“Lady Constance indicated that you’re not going very far. You may wish to just keep him plugged. It will inhibit running but the resulting erection is fascinating to view.”
Sumani releases Big Fella’s neck-collar as she speaks. The blindfolded giant docilely stands and follows the tugs of her fingers on the collar. He is indeed incredibly erect. And it is the first time I am afforded a close frontal view of a tumefied pony while he moves about. It is a most sordid scene. When combined with the realization that he moves only under the direction of the controlling female, I have the insatiable urge to photograph the interaction of trainer and beast for my D/s archives.
Yes. I will leave him plugged. Running him under the whip was enjoyable. But I am curious concerning his performance while impaled with the large rubber implement.
Various sounds emanating from the stable draw my attention. Sumani notices my interest.
“It’s the treadmills, Doctor. The ponies are exercised every day whether it be in harness or on the apparatus.”
Sumani busies herself securing the reins and straps so I utilize the time to investigate. Entering the stable and proceeding to the far end, I can see a large area filled with the machines. Three young native girls are supervising, in a naked state of course. They brandish nasty quirts similar to those used on the chariots and carts. Sightless ponies, all wearing the training hood, are being worked, each with neck collar and wrists secured behind the back. Some half dozen treadmills are humming, three appear to be at top speed.
The girls are most demanding. Young hands steadily increase the speed of the slower treadmills, and the blinded human ponies are intrepid in their endeavors to run sightlessly. Their nipples are clamped to elastic cords connected to the front of the machine, thus any underperformance not only earns a possible snap of the vicious quirt but for certain, painful tugs on the nipple-cords.
Water is offered in abundance. The girls consistently move from machine to machine squeezing the plastic bottles into the mouths of the straining ponies. Much seems to drip down chins and chest, but some ponies, probably the more experienced ones, seem to drink more carefully, somehow sucking in most of the offered liquid.
It is difficult to determine how long each pony is run. The girls do not seem to be in a hurry and watch carefully for particular nipple cords to become taut, whereupon the attached pony receives the unwanted attention of the quirt until his performance rises to the exacting pace of the treadmill.
With the well-exercised bodies, electric machinery and the tropical sun, the temperature of the stable is most uncomfortable. But for the ponies, I ponder whether the torturous afternoon of blindly running is preferred to idly hanging in the suspension straps.
As a psychologist, I marvel at the ingenious program established by Lady Constance. It is no wonder that the pony boys are so eager to accept the thin whip of a cart driver and run in harness. It is the only activity that pleasantly punctuates their mundane day to day existence. Other than running for Lady Constance, their daily schedule is to hang in suspension, be fed, exercised, watered and when authorized to excrete under strict supervision. They must deeply relish the opportunity to serve and, if speech were permitted, would beg daily to be run in the fresh air and sunshine.
After a few minutes, the machine is slowed to a stop. The pony’s nipples are released by one young Bagandan girl, while a second leads another pony to be run. It is a well-coordinated and practiced switch with the machine quickly re-occupied. The girl leads the sweating, tired pony past me by a firm grip on his testicles. The smiling girl nods to me and directs the sizable male, who is a full head taller, to a shower area. There, he knows to kneel while the girl wets him down and begins soaping his hairless naked skin. She teases him, standing with her pudendum very close to his nostrils. The chaste male instantly picks up her scent and a pink tongue juts out in frustration. The girl allows a brief lick then steps back and moves to his side.
Over time, she thoroughly soaps and gently washes his entire body, letting him have one or two more licks and mischievously lathering his penis and scrotum with particular attention. She enjoys viewing the resulting partial tumescence.
Sumani calls out, indicating that my cart is ready. As I turn to leave the girl leads the pony, still wet, to a waiting collection of straps. His day has ended and he will hang helplessly until feeding time. I wonder how long his erection will stand.
Chapter Sixteen
Working a plugged Big Fella is interesting. The large cone of rubber, custom milled to pressure his prostate gland, stuffs Big Fella’s backside to the point where his normally smooth gait is comically stuttered. Yes, running is indeed not possible, for every few steps my intrepid steed pauses and wriggles his buttocks in a most curious fashion, evidently attempting to shift the position of the well placed implement so that it does not overly squeeze his male gland.
