For some reason I begin to smile but inexplicably suppress it. My subconscious will not allow me to fully exhibit the sensation of power and the resulting heady feeling. But I find my hand guiding the whip lower and two more snaps, right and left, find Big Fella’s impressive erection.
Top speed is achieved and I sit back and enjoy the scenery..., and the power. Lady Constance’s offer of employment comes to mind and I begin to ruminate. I have spent many cold winters in New York and whereas there is much subject matter for my research in the form of BDSM clubs, bars, even restaurants, my maturity is beginning to inhibit the social interaction, which was considered to be so beneficial when first moving there. And I have found the age factor to be a two way street. The very age group, which seems reluctant to socialize with persons of my age is the same which I now find puerile and boring.
The road divides and Big Fella guides the cart to the left. After another mile, we undertake a long curve to the right, and my concentration is broken by a sign indicating that we are entering the village area. The word “SLOW” is boldly printed in red and while reading it, one’s mind can simultaneously hear Lady Constance barking the command.
My assumption that Big Fella will be self-motivated in escorting me around the island is rather flawed. I suppose with the painful nips to his penis, discretion tells him to keep running despite the warning sign. Thus I find that to slow the cart a firm hand is needed on the scrotal cords, otherwise my steed would traverse the village at full speed.
We slow to a walk, enter a straight section of road and I am shocked with the size and activity greeting me. Our pathway widens and lining both sides are quaint grass roofed huts. On first impression, one would conclude that an ancient African village has been transported to the middle of the Caribbean. But strong concrete walls peek through the flourishing flora and wires for either electricity or telephone, or possibly both, are looped from hut to hut. The village is on a bluff overlooking the ocean. The huts to my left step down from the road, affording passersby an unimpeded view of the blue expanse of water. The huts on my right are perched higher, thereby sharing in the magnificent view. In front of many of the homes are pony carts, some similar to mine, others are larger and configured for two ponies. There are also the heavy vehicles seen on the farm.
Some of the carts are hitched with human ponies, blindfolded and docilely kneeling. Others stand at the ready but sans human beast. There are women milling about in the various yards, gardening, hanging laundry, and talking to neighbors. As we roll by, some casually wave, indicating that a visitor traversing the area is not an unknown occurrence. I recall, during conversations in New York with acquaintances of Lady Constance, references to annual soirees to Constancia, indicating that there are times when the island has many guests.
After passing many homes we reach a square. Off to the left a steeply graded road heads down toward the ocean, presumably weaving its way through the bluff and ending at the water. Straight ahead, on the opposite side of the square, our pathway continues. More thatch-roofed homes can be seen bordering the wide path in a similar configuration.
In the middle of the square there are numerous pairs of vertical wooden posts. To the right, the road leads to a large parking area in front of a three story Victorian style building with an enormous porch. Big Fella rolls the cart toward a split rail fence fronting the building. There, numerous carts are parked with pony boys hitched to the fence. On the porch are native women and some men talking over coffee and breakfast. They wave and greet me, apparently alerted to the potential of my wanderings.
I return the greetings and ask for help. A middle aged native woman steps off the porch and before I can speak again seems to anticipate my needs. She takes the reins and ties them to the fence. Next she releases Big Fella’s Prince Albert piercing, slaps down his erection and gently blows into his ear. Amazingly, his flow instantly begins and she tenderly holds his penis while directing his excretion away from his feet.
I retrieve the water bottle and blindfold and step out. The woman kindly encircles Big Fella’s head with the cloth and pushes down on his shoulders. Big Fella kneels in response and the woman shows me where to insert the plastic straw around the bit. I spend a few moments watering my steed. He gulps greedily.
“Water is very important. You’ll find that a pony is much more eager to run for you with a full bladder,” she advises.
She reattaches Big Fella’s penis ring and laughs softly.
“He’s a big one. Years ago, Lady Constance was rarely seen without him. Now he spends most of his time in pasture, so it’s nice to see him again.”
