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We passed the turn for the medical building and kept going. There were other turnoffs, which were ignored. Finally Miss Luana pulled to the left and I instantly reacted. This new path led downward and in the corner of my eye to my right I could see a windmill...sleek and shining...it was modern and was turning in the consistent tropical wind.
Both ends of the nose bridle rein were tugged. I slowed.
“The electric power generator,” commented my rider. “Further down the hill is the desalinization plant. We’re very self sufficient here.”
She slowed me to a walk. Though the breeze was quite warm it evaporated my sweat and cooled me. I was tired but proud to have performed for her.
The Thorazine!
Chapter Seventeen
Miss Luana
I direct my steed past the desalinization plant to the slat flats. I slow him to a walk to rest him while I speak and take him on a tour of his new work place.
“The process is simple, Mr. Dalton. Electric motors pump seawater through a network of membranes housed in that building. The water molecule is smaller than the salt molecule. Water passes through. Salt does not. It is not efficient to completely filter all the salt from the water. Therefore a highly salty effluent flows down here to what we have termed the slat flats. Originally we just released it all back into the ocean. Then Lady Constance visited some neighboring islands where the British actually farmed salt hundreds of years ago...filling shallow man made lagoons with seawater and letting the tropical sun evaporate the water. The result was a very valuable commodity in those times. Salt. It was used as a preservative more than as a seasoning and before refrigeration was in high demand. Now, with the craving for ‘all natural’ foods, sea salt is once again in demand. And you, Mr. Dalton, will produce it...with proper encouragement.”
My steed looks out over the three separate ponds. Two are covered in water, still receiving effluent from the plant. The third is a grayish white, filled with mushy brine, which has been drying for days before Mr. Dalton’s arrival. His task...speed the drying process then under my direction and whip hand skim the upper most layers of dried salt for packaging and sale. There are tons to be collected but many hours of many days in which to work. I feel a twinge of arousal knowing I will be working him relentlessly in the hot sun. Abrasions from a whip can be doubly irritating in the salt flats. Mr. Dalton will soon be learning that.
Standing at the ready is a device resembling a small plow, thought it is not to drawn by horses...instead it is to be pushed. The single curved blade is designed to cut through the briny mush, turn over the caked effluent, and thus expose more of the wetness to the sun to speed the drying process. I tug on the right rein and crop a nipple to direct Mr. Dalton to the device.
“Hold the handles and push...it’s that simple.”
He complies of course and after leaning into the plow and establishing some momentum, we begin turning up the brine.
Each lagoon is some hundred yards long and almost as wide. I estimate the first row took Mr. Dalton a full five minutes. In the soft wetness, the feet sink in and it requires several snaps of the crop to ensure he extricates himself. If we are going to completely plow one lagoon per afternoon I will need more speed. I feel wetness with the vision of my whip hand working so hard to ensure the task is done.
We reach the end of the row and I crop and pull the testicle rings with my ankles to teach Mr. Dalton how to turn around the plow. I align him properly and we turn up another row for practice, returning to where we started.
I reach down and gently caress a nipple...still hot from my crop.
“Very good, Mr. Dalton. That’s enough practice for today. We’ll be back tomorrow for a full afternoon.”
I direct him back to the path. Since it is uphill to the main path I let him walk. The sun is declining rapidly and I want to run him in the dark...an important training procedure for any pony boy. So we just amble along while he catches his breath and his muscles become restored.
When we reach the main path I direct him to the side and reach down to his penis. It is partially erect…a very good sign.
I pull back the foreskin just a tad.
“You’ll need to relieve yourself. Do it here please.”
Pleasantly phrased but firmly spoken, I want to further train him and make him realize that I control all his functions. I lean and make some soft sibilant sounds in his ear and after a pause hear his excretions splatter on the hard coral to the side of the path.
When finished I give the modest sized phallus a good shake as I learned from my mother so many years ago when directing the human oxen about the fields.
Then I turn him toward the clinic and wickedly crop away...forcing him to a full run in the gloaming.
Constancia’s lighting system engages the numerous motion sensors detecting our presence and clicking on lights located on both sides of the path. As the sun sets it appears we were traversing a small airport runway. After we pass by the system extinguishes the lights behind us. Expensive and ingenious, Lady Constance enjoys running her pony boys at all hours and spent many dollars assuring that the paths could be navigated without the need for intrusive constant illumination. The lights only come on when person, cart, or chariot is detected.
For the novice pony boy such as Mr. Dalton, the visual effect of running full speed into a narrow area, lit for only some 25 feet ahead, can be daunting. It appears as if he will run into an abyss of blackness. Thus I crop firmly and tightly hold the reins, providing him with reassurance...that I am in command...and that he will perform as directed despite his reservations. He will learn to fear nothing when I am in control.
Though skittish, he learns to work under me and we are nicely propelled through the limited lighted area into the darkness ahead. I know the paths. There is no danger...but Mr. Dalton will learn that by way of my hands on the crop and reins and my feet on the testicle rings. Over time the feel of my controlling hands will be most comforting for him.
He perspires and I treasure the sensation of working a male into a lather. My naked thighs are wrapped about his waist. When he runs I lean forward to establish better balance and thus my breasts press against the naked skin of his back. I can feel his muscles contract and then slacken with each step. When I crop his nipples, I feel the spasms caused by the pain shooting to his cortex. The slightest pull on the nose bridle results in an immediate reaction of his head and the change in direction I mandate. There is a visceral sublimeness in feeling the motion under me.
Despite the generosity of Lady Constance, how can I give this up and leave Constancia Island to attend college? We reach the clinic and after releasing the testicle cords, Mr. Dalton knows to bend so I can dismount. He’s been good. For a novice I have worked him hard and he has responded splendidly.
I take the left portion of the
