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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 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.