She gives his testicles a gentle pat and we move to the porch. There I am introduced to a half dozen Bagandan women. All are very experienced, mainly working the males in the valley. I learn that the Victorian building serves as a community center for the village. A combination of restaurant, post office, general store, there is also a bar area where I am told many Bagandans socialize on given evenings.
I spend over an hour imbibing coffee and partaking in delicious fresh fruit. I learn much about life on Constancia. Lady Constance has apparently forewarned all concerning my research endeavors and everyone is candid concerning what, for most, would be considered an unusual life style.
There are few Bagandan men on the island. Over the years most have chosen to return to their roots in Africa. Those that remain work as fishermen. I am told the road opposite our building leads down to a small wharf where the men work the boats. Depending on the season and the tides, there are periods of time when the fishermen are gone from well before dawn until dusk.
Every adult Bagandan woman is afforded a pony, and as indicated, to be pierced, stretched and trained as desired. Other than walking, the only other method of transportation on Constancia is by pony cart. And ownership rights to a human form of conveyance dates back to Lady Constancia’s great grandmother. When she recruited the Bagandan ancestors, ownership was a promise made and kept over the generations by all the Esterhoven family members.
The cost must be staggering, I think to myself. Including the Bagandan women and their ponies, Lady Constance is financially supporting what must be over a hundred people. I counted close to twenty ponies in Lady Constance’s stable alone!
Undertaking the cost is indicative of her commitment to the female dominant life style. When it comes to manifesting her dominance, Lady Constance knows no limits. Yesterday’s visit to the medical facility is recalled. Millions of dollars in equipment purchased with a well trained, full time staff employed. And all so that Lady Constance can most comfortably and thoroughly subjugate the male.
While I converse, a stern looking woman approaches the square. Her right index finger is hooked through the nose ring of a young male donning the wooden stock of a farm beast. I feign listening to one woman sitting around the table describe the abundant fishing found around Constancia. But in fact I intently watch the woman in the square.
She leads the male to a pair of the vertical poles. There she lifts her finger and the nose ring forcing the naked young lad to his toes between two poles. Each end of the wooden stock is attached to a pole and she steps away and calmly surveys her captive. He stands between the poles with his neck entrapped by the two long wooden blocks as are his wrists, leaving his arms helplessly hanging well apart, hands pointed skyward. After a minute she reaches into her pocket, bends and secures cloth straps around each ankle. She diddles his penis, gently pats his testicles and coats the scrotal flesh with a substance from a small jar.
The young male wriggles about, but quite gingerly since he stands on toes. Satisfied that he is well secured, the woman lifts his left foot just off the soil, ties a cord to the ankle cuff, then hooks it to the rivets piercing the bottom of his scrotum. This forces the yoked beast to stand on the toes of one foot while keeping the other suspended in the air to relieve the cord of the tension on his scrotal sac.
The woman steps back again, smiles with satisfaction and joins us on the porch.
“A rather belligerent one, this lad. A little slow to respond. And he needs to be stretched. We kill two birds with one stone. As his leg tires over time, the cord will stretch his sac. In a while I’ll switch ankles. He’ll be most eager to work for me tomorrow.”
Conida laughs and steps into the building for coffee. Another woman joins in the explanation.
“The cord is elastic. If he so chooses, he can lower his foot and accept the stretching. Or he can keep his foot in the air. Either way, the torment slowly builds. As Conida says, she’ll have a very obedient cart oxen tomorrow. Just a few hours yoked and standing in the sun slowly erodes the resistance. But when combined with a little stretching, the results are more than acceptable.”
More discussion follows concerning life on Constancia. The men leave before I can interview them, but the half dozen women are most comfortable talking and sipping coffee while watching the lad in the square. After some twenty minutes, Conida returns to her captive, releases his left foot and then secures his right in a similar manner.
