“The males here become rather homoerotic over time, Doctor. The oral servicing you’re witnessing is harmless. As you know there is no ultimate gratification permitted on Constancia. Therefore they seek pleasure from whatever source is available. But it just serves to increase the frustration in the long run. The bands prohibit ejaculation, as you know.
“It’s interesting to observe how a hierarchy develops. Big Fella here gets licked and sucked the most.”
I water Big Fella as Katrina speaks. There is a worn path circling the inside perimeter of the sizable pasture. It is fascinating to envision this pleasant young woman standing in the middle of the grassy clearing, flicking the long whip as she runs the herd of mature pony boys. In the near distance a moderate sized male approaches. Katrina smiles.
“This one recently joined us. He mistook retirement for laziness.”
He trots toward the shed and positions himself kneeling over a trench. Katrina excuses herself and moves to stand behind him. There is a considerable welt on his right buttock, obviously earned by his reported laziness.
Katrina leans over his shoulder and whispers. Her left hand toys with a nipple. Her right dutifully holds his penis while his bladder empties into the trench.
So this is where Lady Constance’s loyal ponies end their service. Calmly sauntering about an empty field, frustratingly attempting to achieve the impossible orgasm. The days must pass very slowly and I wonder if any pine for the harness, the feel of pores opening while running in earnest, the sting of their own sweat trickling over excoriated flesh, the unexplainable feeling of accomplishment in performing naked and bound for a demanding woman with a whip.
Remembering Conida’s advice I ask Katrina for a refill of my water bottle. She graciously dips it into a large tub of water.
“That one labored on the farm for seven years. Wearing only the leather belt is quite a relief for him. You should see the reaction of the farm beasts when the yoke is removed for good. Like letting a puppy out of a cage.”
Katrina laughs and returns with the bottle. I squeeze another pint into Big Fella’s mouth. Her reference to a yoke reminds me that I want to visit the blacksmith shop.
We converse more but my thoughts are to return to this pasture sometime while she works her charges. It must be quite the sight, a young native girl herding and running some two dozen naked males in the large circle, snapping the whip. When I inquire, she suggests that they’re run in the heat of the day.
“I like to work them into a good sweat,” she comments.
With that, I bid adieu and refer to the blacksmith shop as I step into the cart. Katrina replies as she graciously diddles my steed. She seems to very much enjoy bringing Big Fella to erection.
“The shop is off the main road, Big Fella will find it.”
Once again I am grateful to have such an experienced and docile pony boy. He turns the cart without need for tugs on the reins and instantly accelerates. He also seems to realize that I am expected to return to Estovia for lunch and the position of the sun indicates it is approaching noon.
With my thoughts concerning the single tail, I cannot resist grasping the small pony whip and snapping away. There is something oddly gratifying about feeling the cart lurch with each stroke to the penis...
My amazing steed negotiates the turn back onto the main road without any noticeable decrease in speed. For amusement I apply strokes to the incredibly long scrotum as we come to a straight and level section of road. Big Fella’s breathing becomes deep and steady. He realizes I want his best effort and welcomes the challenge and I wonder... also the whip? Each stroke appears to strengthen his resolve and the scrotal sac beckons. Within some ten minutes a small sign indicates the road to the blacksmith veers off to the right. Big Fella must slow the cart to negotiate this one. We turn onto a smaller road. A steep incline affords another opportunity for the whip and I find myself feverishly snapping the leather accordingly. Big Fella keeps the cart rolling nicely and when we reach the top, a simple cinder block building comes into view.
A massive native stands in front. He is not only tall but very heavily set. In one hand is a hammer. In the other is part of a metal yoke. Before him is an anvil and the scene is rather anachronistic as he smashes the hammer with impressive force onto the yoke. With the blow the chest and arm muscles contract. He has the pectorals of a circus strong man and as Big Fella draws closer, his lack of clothing becomes evident. When he drops the hammer and yoke and steps out from behind the anvil to greet me, legs the size of tree trunks come into view. He wears a loin cloth, his only covering.
