Date: Sun, 2 Jul 2006 17:52:16 +1000 (EST)
From: Country Mouse <dr_country_mouse_top@yahoo.com.au>
Subject: The Breaker
Standard Squib: The themes and subject matter in this story are adult,
including but not limited to both consensual and reluctant (including
coerced) sexual acts between persons of the same gender, extreme medical
fetish, mind control, body modification and non consensual sexual
slavery.
Author's Note: Kids, do not try this at home.
This is a fantasy.
Trying to recreate any or all of the elements in this tale would earn you
prison sentences in any country in the world. Everything about it is
non-consensual and unsafe, and would result in long term psychiatric
trauma that would take years to recover from.
In reality, I advocate the principles of Risk Awareness; Safe,Sane and
Consensual BDSM and always observe safer sex guidelines. Safer Sex is a
way of life.
In my fantasies, I can engage in all sorts of reprehensible behaviour
with no harm, no foul.
Mmmm, let's pretend...
There may be additional chapters of this tale. There may not. It
depends on whether the smut bunnies rumbling in the back of my brain
decide to hop out and play or not.
If reading about power dynamics and graphic smut between women is illegal
in your jurisdiction or offends you, please leave now.
I am the feedback whore from hell. If you like my tale, please write to
me and let me know. Don't bother lecturing me about my sins. I already
know that I'm a pervert. I rather like that about me. If, on the other
hand, you're a kinky female (over 21) willing to endure a little training
of your own, I'd love to hear from you.
Email me at: dr_country_mouse_top@yahoo.com.au
The Breaker: Chapter One?
copyright 2006 by dr_country_mouse_top
Story codes: F/f, F^f, BD, anal, fist, non consensual , spank, sm,
medical fetish, mind control,
body modification, pony play
Nifty category: Lesbian/authoritarian
The author grants the Nifty Archive a non-exclusive, worldwide,
royalty-free, perpetual, and non-cancellable license to display the
work.
All other rights reserved.
I prefer working with wild caught stock. Does that make me evil?
Don't get me wrong. I appreciate the tame and the beautiful and the
joyfully submissive as much as the next pervert. I just like my wild
ones better.
Don't let the history books, the socially active and the politically
correct try to fool you. The human slave trade is alive and well, from
bar girls in Bangkok to brothels in the former Soviet Union's satellite
states. People drop out from society all the time. The few slaves that
make a break for it and make it into the public eye are far and few
between.
Men and woman, boys and girls, even young children...they are all bought
and sold for sexual purposes every day all over the world. Some sell
themselves into service, and some are forced into it.
I suppose most folks would consider it wrong to buy another human
being. I consider it an investment in my mental health.
I don't drink. I don't smoke. I don't do recreational drugs. I
don't gamble. I consider my activities as normal and natural as the guy
around the corner from me who breeds purebred Black Australorp hens for
the show ring or the lady whose property shared a private road with mine
who spent thousands on her various craft hobbies. I swear that just
listening to that woman exhausted me. She could sew, knit, crochet, make
lace, embroider and play the fucking harp too. Talk about an
overachiever...
My little hobby seemed almost tame by comparison.
So the livestock I board and train walks on two legs some of the time.
Compared to some of the shit the craft lady gets up to with a glue gun, I
figure I'll win in the `boring and respectable' sweepstakes every
time. I'm just one of hundred of escapees from the Big Smoke, people
who fled the city for the lifestyle one could still find in our regional
community.
Going to Leather Pride was now a matter of scheduling the holiday time
and booking hotels and airline tickets. The dungeon that was just a
fifteen minute walk away now was half a day away. But there were
compensations.
I wasn't rich, but in the country, I could maintain a very pleasant
standard of living and I no longer had to worry about pesky neighbours.
No one thought it strange when the truck delivered an enormous old
container to my property soon after I bought the place. It was a fairly
common solution to the problem of storage. Hell, some people converted
them to weekenders.