I have decided to visit the medical building again which is a relatively short walk. And having had my fill of the whip, observing Big Fella walk himself into an unbearable state of arousal is a most suitable alternative form of amusement.
Our journey includes a brief segment on the main road then a turn to the left. There the building comes into sight and with another turn to the left we arrive at the cul-de-sac.
I dismount. No water is deemed necessary but I cannot help but move to the front and inspect Big Fella. His erect penis is rock hard and soaked with his own pre-ejaculatory fluid. I blindfold him, push him to his knees and turn toward the building. As I walk, I wonder if he can hear me laughing. Very unprofessional, I note to myself, but my licentious reaction will remain concealed by the well enforced rule of complete pony silence.
Inside, Naomi greets me. We exchange pleasantries and I learn that Botana is introducing herself to her new pony. She points to a room down the hall indicating that my observation is welcomed.
I knock and open when Botana’s young voice responds. The room is typical of medical facilities. Used for examinations, it is well-lit, with white walls, tiled floor and austere cabinets presumably filled with supplies and apparatus.
Botana’s pony-boy hangs helplessly from his mobile frame. Hooded, he seems agitated and I soon learn why. Botana, dressed in a white nurse’s uniform, holds in her hand a small device, which can best be described as a stapler. She has been busying herself inserting the ubiquitous rivets, which are de rigueur on the beasts of Constancia Island.
“Welcome, Doctor. My new pony!”
She speaks as an excited teenager who has just received an exotic birthday present..., and I suppose she has.
“This is Randy Boy. Look at his penis!”
Yes, Randy Boy, despite his recent banding, a Prince Albert piercing and the obvious discomfort of the riveting, is standing very nicely for his new owner. He has been aptly named. My research tells me that such a reaction is indicative of deep masochistic tendencies. He’ll be very happy on Constancia, I think to myself. There will be no end of opportunities for him to indulge in his latent proclivity. His needs will be adequately fulfilled.
Randy Boy dons two sizable rivets, which Botana has pushed through the thick layers of epidermis over each hip. She returns her attention to the device, opens it and inserts small circular pieces of metal. I watch carefully with much curiosity as she closes it, grasps Randy Boy’s scrotum with her left hand, and after toying with it to push the left testicle upwards, squeezes the stapler-like device over a small pinch of skin.
Randy Boy yells and spasms in his sling. Perspiration forms on his brow..., but when I peer toward his genitals, his penis seems to be even firmer.
Botana moves her left hand to the right side and repeats her action. She is both amazingly callous and insouciant in performing what for Randy Boy is both a painful and permanent alteration. I suppose the rivets could be drilled out at some later point in time, assuming Randy Boy would ever again confront normal life. But it would be even more painful than this original penetration. After all, Botana is quick with her
modifications. Removal would involve slow torment.
I spy a lone, unused rivet resting on a cabinet and pick it up for inspection. It is ‘T’ shaped. The pointed bottom is sharp yet hollow. The device in Botana’s hand evidently pushes the sharp end through the skin where it meets a cleverly designed plate that serves to spread and flatten the point into a circular surface. The result is a single, hollow shaft of metal, penetrating the skin and held in place by circular disks top and bottom.
Botana notices my interest.
“That’s for his nose. I leave it for last, since it’s the most painful.”
She lets me toy with it.
“This clever thing was invented by Dr. Reinhold’s mother. A very resourceful woman.”
Yes, of course. More evidence of the influence of the late Dr. Emily Reinhold. Long after her demise, her devious hand is felt by every pony and beast on the island.
The inside of Randy Boy’s thighs are riveted next. Obviously the flesh is not very sensitive there and his reaction is subdued.
Botana puts down the riveting device and retrieves two rings from her pocket. Milled to perfectly slip over Randy Boy’s testicles, they are not round, but instead are shaped in the identical circumference of his organs, as indicated by the magnetic scans of his anatomy. The inside diameter is directionally serrated making it possible, with some gentle pushing, to slip the ring over the gonad.
