becoming more and more sheepish.

“So... the infraction... not to be discussed... was committed... while already in punishment.... and knowing full well of the consequences... aware that you would be sent to the shower room. There to kneel on all fours... obviously naked... to spread yourself open... and...”

“She....the matron... you know... inserts... a hose...”

“A nozzle,” Dr. Bob clarifies.

“Yes, and then there’s... ah water... and you know...”  

“Of course.... warm and soapy water... filling you... with so many watching. It must be intense for you. But is there contrition?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And yet you remain recalcitrant. The nozzle... would you like to tell me about it?”

“It’s... large... and you know... gets larger.”

“No, I don’t know. You mean it expands.”

“Yes, Sir. It inflates. Matron... well... she likes to make it memorable... that’s what she says.”

Susan shifts about. The exchange becoming stressful, she arches the small of her back, as if in  welcome to matron’s imaginary nozzle. Her motion causes her only covering to slip to the carpet, leaving her bare... head low, buttocks high, thighs parted, gluteal cleft yawning... her pose both sultry and obscene. Gratefully, head to Dr. Bob, she is not exposing her sex... not while he remains sitting. But in imagining him rising from his chair, the twinges begin anew. She freezes, for some reason she can’t bring herself to lift her arm, twist about and restore her covering.

“Do you need some help, Susan?” Dr. Bob not moving as well.

“It’s the towel, Sir.”

“Yes, it slid away. Inadvertently?”

“No... I mean... yes... I mean I guess I don’t know, Sir. I moved.” 

“You did. Do you feel it’s best that you not move again?”

Susan closes her eyes in shame, the pen jotting again.

“I suppose not, Sir.”

“Then stay like that,” the directive soft but firm. “And tell me... the nozzle... it expanded... obviously inside you. It opened you... you submitted to your superior... her hand. How did that make you feel?”