Meanwhile my benefactor suggests Big Fella should be watered again. I smile in agreement and join my steed, who has been idly kneeling for a good portion of the morning. This time I empty the bottle into his mouth and bring it back to the porch with me. A kindly woman refills it and more discussion ensues. Conida returns to the porch.
“This one is rather stubborn. He just cannot bring himself to submit his will. He may be spending much time in the square. We can use more weekend regulars.”
Conida’s tone is mirthful and the other women laugh with her comment. It seems that breaking Caucasian males is a form of entertainment in the Village. I count six pairs of poles and envision many tormented beasts standing naked in the heat, perspiration reflecting the hot Caribbean sun, while the island’s female population sits and watches the amusement. Young and obstinate, their resistance becomes a form of entertainment. Since their fate is to be pierced and stretched in a manner conducive to their keeper, the reasoning seems to be that it be done in manner which benefits all, which is to turn the process into a public display.
I have much more to see on my tour and am expected back at Estovia for a late lunch. Otherwise, I would prefer to spend more time with the amazing collection of Bagandan women. I offer my farewells. Conida walks with me to Big Fella and ensures that his manhood is in a suitable state of tumescence. She then returns to her human oxen. While removing Big Fella’s blindfold, I can see she is talking and the young male seems to be attempting to shake his head in defiance. I seat myself, flick the whip and the cart rolls. As we round the square, Conida finds another cord in her pocket. Turning onto the road, I look back to see that she is securing both feet to the scrotal rivets.
Whatever exchange took place between the callous supervisor and the belligerent male, it was apparently not to her satisfaction. As cart, steed and passenger roll by the remaining village huts, I watch as the recalcitrant male hangs by his yoke with both feet suspended off the soil. I wonder how long he can remain before his tired muscles begin the slow process of stretching the pink sac to a length of his supervisor’s satisfaction.
The last hut passes by and the road begins to slowly turn to the right. I flick to the penis. Big Fella accelerates and the cooling breeze created by the rapid action of his powerful legs is welcomed.
Within minutes we reach an intersection. Joining the main road from our left is a heavy cart loaded with melons. A yoked human oxen endeavors to pull it. Riding on his back, in a manner I observed the previous day, is a young teenaged native girl. Naked, as seems to be the required state of undress for all young Bagandan girls, she smiles, waves then gently kicks her legs. I pull on the scrotal cords. Big Fella immediately slows to a stop. The girl kicks again and the cart moves somewhat faster, turns onto the main road and passes us, proceeding toward the village.
I look down to see that the naked, smiling girl is wearing spurs around her ankles and the gentle motion of her legs causes nasty burrs to prick the penis and testicles of her human oxen. With the combined weight of the melons and the rather mature teenage girl, the beast strains, pushing into the yoke which is attached to horizontal poles emanating from the front of the cart. I continue to pause and watch her work the young male. The road back to the village is fairly level thus there are no hills to negotiate. And basic physics tell me that only moderate force is required to roll the cart. But it is the process of extracting every ounce of strength from the oxen that seems to motivate the Bagandan girl. It appears that no effort will be considered sufficient as the muscles of the buttocks curl and strain under the girl’s prodding. Much sweat will be expended and torment borne, I think to myself, and as such notions cross my cerebrum the girl leans forward, reaches under the restrained arms, and pinches both nipples. The large beast awkwardly stutter steps and leans into the yoke with renewed efforts.
Big Fella seems to read my mind. My whip snaps and as I pull the reins left toward the side road, he is already pulling the cart in that direction.
The rutted path is indicative of much wear not only by way of frequency but also through the weight of heavily laden carts. Big Fella seems to pull with enthusiasm and through the surrounding vegetation I can see ahead a large clearing. It is the valley and farm that Lady Constance and I had over looked yesterday.