Botana toys with the scrotum. She tugs a little and whispers into Randy Boy’s ear. She brushes his nipples and coos. It appears imperative that her pony boy be relaxed. She knows from her youthful training that stress normally manifests itself in the male’s Macmaster muscles, which can actually cause the testicles to move and contract.
Finally, her adroit fingers tell her he’s ready. With moderate and simultaneous pulling of the scrotum and pushing on the ring it is slipped over the gonad. She pauses, letting her new acquisition relax more, then repeats the action with the second ring.
Sharp, strong pulls test the additions. Randy Boy yelps. The serrations do not allow the rings to slide in the opposite direction. Botana steps back displaying much pride. I suppose there is some degree of symbolism to the procedure, a young Bagandan permanently adorning her pony boy with permanent restrain devices. He will be well trained, I think to myself, and soon be dexterously reacting to the tugs of the reins and snaps of the whip without pause or reflection. He will run in harness, sweat and show homage..., and he will learn to enjoy it!
I surrender the rivet I have been inspecting and Botana once more loads the device. With her left hand she pinches Randy Boy’s nose and pushes it up. Quickly but carefully the septum is exposed, entrapped in the riveter and with a cruel squeeze, the final rivet penetrates that most sensitive of areas, between the nostrils. This time Randy Boy goes into a paroxysmal convulsion, but Botana is already retreating. The riveting device is instantaneous. His nose is ready for the leash.
Botana dabs away some blood but there is very little. The rivets are as intrusive as a hypodermic syringe, penetrating the flesh with a small hole then pushing aside the surrounding skin to widen the opening to accommodate cords, clasps, leashes, etc.
We converse for a few minutes, letting Randy Boy rest. When not being poked or prodded the slings and straps appear to provide a very comfortable position in which to sleep. And indeed, trauma seems to have induced some degree of lethargy in Botana’s new toy. He hangs restfully.
But Botana is too ecstatic with Lady Constance’s gift. Satisfied with her handiwork, she begins attaching elastic cords to the rings and rivets. She is like a child playing with a doll, attentively attaching, tying and testing the restraints. Finally satisfied, she releases Randy Boy from the frame and slowly lowers him to the floor.
The pony boy kneels with wrists remaining cuffed behind him. He is blinded by his hood, and for the first time, he feels the tension of the newly attached cords on his scrotum. It is a seminal moment and Botana knows to pause and let the gravity of his situation sink into his subconscious. He is naked, restrained and subject to every whim his new trainer can envision. A simple act of theft, stupidly perpetrated against one of Europe’s infamous dominant women, has led to the untimely end of his normal life. He will serve with his sweat and muscles at the behest of the pretty native girl for the remainder of his youth.
And I witness the beginning as Botana snaps a leash to his newly attached nose rivet.
“Come, Randy Boy,” Botana softly suggests to her new charge. “Crawl for me.”
The leash tightens with a slow motion of her arm. To relieve the tension, and what must be sharp pain in his nose, Randy Boy slides one knee forward. His scrotum stretches with the motion. It can easily be concluded that over the ensuing weeks, Botana will force Randy Boy to stretch his own sac with every motion of his legs and she will be amused with each step. Lady Constance will be most pleased with Botana’s penchant for control.
Botana carefully and slowly leads Randy Boy out into the hallway. Naomi peers from her desk near the front door and laughs. Another pony boy has arrived and is ready to be broken. I am amazed with the new pony’s docile reaction. The psychological profiling and screening appears to be most accurate. Randy Boy will soon be ready for the cart.
Chapter Seventeen
I return to Big Fella. As I approach the cart I see him squirming, wriggling his hips to give his prostate gland a self induced massage.
I remove the blindfold and he obediently stands. When I sit the cart begins to roll, slowly but without need for the whip.
It is mid-afternoon and the walk is scenic and pleasant. Back onto the main road we pass the turn off for Estovia and continue toward the cove. Big Fella steadily pulls and after a time I see, to the right and down the short road, Lady Constance’s chariot with her prize team waiting on the dock.
