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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 offer of Lady Constance lingers more strongly in my mind.
Time passes quickly when so deep in thought. I return to the cart realizing that the light will soon be fading. An eager Big Fella turns and begins walking as quickly as his plug allows. The cart rolls easily down the slope and back into the deep lushness.
When we reach the Reinhold house, the Doctor is just arriving in a pony cart. She wears her white medical uniform and is returning home after a day’s work. She waves and signals me to stop. I tug on the scrotal cords though Big Fella is already following her intentions.
“Come in and see the house, Doctor.”
Normally there would be time but my pony, in effect hobbled by the butt plug, will not return me to Estovia before dark. I explain my situation and Dr. Reinhold just laughs.
“I’ll remove it before he leaves. Water him down and step inside.”
I push the narrow straw of the bottle into his mouth. He fidgets and twists his head. With his bladder full, he resists more water. The perceptive Dr. Reinhold will not let the slightest degree of recalcitrance go unnoticed.
“Well, we can easily deal with that.”
The mendacious Doctor produces a thin strip of rubber. It’s some six inches long, not more than a quarter inch in diameter, and the surface is covered with bumps, ridges and furrows. One end is flanged and as she waves it about I notice that, although somewhat flexible, it is relatively stiff, requiring some degree of effort to bend it.
“A penal agitator. Another interesting device developed by my mother. I think you’ll find Big Fella will display more obeisance after a time.”
The Doctor grasps Big Fella’s stiff manhood, releases it from the Prince Albert piercing then unmercifully pulls it straight down. Big Fella yelps pitifully. He seems to know what’s coming. The dexterous, medically trained fingers of Dr. Reinhold insert the tip of the narrow tube of rubber into my pony boy’s urethra then slowly but steadily slides it into his penis until just the flanged rubber end shows.
The mammoth organ is reattached to the abdominal ring and tears begin to flow. My giant noble beast begins to weep like a child. The pain must be unbearable.
“He’ll better remember his place after bearing the agitator for awhile. Now I suspect you can water him. If not, a slight twist of the agitator will facilitate the process.”
I secure the blindfold and I find the water is indeed now readily accepted. Poor Big Fella. My loyal steed will wait, bladder full, backside stuffed and most painfully, his urethra stretched and irritated by the specially designed rubber strip. I am sure there will be no long-term damage. Preventing and eliminating such was probably the goal of many years of research and experimentation in designing the size and shape of the device. But I doubt if understanding the relative safety of the agitator would be of any comfort to Big Fella. He only knows the painful effect of its presence.
I follow Dr. Reinhold into the house. It is a nicely furnished home. As with most homes in the tropics, the furniture and various fixtures are sturdy. More functional than decorative, everything is obviously chosen with the potential of harsh tropical storms in mind. Otherwise the home is most comfortable.
But Dr. Reinhold has no interest in taking me on a tour. We immediately proceed to the kitchen where large cold drinks are poured.
“I think you’ll find my laboratory of interest. I’ve continued much of my mother’s research concerning hormones.”
She leads me through a doorway into a large room in the back of the house. It is indeed a laboratory, well lit with sophisticated testing equipment, beakers, tubing, jars of strangely colored liquids and in a far corner..., Imelda!
We step closer with Dr. Reinhold explaining the utility of the various pieces of equipment as we proceed through the room. But my attention is riveted on the naked, hairless girl hanging in straps with tubes penetrating numerous openings.
“Yes, you remember Imelda. She’s spends much time being nourished. I believe I can get her to lactate a quart per day soon.”
The girl hangs hooded and prostrate. Broad cloth straps originating from strong hooks above encircle her, one under hips and another under her torso just under her breasts. Her arms her pulled behind her and upwards toward the ceiling where fur lined wrist cuffs seem to comfortably hold her hands immobile. Her legs are bent at the knees and similar fur lined cuffs hold her ankles well up and spread. A cord is attached to an eye-hook on the back of the hood which serves to hold her head up. Under her chest is a small table. On it is a basin filled with liquid where her unseen mammoth breasts are immersed.
The tubes run from canisters hanging above. One penetrates her mouth and apparently feeds to her stomach. Another penetrates her rectum. A third disappears between her thighs, presumably catheterizing her. More tubes are attached to each end of the basin.
She hangs ominously. Her many tiny bells are completely silent indicating that she is either asleep or that Dr. Reinhold has commanded she remain motionless.
Impolitely, I am not listening to the Doctor explain all the laboratory devices. Instead, I am mesmerized by the helpless form of the rounded, pink and Rubenesque flesh hanging from the ceiling.
We finally arrive at the seemingly lifeless, naked girl.
“Well disciplined, wouldn’t you agree? I demand absolute stillness. Posture training is one of my passions and the bells are quite useful. When placing Imelda in a stern pose I can detect the slightest infraction from just about any room in the house.”
A smiling Dr. Reinhold momentarily excuses herself and retrieves a towel and a bowl from a small refrigerator.
“Let’s see how she’s doing.”