Everybody was accustomed to doing whatever they felt like on their
properties when it came to buildings. There were now zoning laws, but
nobody bothered with building permits most of the time. There were more
raised eyebrows over the plumbing I had done than over the presence of
the container and an assortment of sheds on the property.
It was a DIY queen's paradise. Hell, I even took shop classes at the
local TAFE, the accredited vocational school system in Oz. I took
fucking `shop' classes, learning how to use the tools safely, learned
welding and how to lay bricks and pour concrete. I took classes with the
local wood turning club, slowly accumulating the tools and the skills to
build my own dungeon furniture and caging. It took five years to build
my training facility, doing it in dribs and drabs as I could spare the
money while still saving for my foundation stock.
The slab pour and the plumbing were both expensive, even if I paid cash
under the table and did the case of beer thing for the guys on site. I
did a lot of the rest myself, and began with a single wild caught bitch
five years ago. She's my pride and joy even today. As I unlocked the
training facility for the transport crew, my first bitch was watching me
from her pen in the corner. Yeah, I know I should confine her to a cage
at night but I'm an indulgent Owner. Sue me.
The other three watched from their cages as the freshly caught bitch
arrived, drugged into unconsciousness as she would have been for most of
the time since her capture. She would have received minimal handling,
kept deeply drugged for anything that required interaction. It was safer
for the capture team, the handlers and the transport crew as well as
ensuring that I wasn't dealing with someone else's mistakes.
The transport crew helped me muscle the new bitch out of the shipping
container, stripping off the medical restraints she would have worn since
her capture. We changed the hood supplied by the transport company for
one of my own, removed the straight jacket and the adult diaper, which
was thankfully still in pristine condition
There was always a medic on the transport crews, and I'd worked with the
woman before. She was good, and knew her stuff. She checked the
bitch's vitals and gave me an estimate when she would awaken from her
drugged sleep. "Do you want me to top her up, or are you going to let
her sleep it off?" The question was company policy, and she had to ask,
even if she already suspected the answer.
I told the transport medic to let the bitch sleep it off. Some Trainers
take care of the preliminaries while the fresh catch is still deeply
tranked. I prefer to begin as I mean to go on. Drugs might make the
early stages easier, but I've always been firmly convinced that one can
spot the difference later on. I take more time training the basics but
the results are well worth the extra effort.
I checked the file the transport medic handed me, noting that the bitch
had been allowed to eliminate several hours earlier...a little nicety that
was no doubt responsible for the clean diaper. "Did you make her break
toilet training?" Don't ask me how they measure these things, but
supposedly it's more traumatic than rape for most people.
"No, we let her use a toilet, but we made her beg real pretty first. We
kept the straight jacket on, of course. I wiped her and cleaned her up
afterwards." The medic bared her teeth in a wolfish grin. "She
cried," she reported with obvious relish. "I don't think she's been
handled much."
I showed a few teeth myself. "Excellent."
After a little of chit chat and organizing a bit of a social thing for
the next time my favourite perverted medic had a few days off, the
transport crew left, hoping to get back to the main highways before dusk
when they would have to be on the lookout for `roos. I busied myself
with toileting the three caged bitches, set them up for a little
hydrotherapy and amused myself at leisure with my favourite bitch.
I noticed the new bitch stirring as I supervised the morning workout. I
let her wear herself out a little, discovering exactly how helpless she
was. The modified sawhorse was slightly wider than one used for less
perverse pursuits, thickly padded and upholstered in sturdy, commercial
weight vinyl of the sort used on hospital equipment. The bitch lay on
her belly down the length of the sawhorse, her thighs held wide by the
legs of the equipment and her kneeling position on the leg supports.
Her face was framed within the space provided for it in the head
support. A wedge corrected the hip angle and made sure her sex and ass
were easily accessible, while restraints and suspension cuffs secured the
bitch to the equipment. More straps crossed the back of her skull and
high on her back, just passing under her arms but above her breasts as
they hung on either side of the narrow central platform. She was bound
with a broad strap at the small of her back and another over her hips,
more restraints securing both arms and legs to the sawhorse legs and the
well padded supports that made her look as if she were kneeling in
midair.
