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She pinches my cheek as if greeting a young boy. Then her fingers slide down the left side of my face and softly roll my left nipple between thumb and forefinger. It is very deliberate act to remind me of the innumerable clamps she can use to initiate ‘discussion’.
“Would you like to talk to me this morning? Hmm?”
Her fingers withdraw and she steps to my side. I feel something touching my erect penis. It is the toe of her boot, which she has slid under the small stool supporting my stomach.
“You’re very erect this morning Mr. Dalton. Why do you think that has happened? Do you enjoy being tied up and handled by women? Dominant women with such disdain for the male?”
Another round of counseling begins. The sound of Dr. Corrothers’ voice becomes distant. She has moved away, presumably to her chair.
I know I have to answer. But my thoughts are about Miss Luana. We will soon be working the salt flats. I will be free of my bonds and able to perform for her. I envision her sitting in her saddle, calmly cropping my nipples while she runs me into a good sweat...the anal insertion forcing me to stand so proudly for her.
I formulate an answer, but with my thoughts I feel myself stiffen even more.
Chapter Twenty Two
Miss Luana
The drug and days of severe bondage, all instituted under the auspices of the Dominant woman, have a marvelous effect. Jasmine leads a very obedient Mr. Dalton out of the clinic. I stand in wait in a defacto tacking area I have set up under the clinic building’s porte-cochere. The saddle and waist belt hang on pegs along with the custom crafted anal insertion and a small selection of correction instruments.
He appears as excited as a puppy. Obviously after the hours and hours of bondage and the humiliation of lying naked to be inspected, and then fed and bathed like a child, makes him eager for the freedom of the outdoors. Over time, he will also develop eagerness for being run and for the feel of the guiding hand of a Dominant woman and her crop.
A simple cord ending with two hooks hangs from an overhead beam. A smiling Nurse Jasmine attaches Mr. Dalton utilizing his nose bridle, bids me a good day then strolls back to her remaining patients.
I likewise bid her a good day while pulling up the cord. My steed is forced to his toes, his mittens clipped together behind his back. He tries his best to look at me, my firm young breasts providing quite the attraction for the randy and chaste male. He begins to stiffen and I have not yet begun.
“I think you’re going to run for me very nicely today,” I announce in an exuberant voice.
The psychology of working the male beast has been ingrained by way of my mother and her mother before that. Generations of Bagandan women have handled the subordinate male and I know that it is best for both of us if he desires to work for me. It will save his flesh much discomfort and my hands and wrists will not be fatigued at day’s end.
Meanwhile, I slather his nakedness with sun oil, the rays of the sun being extremely direct and penetrating in the tropics. Some degree of sunburn can be useful in maintaining discipline, inflamed skin requiring the most modest of corrective taps to achieve satisfactory results. But we wouldn’t want to desensitize certain areas of pinkness. Thus I am careful to heavily daub his penis, scrotum and nipples. When finished his erection stands at his navel. He enjoys my touch.
I coo words of encouragement while preparing him for the afternoon’s labors. Complimenting him on his nicely hanging sac, I take a testicle between my fingers and ‘pop’ it. A custom I learned as a little girl, I squeeze the gonad until the pressure and the slipperiness of the sun oil causes the little egg to literally shoot out into the scrotal sac, though much hampered by the testicle ring. It’s like pinching the skin, except the stressed organ causes a deep ache, to which Mr. Dalton responds with a meek yelp. Meanwhile he is forced to acknowledge my authority...my control. The precious organs are mine. He merely wears them for me.
When finished, the oil causes my steed to shine radiantly and the proximity of my hands has his manhood standing straight up. He is ready to be saddled and I release his mittens to provide access to his waist.
The belt is buckled around his waist. I lubricate the curved anal insertion, attach it to the bottom of the saddle then gently slide it into Mr. Dalton’s rectum. He so nicely accepts it, the smooth cylinder of metal has been so well crafted it instantly pressures the prostate gland. When prostatic fluid beads from his urethra, I know the bulbous tip has found its mark.
I make a note to inform Nurse Jasmine. After nearly a week of chasti
ty, Mr. Dalton needs milking, a procedure at which the Constancia Island nursing staff is very proficient.
I connect cords to the testicle rings and thread another through the loops in the nose bridle. I have one last addition before releasing the bridle. The front middle of the saddle has a small hole threaded for an attachment. Today I am going to treat myself. I slip a female toy into the aperture and turn to tighten in place. It is a hideous little rubber nub but it so nicely diddles my clitoris. So when I release Mr. Dalton and he bends to offer me his knee and thigh, I lift the small patch of cloth covering my pubes before settling into the saddle. Thus my little rubber friend finds my well shaven mons and with a slight shift of my hips, my little bud wonderfully nestles against it.
Unfortunately for Mr. Dalton, I have decided today to use a special quirt. It’s a short and nasty strand of thin leather, which unlike the crop, will actually excoriate the outer most layer of epidermis when properly stroked. My steed will soon learn of its effectiveness.
I lean and tie the testicle ring cords to my ankle bands, pull the short bridle cord over his head and flick the quirt against the buttocks. His spasmed reaction results in the most thrilling motion of the clitoral stimulator.
It’s going to be a wonderful day!
I bring him to a brisk trot and head for the salt flats. It’s just past noon and the heat immediately brings my steed to a good lather. I can feel his wetness on my inner thighs, which press against his naked skin and also on my breasts as I lean forward for balance. Whenever I snap the quirt against buttocks or nipples he shudders delightfully, sending arousing vibrations through the saddle, the nub and to my clitoris. I experience a half dozen small orgasms by the time we pass the desalinization plant.
The special plow awaits. I direct Mr. Dalton to grasp the handles with mitten covered hands. The day’s work begins. I snap away as the first of dozens of furrows are carved into the perfectly flat expanse of white powder, turning up layers of gray moist brine beneath to be exposed to the drying sun. It is a process that will never end. When finished we will scoop up the dried salt for packaging then move to the next lagoon while this one is refilled from the desalinization plant.
I am reminded of Sisyphus, from Greek mythology...constantly toiling to push a large boulder up a hill...only to reach the top and have it roll back to the bottom where he must begin again.
My steed learns of the effectiveness of my quirt. Light breezes kick up small but thick clouds of powdery whiteness. I can feel his reaction to the sting as skin abraded by the quirt becomes irritated by the salt. And it so nicely causes the saddle to jostle...
Three hours into our efforts I look up to see the profile of Lady Constance’s team and chariot seeming to glow in the afternoon sun. She waves and beckons to me. Her chariot cannot traverse the soft surface of the salt flats.