Then as we continue onward, there is nothing. Just beautiful tropical greenery with exotic birds singing and the chirping of what must be thousands of the tree frogs so ubiquitous to the local islands. The sun all but disappears with the dense vines and trees overhead and with it the searing heat. Big Fella’s steps quicken, partly to warm himself and partly to draw the cart back into the sunshine. His efforts bring laughter as the huge butt plug causes his hips to sway exaggeratedly in order to lengthen his stride.
After some twenty minutes a house comes to view on the right. It appears to be of modest size at first glance. Its low, one story silhouette initially confuses the viewer but as we slowly pass by, one realizes that it is sprawling in a positive sense and is actually rather large. Its architect designed the structure so that it blends into the terrain and I imagine Lady Constance spared no expense to have it appear as visually unobtrusive as possible.
Since the parking area is empty, I conclude that no one is present and decide to keep moving. Fresh tracks indicate that a pony cart has recently visited and I realize that it is the home of Dr. Reinhold who is most likely tending to her duties.
The road begins to slowly rise. Big Fella easily keeps up the pace and the vegetation begins to thin. The terrain turns from lush to rocky as we approach a high point. The sun returns and feels good. In another hundred yards, we reach a promontory, and a breathtaking panorama unfolds. The road ends in a small circular clearing overlooking the ocean, some hundred feet below.
It is beautiful. I step from the cart and find that the vista includes endless miles of the bright, blue Caribbean and, looking to my left and back, most of Constancia Island. Estovia is too well hidden, but many miles away, at the far end of a verdant carpet, the Victorian meeting house of the villagers arises from the dense undergrowth. The windmill also juts above the horizon, turning forcefully in the breeze.
I begin to understand Lady Constance’s suggestion that I visit the area. The beauty and seclusion are overwhelming, and her offer of employment combined with the building of a personal residence are recalled.
While enjoying the view, I reflect on my actions over the past two days. Indulging, for the f
irst time ever, in D/s endeavors, which I had previously only observed in my many years of researching, documenting, and narrating the unusual life style.
I look back to Big Fella. He stands idly awaiting my next command. I reach for the water bottle and hydrate him accordingly. As he sucks down the liquid, I peer down and see the various small welts caused by my whip hand. The small whip, when applied to areas such as the hand or arm would cause a level of pain akin to a mosquito bite. But when aggressively applied to the nipples, penis and scrotum the results are most effective. ‘It focuses the mind’ I recall one noted dominant woman explaining, ‘with distractions such as tiredness and thirst quickly cast aside with each simple, stinging snap of a penis whip.’
Yes. How true, I think. But it is not the discovery of the truthfulness of the remarks concerning the whip that rattles my subconscious. It is my unmitigated level of enjoyment with its use.
Big Fella begins shuffling his feet and fidgeting. In a not uncommon revelation, it occurs to me that he needs to urinate. Throughout the day various natives had performed the function of releasing his Prince Albert piercing from the abdominal ring. And now there is no one to be seen and Big Fella’s bladder is full.
Another revelation. I can either touch the male penis and mercifully offer relief. Or I can cruelly ignore his needs and enjoy the spectacle as he struggles with his biological urges.
I choose the latter, and again lapse into self-analysis. The water bottle is put aside. I sit on a nearby rock and simultaneously enjoy the view and Big Fella’s dance of discomfort. I begin to better understand the advice of the Bagandan woman in the village that ponies run better with a full bladder. But my thoughts turn to bigger issues.
My paper needs work in order to meet the strict standards of the American Society for Behavior Modification. I know that in the quiet of my room, where I would normally be able to efficiently assemble and edit reams of notes, lurks Ming. ‘Her’ backside beckons the cane just as Big Fella’s phallus invites the thin whip. My employer, the university, will expect meaningful results from my sabbatical. Many professors have made the mistake of treating the time away from lecturing as a vacation, only to find a demotion or a pink slip awaiting their return.
The Constancia Compendium Page 27