There wasn't a lot of play in the restraints, certainly not enough so
that she could hurt herself pulling against them, as she might have if
she were just in the suspension cuffs. I just let her tire herself out
for a while. She quickly dissolved into tears and wailing that was
garbled by the ventilated ball gag. It had been almost twenty four hours
since her capture, although she had probably only been awake and aware
for less than two hours of that very long day.
I crated up my two novice bitches and the one I had in for boarding,
leaving each of them with something to think about before I returned my
favourite to run loose in her pen with the gate unlocked. I didn't
take chances, even with her. She was hobbled with weights, allowing her
limited freedom. All of my current responsibilities taken care of, I
gloved up and settled down to the long slow process of breaking the new
bitch.
She was whimpering a little bit, her body dewed with sweat. Her scent
was sharp with fear and adrenaline, with the sour undertone of drugs.
She jerked and startled wildly when I slid a slick finger over her
asshole. She was blind and deaf inside the hood, her head thrashing as
she twisted in the restraints, newly afraid.
The restraints held her firmly in place, no matter how wildly she tried
to avoid my probing finger. I massaged the tightly clenched little hole
patiently, smoothing more lube over it and nudged a finger tip within its
tight grasp. I petted her bottom, just stroking my hand over her ass and
thighs, languidly teasing her while I waited for her to figure out that
the finger in her ass wasn't going to kill her.
As soon as she calmed a little, I immediately nudged my finger in deeper,
and started to give her a nice little hand spanking. I'm not sure which
sensation had her wailing, but I suspect it was the anal penetration.
Most wild bitches are frantic when they first experience it, although the
bitches I get in for training are usually worse, ruined by bad handling
and impatient owners.
My hands are small, even for a woman, and I have long, slender fingers.
I used plenty of lube, and took my time, but that ass was going to be
opened up if it took me the next week to manage it. Her butt was warming
up nicely by the time she finally settled down a little, uttering small
squeaks of protest in sweet counterpoint to the sound of my hand striking
her pretty bottom as I eased that single finger in and out of her
asshole.
The stainless steel syringe was perfect for the initial flush. Between
the drugs, the stress and the travelling, she was surely in need of a
thorough purging. She yelped in surprise as the heated oil suddenly
flooded her ass, the pressure forcing oil high up into her bowel. As
upset as that made her, her yelp of protest was nothing compared to the
pleading whimpers that came a few minutes later.
I used my favourite rubber slapper. It would leave her feeling
thoroughly spanked without the possibility of deeper tissue damage, like
the welts and bruises left by some other toys. The rubber was easy to
disinfect and clean, always an important consideration. Between the
pressure building in her gut and the pain of the strapping, she was soon
wailing again, sobbing piteously, utterly mortified when her sphincter
finally gave up the ghost. I reached around from the side and massaged
her clitoris as she voided her bowels, staying well out of range of her
distressed spurting.
I hosed away the foul smelling slime, briskly washing her anus and
perineum before changing my gloves and starting over, slipping a well
lubricated finger in her ass to slick her up for the next treatment.
First came two additional litres of heated mineral oil followed by a
vibrating butt plug hardly than my index finger. It added a whole new
dimension to the retention phase as I gave her the spanking she would
always receive with her enemas during training.
After ten minutes, I removed the butt plug and strapped her until her
sphincter gave way under the pressure building up in her gut. The
second oil purge loosened up the remaining stool in her bowels, filling
the air with the usual stench. I gagged a little and opened another
window, even if I knew the ventilation system was rated to handle such
things, at least in theory. It was perhaps my least favourite chore to
attend to, but I was neither wealthy enough nor foolish enough to trust
the early phases of training to a groom or handler.
