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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.
r /> Greetings are exchanged and I am introduced to Conida, a supervisor on the farm. I inquire about her actions.
“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.
