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“Good morning, Doctor. We’re very careful to cover our ponies with sun oil. Big Fella is wonderful to work. He erects so beautifully.”
Indeed he does. Botana has paid particular attention to applying the slippery lotion to his penis and scrotum. His penis ring is secured to an abdominal piercing and is as fully tumefied as his band permits. As noted, he seems to be able to avoid the pain of the teeth.
But I also notice that Botana’s breasts glisten with moisture. The lascivious lass has encouraged Big Fella to service her fine young nipples, emulating Lady Constance. The training starts early on Constancia, I think to myself. But then my eyes casually move to her mid section and similar traces left by Big Fella’s mouth and tongue reflect both the sunlight and my pony’s oral skills.
And I realize how well instilled are the elements of control and domination at such an early age. It is not the forced oral servitude per se that so boggles the mind, it is Botana’s level of comfort with it.
The vibrant native girl spends a few moments explaining rudimentary cart skills. Unlike the chariot, the rider sits in a single seat behind the pony. The configuration reminds me of a rickshaw except the pull poles are attached to the pony’s waist belt instead of being held in his hands. A nasty single strand whip stands at the ready. Hopefully, I will not need it. After my evening with Ming, I am frightened by my own diabolism, howsoever induced by drink.
Botana removes Big Fella’s blindfold. He stands without command and I verbally express my intention to visit the village. Ostensibly spoken to Botana, Big Fella understands my desired destination and without need for tugs on the reins or snaps of the whip, he leans into his harness and the cart rolls. I am grateful for his experience. I surmise that a younger pony would continue kneeling and be the recipient of numerous crisp and painful strokes before my intentions were forcibly perceived.
And it is such a beautiful morning for an excursion. Thankfully, I can sit back and enjoy the scenery as Big Fella seems determined to work himself into a lather.
I hold the reins in order to appear experienced and so they don’t tangle in Big Fella’s feet. But otherwise Big Fella is controlling speed and direction. Down the hill, right turn onto the main road and he pours on the speed. The cart is lighter than the chariot and with one passenger it appears that we are moving as quickly as Lady Constance’s vehicle, though I would dare not mention that.
As we move, I reflect on last night’s dinner and my subsequent actions with Ming. Over my many years of studying, writing about, observing D/s relationships and activities, I had never before participated. Research has al
ways been my objective and as the morning sun illuminates the beautiful tropical greenery there too seems be something enlightened in my mind. Under the guise of satisfying my curiosity, I tormented and humiliated Ming. I rationalize. I did nothing that one of Lady Constance’s other guests would not do, I convince myself. And certainly Ming has experienced worse, I think. But through my tabooed involvement, I have to face more than just breaking the unwritten rule of research psychologists. I have to confront the fact that I thoroughly enjoyed myself!
Big Fella begins to perspire. Although the morning air is relatively cool, the sun is intense and I estimate he has run at least a mile at a three-quarter pace.
Is it my thoughts about Ming? Big Fella’s powerful naked buttocks straining just inches away? Perhaps the incredibly long scrotum encasing the huge eggs?
The proximity of the whip also has a bearing. It rests within easy reach its in cylindrical holder. And again I have those thoughts. No one will hear, see, record, relate, speak of, anything that I do on Constancia Island. The well-enforced rule of complete silence for the ponies comes to mind. And again I surrender. My hand grasps the handle and the thin, single strand of leather limply hangs over Big Fella’s back. I flick my wrist. The leather cracks in the air. This time, without the influence of alcohol, my urges again prevail.
I extend my arm to the side as I watched Lady Constance do so many times during yesterday’s journey. I flick my wrist again, this time emulating a tennis stroke. The business end of the whip lashes sideways, unfurls, and snaps to the front of Big Fella. It appears that I missed the targeted right nipple. But as I try the left side, the cart begins to accelerate. My backhand attempt does indeed find the sensitive pink areola and the cart lurches, possibly more in surprise that a dilettante rider would use the whip so prodigiously than the actual pain.
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.