The third enema was warm distilled water and a generous dash of a liquid
Castile soap. I used the double nozzle, taking the time to work
the bitch's tight sphincter until she relaxed enough to accept the
interior balloon. I inflated it slowly, almost coaxingly. I didn't
want her to learn any bad habits and start fearing the anal dilation.
She was truly very distraught. Training a wild bitch isn't like the
porn stories. She was too scared to suddenly be possessed with a wild
urge to be fucked in the ass until she screamed the place down. I still
tried to make the experience as erotic as possible, using my other hand
to cup her sex, gently petting and massaging her clitoris as the soapy
water began to fill her.
The twin balloons of the catheter nozzle meant that I could fill her
without worrying about unplanned leakage. Her belly was distended with
water when I squeezed the bag to work the last of the three litres into
her ass. I rubbed her back with a comforting hand as I squeezed the
clamp off, halting the flow.
The bitch was sweating and trembling and whimpering as the soap made her
gut clench and cramp. I slicked up my other hand and continued toying
with her labia, pinching the outer lips, sliding teasingly over her clit,
circling her inner labia and coaxing a slick fingertip just inside her
scared, dry cunt. I didn't expect to coax true arousal from her. I
was just letting her get used to being handled while her attention was
focused on her bulging belly.
The volume and the effect of the soap meant that there was little
resistance when I finally turned the valve to bleed the air out of the
balloons. I had just begun to strap her again when she started to void.
I immediately reached down to pet her clitoris as she voided, murmuring
words of praise even if I knew she still had earplugs in.
The fourth enema was pure distilled water, four litres administered
slowly and patiently as I rubbed her back and caressed her sex. She
whimpered but lay passively in the restraints, no longer fighting, at
least for the moment, exhausted by the ordeal of her capture and
transport.
She leaked a little when I removed the inner balloon, then obediently
expelled about half of the fluid before I plugged her with a well
lubricated vibrating butt plug. I used a plug in vibe, strong enough to
actually do her some good. Certainly the sound effects the vibration
coaxed from my new bitch were entertaining enough.
I teased and spanked her while the vibrator throbbed and growled. The
bitch whined a little, a little moisture beginning to shine on her inner
lips. It was totally demoralizing to realize that one's body could
betray one so totally, but even the toughest bitch had a hard time
resisting the charms of a Hitachi Magic wand purring in her ass. The
realization started up tears again.
I dabbled a gloved finger tip in her cunt, just barely nudging the
entrance and then swirled her slick over her clit before returning to
harvest more of her sexual fluids. The bitch was starting to juice up
nicely, so I kept petting her clit and cunt and spanked her just a little
harder. It was always such a delight to take a new bitch to that fine
line between fear and arousal, pain and pleasure.
Orgasm wasn't the goal of this first session, even if I was delighted by
her response to the powerful vibrator in her ass. I wouldn't worry
about the orgasms until we had dealt with some of the more basic
behaviours. I think she was disappointed when I stopped teasing and
spanking her. I removed the buttplug and started strapping her again.
Again, it wasn't a harsh whipping, although her ass and thighs were
already cherry pink and probably burned like hell. As soon as she
started to expel, I stopped paddling her and went back to massaging her
clitoris. After three good squirts, she was so turned on that she was
clamping down, her PC muscle flexing even if her belly was still swollen
with retained water.
I strapped her until she shrieked and squirmed and produced a small
squirt, and then a larger one as she bore down. Of course, I immediately
rewarded her with more clitoral stimulation. I waited until she was
empty and the tiny pink circle winked at me again before slipping a slick
finger back in her ass, lubing her up again. She moaned as I eased the
second finger inside her tight hole, but she had been thoroughly
prepared.
I scissored my fingers, flexing and twisting them, holding them open to
stretch her hole a little further. I alternated between spanking the
bitch's red tail and playing with her steadily oozing sex, working more
lube into her ass. Twice she whimpered, her ass rippling around my
fingers as her bowel clutched, trying to expel the last of the water
still draining down from deeper in her gut.