Jambo the blacksmith introduces himself. One of the few Bagandan males participating in Lady Constance’s escapades, Jambo is approaching middle age and has lived on Constancia all his life.
Jambo explains he is making a yoke. It seems measurements from Dr. Reinhold are quite accurate in molding the basic implement, but additional forging not only smoothes rough edges but also adds an element of strength.
He continues hammering away as we converse. I inquire about his status, relative happiness, relationship with Lady Constance and other residents of the island, generally adding grist for my writing mill. He speaks freely and with a long arching blow of finality, strikes the yoke, puts down the hammer and picks up the five-foot long strip of metal. Three semi circular indentations have been carved out of what is otherwise a rectangular bar of metal. There is one large indentation in the middle to accommodate the neck. Two smaller ones have been carved into the very end. The wearer will have his hands secured well out to the side, I conclude. And I recall such is Lady Constance’s recommendation for the Danish lad.
So each bearer of the yoke withstands a varying degree of frustration, depending on where, in relation to his head, his wrists are secured. Obviously those with hands widely separated endure a much higher level of torment, with the unyielding stretching of various tendons and ligaments, than those with a closer entrapment to the head. And this particular yoke which Jambo appears to be just finishing will serve to hold the wrists as far out to the side as possible.
I water Big Fella and Jambo motions me to follow him into the building. The interior is very hot due to the presence of equipment used to melt and bend steel. Kneeling before a low workbench, is the Danish lad. Although he is still healing from his banding, the process for making a permanent steel yoke has begun.
With ankles, thighs and waist strapped to the bench, the lad’s neck lies on top of the front half of the yoke in a corresponding semi-circular indentation. His arms are stretched well out and both wrists rest in smaller indentations. Jambo carries the back half and his huge arms strain somewhat when he lifts it and gently places it over the Danish youngster’s neck and wrists. It fits perfectly and the seam running the length of the two bars is indiscernible.
“When he is ready for the power plant, some simple spot welds will hold the yoke together. Some day he may be freed of it. But that day will not be one of his choosing...”
Jambo walks around the work bench inspecting the finished product. I glance about the interior of the building. In addition to the metal working equipment and tools, there are large blocks of wood and some wooden yokes. The multi-talented Jambo also fabricates yokes for the more mobile farm beasts. I suspect Lady Constance keeps him quite busy.
“Time to test its effectiveness,” announces Jambo with a devious smile.
The massive native releases the straps securing the lad’s waist, thighs and ankles. Utilizing two fingers of his right hand, he gruffly scoops up a large dollop of grease normally used in lubricating the machinery.
“These new arrivals are nice and tight,” Jambo observes. His fingers smear the slippery brownish glob between the Danish lad’s cheeks. The helpless male twists against the heavy yoke when Jambo’s fingers find the anus then penetrate and lubricate.
“You see how well the yoke is working? Over time he may develop enough strength to lift himself. But this morning, he’ll just have to lie and take it
.”
As I suspected would happen, Jambo’s loincloth easily slides to the floor with a simple motion of his left hand. He then stands between the kneeling lad’s legs and licks apart his ankles.
“There are two ways to take it, boy. Open yourself up to Jambo and ride with ‘Fat Stick’ or fight the yoke. Either way, I take my pleasure. The question is how much discomfort you will feel.”
Jambo’s ‘Fat Stick’ begins to rise, possibly with the thought of penetrating the blond youth’s tight aperture, possibly with the sight of the squirming, pink flesh, probably due to both.
Jambo laughs, toys with his penis to apply the remnants of the lubricant, then grasps the testicles of his captive.
“When Lady Constance was young, she used to insist on watching me open up her more truculent acquisitions. ‘Slow and deep’, she used to admonish. ‘Make it memorable.’”
Jambo steps forward as he speaks. His massive hands slip under the lad’s hips and lifts. His erection is huge and raging.
“They never forget Jambo.”
