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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.