Our cart rolls into the sunlight, and the unusual scene of Lady Constance’s farm once again unfolds. Big Fella slows his pace as the road divides into several narrow paths, each leading to different sections of the well-organized plots. Signs with directional arrows indicate that many types of vegetables are grown along with melons, pineapple, bananas and citrus. The soil must be incredibly rich and I marvel with the thought that the late Baron must have imported much of it. I cannot recall any coral Caribbean island with enough nourishing topsoil to cultivate such a wide variety of plants. Such variety results in a continuous need for the labor of the male beasts. As some crops are being planted with the need for the plow, others are growing, and still others need to be harvested. Thus there is no rest for Lady Constance’s collection of young, one-time pugnacious males. Every day they’re worked under the relentless supervision and authority of the Bagandan women. Resistance earns time in the village-square. Obedience earns the right to be fed and worked again. Perhaps, just perhaps, abject subservience earns the touch of a kind hand on the forcibly chastened male appendage, and with it the subtle feelings of the twinges and tingles of limited tumescence, while lustfully viewing the young feminine flesh of the Bagandan daughters. Or possibly while glimpsing at the magnificent breasts of the regal owner of both body and soul, Lady Constance, as she whisks by in her chariot whipping her team into full erection.
I ponder if aberrant youths in Europe considering a career crime would ever stray if they were fully aware of the potential consequences. That just one deviant act can earn them a hearing before a judge who, due to carnal and financial ties to the clinic, is sure to favor the “leniency” of ‘rehabilitation’ over the harshness of incarceration. And that depending on the physical size of their penis and their latent psychological desire to serve, they may forever be consigned to a life of submission to dominant women.
Pray for the propensity to serve, young criminal, I think to myself. Otherwise you end up tightly banded, yoked, and worked in fields by the likes of the Bagandan women. Or laboring under the penetrating rubber phallus of a woman such as Salina.
Big Fella turns to the left and walks briskly as I meditate the fate of the young males. Ahead within the confines of a high fence is a simple shed aside an adjoining field. Numerous naked males strut about in the enclosure. They are naked. Each wears a hood and a leather waist belt with wrists cuffed to the side of the belt. A young Bagandan woman sits in the cool shade of the shed. She wears a sarong as with the other women except it is shorter and tighter around her torso, serving to highl
ight firm, well-proportioned breasts. Big Fella pulls our cart through an open gate toward the shed. She smiles as we approach.
I dismount and the girl steps out from under the shed.
“Hello, Big Fella.”
If my steed had a tail it would be wagging in response. There is obviously some level of admiration between the two.
I introduce myself. She seems to be expecting me.
“My name is Katrina, Doctor. Motamba suggested you may be touring our island.”
As she speaks, Katrina releases Big Fella’s penis and gently holds it. With the obligatory blow into his ear, his flow streams to the ground. I step to the front with the water bottle.
Our conversation is pleasant and I learn she is in charge of the pasture, where retired and semi-retired ponies and farm beasts graze.
“Big Fella spends most of his time here,” explains Katrina. “We keep them all watered and fed..., and I’ll run them daily. Big Fella loves to prance and dodge the sting of the whip.”
She smiles to emphasize her last comment, and nods toward a very long, single tailed whip, looped and hanging from one of the structural supports for the shed. It brings to mind an interview I had with an infamous professional dominatrix in New York. She was renowned for her skills with the single tail and certain deviant New York women paid handsomely to watch her ply her craft. The crack of the thin tip of such an instrument, as it breaks the sound barrier, can be frightening. And the potential damage to the flesh is equally disconcerting. Thus, a skilled whipmistress is one who is able to flail without breaking the skin. Just the relative proximity of a well executed stroke results in a signal sent to the cortex that has been described as an overwhelming burst of pain, instantly breaking any resistance or stubbornness and turning the most virile of males to groveling supplicants.
I scan the field as we speak. In a far corner a very large pony stands, feet apart while another male kneels before him, licks his genitals and then takes the engorged penis into his mouth.
The Constancia Compendium Page 25