He laughs sardonically with his observation, presses the rock hard tip of his turgid penis to the entrance of the back passage and thrusts. His captive shouts in his foreign tongue. Jambo withdraws and thrusts deeper. He then releases his hands. Incredibly, the Danish supplicant’s lower torso, hips and legs are held off the floor, impaled on Jambo’s ‘Fat Stick’. The weight of the yoke holds the head, arms and shoulders on the table.
“I’ll give him a good welcome to Constancia. You will find Salina’s toys to be a most welcome diversion, boy. Yes, in time you’ll be begging to have your backside worked open and stuffed.”
While speaking, Jambo rocks his hips, thrusts deeply, pulls back, rocks more. He is an accomplished sodomite of the young male backside, I conclude. And a relentless one.
After several thrusts he pauses and jiggles his hips up and down to demonstrate his power. In response, the naked body of the Danish lad shakes like a rag doll.
“I have a theory Doctor, that the male backside is naturally tighter then the female. It’s the spacing between the hips, I think. The male anatomy is not designed to bear children...”
The thought hangs as he resumes his efforts along with the sound of protests. After several more minutes he pushes forward and grunts, obviously climaxing deep into the tight, once virginal opening.
When he steps back, ‘Fat Stick’ emerges into the room light with a plopping noise. The lad’s hips hit the table with a plunk.
“Yes. Nice and tight. You’ll be back for the final fitting, boy. Then you’ll have a taste of ‘Fat Stick’. If you’re good I just may let you swallow.”
Jambo laughs again. I cannot help but look at ‘Fat Stick’ coated with the brown lubricant yet still stiff and menacing. I have seen longer, but rarely larger in diameter. It is no wonder that Lady Constance has chosen Jambo to properly open up her acquisitions. It is quite the introduction to anal sodomy.
Luncheon awaits. I excuse myself as Jambo lifts the top portion of the yoke freeing the Danish lad from the table. He laughs watching the lad try to walk. His rectum has been well reamed.
Big Fella is waiting. He seems to know the time and our schedule, for when I sit he instantly turns the cart to the down slope toward the main road.
The stretch to the turnoff for Estovia is a little over a mile and my steed sprints the entire distance. I cannot resist utilizing the whip. Oddly, my introspection concerning participation in D/s activities has waned somewhat.
Big Fella puts on quite the show with the final approach to Estovia. There is no way to determine whether it is pride or fear of reprisal from either Botana or Lady Constance, but the last few hundred yards he draws the cart at an unsustainable velocity. With the coolness of the morning having dissipated, rivulets of sweat stream to various extremities where they are flung to the ground with animated movements of his legs and buttocks. I pull on the scrotal cords and see Botana by the front door watching with a smile of pride. She holds in her hand an enormous butt plug.
Chapter Fourteen
Lunch is much less eventful than yesterday. Again served by the pool, the two porters serve in their usual clumsy yet effective manner. Lady Constance sips mimosas. Topless, she wears nothing but a string Bikini bottom. Lying under the table is Ling, the Asian who serviced her the prior evening. Lady Constance treats Ling like a pet cat or dog, occasionally offering a morsel of food from her plate. Otherwise the naked ingénue busies ‘herself’ licking Lady Constance’s feet in a most humble and groveling way, glancing upwards for approval and encouragement.
“Naomi tells me you uncovered Ming’s secret,” Lady Constance comments, smilingly with her own pun.
I demur until I can determine Lady Constance’s level of concern or annoyance.
“You’re not the first guest to let curiosity trump their tact, Doctor. Others have not been so careful in removing the patch. But it’s easily replaced. The covering is intended to discourage Ming’s thoughts concerning gender. Androgynous thinking enhances her penchant for servicing male or female, which she does rather well.”
She pauses and lowers her hand. Ling lifts her head and with a shockingly long tongue scoops a crumb of bread from Lady Constance’s palm.
“Like every other muscle, the tongue can be exercised and strengthened,” Lady Constance offers with a gleam.
Ling swallows and attentively returns to the obeisant servicing of her mistress’s foot.
Over the next few minutes we speak about the offer of employment. Somehow she knows I am intrigued. Did my injudicious actions with Ming give me away? In hindsight I should have kept my exploration covert by replacing the patch, but Naomi’s morning visit was unexpected and deprived me of the opportunity.
“My Asian friend has promised me four ‘Mings’ per year. Not all are kept here on Constancia. There’s my English estate. My ranch in Canada. The Riviera chateau. But another is scheduled to arrive here before I return to New York next month. She could be specifically trained for your needs...”
More food for thought. Again I demur and Lady Constance knows to remain silent and not over emphasize her point. The morning jaunt with Big Fella was strangely fulfilling and I wonder if she discreetly watched from the house as I liberally applied the whip during the final sprint to the porte-cochere.
We finish lunch in silence. When porter number two pours coffee, Lady Constance resumes.
“I am due at the yacht. An April trip to the Philippines needs to be planned. Stay and finish your coffee.
“Botana is going to the medical building to look over her new pony but Sumani will have Big Fella ready for your needs. Take a leisurely drive to the eastern end. Not much there except Dr. Reinhold’s house. You may find the seclusion to be enjoyable...”
Her suggestion remains suspended as she playfully pinches Ling’s right nipple then stands. As she departs, watching her well-developed buttocks sashay across the deck cannot be helped. The combination of beauty, power and indisputable authority is rarely found, I think to myself, particularly in someone so relatively young.
Motamba steps from the door of the house. She signals to Ling who meekly stands and walks toward her. Motamba holds in one hand an obscenely large rubber phallus and in the other an object I’ve seen described as a tongue clamp. The two disappear into the house. I finish my coffee and leave.
Chapter Fifteen
I return to my room to change to lighter clothing. Ming is not to be seen until I open the closet door. There ‘she’ kneels in her obsequious pose, head bowed with upturned palms on well spread thighs. I wonder if she hears me enter the room then assumes the trained position of acquiescence. It is difficult to otherwise comprehend how she can maintain such an unusual position on the hard wood floor.
I just nod and wordlessly close the door. Something brings a smile to my face. Is it knowing that Ming along with the footstool and cane await my return? That after a glorious day of riding in the sun, I will be decadently sipping C
hampagne while the genderless, hairless, naked form squirms about on the smooth leather hassock?
My own thoughts begin to concern me as I proceed to the porte-cochere.
I catch a glimpse of Lady Constance whipping her chariot team as she disappears on the drive to the main road. But Big Fella and my cart are not to be seen. I conclude that Sumani has been occupied tacking my hostess’s chariot, therefore I stroll down the hill to the stables.
When I turn to round the corner of the building I spy my cart. A few feet further kneels Big Fella. His leather collar is hitched to a fence. He is wet and blindfolded. Sumani stands beside him vigorously massaging his testicles with her left hand. Her right is between his spread thighs evidently giving his perineum an equally aggressive rub. The end of the rubber plug can be seen between his buttocks.
“Good afternoon, Doctor. A sponge bath and a little prostate massage for Big Fella. He’s a delight to work and he secretes so nicely! I’ll have him hitched in a few minutes.”
Continuing to approach, I step to the front. Sumani has Big Fella at full blossom. His penis band is barely discernible under the large purple head. And the prostatic fluid does indeed ooze abundantly, glistening in the sunlight as it rolls down the length of the long stiff shaft. One cannot help smiling at the sight..., the knowledgeable hands of the native Sumani playing Big Fella’s organs. It is like watching a skilled artist sculpt a statue, the precision and timing of the movements developed over years of training and experience. And all designed and intended to build the mental frustration of the male beast while relieving the physical accumulation of hormones.
I watch with interest noting that Big Fella knows to remain perfectly still and accept what little gratification he is allowed. His years tell him that ejaculation will not be permitted, that over excitement will result in encroachment of the dreaded and painful teeth of the band, but that the subtle hormonal release will provide him some degree of comfort.
The Constancia Compendium Page 26