Although she hadn't come and was definitely growing more interested in
doing so, I was more interested in finishing her first purging. She
hardly even whimpered when I eased the Hirschfeld speculum in her ass.
Removing the central core, I began snaking a rectal-colon tube up her
ass, wiggling it as I eased it further and further up her gut.
The speculum held her sphincter open, letting the water flow freely as it
spilled out high in her colon to give her a final rinse with sterile
saline solution. Leaving her to drain, I returned my attention to her
sex, spanking her red butt as I played with her clitoris. Her butt was
flaming, the skin burning under my hands as I stroked her pretty tail.
She had been well tenderized.
When the last bag was empty, I jiggled the tubing and began to snake it
back out of her colon, careful to keep teasing and petting, unsurprised
as more clean water flowed out of the speculum that still held her
sphincter open. I would leave it in place for a while, waiting for the
last of the water to drain.
I bustled about, cleaning up the area, setting the used equipment its
usual spot for disinfection and sterilization. My favourite slipped out
of her pen and quietly took over the task of dealing with the used
equipment, carefully washing her hands before she drew on the nitrile
gloves. I smiled my thanks, and patted her red butt, tugging playfully
on her harness and making her purr and squirm happily.
Knowing that my bitch was both confident and capable of handling the
never ending cleaning, disinfection and sterilization chores, I left her
to it. My favourite is walking, talking proof of the benefits of taking
the time to establish a proper foundation when Training a wild one.
Sure, I could break a fresh catch in a matter of minutes. So could
anybody with a strong right arm and a reasonable degree of hand-eye
coordination.
I didn't use pain for true punishment, which was markedly different from
many Trainers. I still believed that a bad slave should
receive...absolutely nothing. Punishment and corrections came in many
forms, but never in the form of traditional corporal punishment. I was
never sure if the bitches folks sent me for boarding were here for the
more classical style of my Training or simply for the sphincter
conditioning.
Male Tops certainly seemed to find the results entrancing. `Like a
nutcracker!' was a frequent and amusing comment. The guys laughed their
heads off over the irony of sending their female slaves to a dyke to
learn how to keep their Owner's cock's happy. They didn't care that
the same muscles that produced the vaginal and rectal clenching that the
male dominants were so enthusiastic about also were responsible for
ensuring and improving both the quality and frequency of a woman's
orgasms.
The other result of the basic sphincter training is that it increases
elasticity and comfortable dilation levels. The bitch I had in for
boarding was the pampered pet of a British expatriot living in Hong
Kong. Her owner was chewing his fingernails in the Park Hyatt in Sydney,
terrorizing the concierge and the butlers while his princess was
receiving a little remedial anal training.
She may have been willing but she was also spoiled rotten. Fortunately,
that wasn't my problem, although her tantrums and threats were boring
after the first two days. It was the whining that was going to drive me
up the fucking wall. And dealing with all that hair was surely more
trouble than it was worth. She was a pretty thing, all fluffed and
polished in the pictures her Owner had sent me, clearly hoping to entice
me with her pink and pampered body.
It was only a request from an existing client, and a thorough
investigation of the Owner that persuaded me to accept the bitch for a
thirty day trial stay. The boarded bitch was one that we had
deliberately forced to break toilet training several times, both during
transit and in her first days in my facility. I kept her gagged most of
the time. It was easier on my nerves. But she was responding nicely to
the training and was starting to feel a little pride in herself, just as
she should.
The training regimen I use is not particularly suited for an independent
bitch living among a vanilla society. It takes time and dedication, just
as it takes time to train an Olympic athlete. While the boarded bitch
would benefit from an improved attitude and will have made a start on her
training, it took years of full time training to produce what I would
consider a Finished Bitch.
Most women were too busy staying alive to manage anything more than a few
hours of training squeezed in around work and school and family
commitments and the demands of lovers both loving and malign and
sometimes both. The boarded bitch was a part time student, living in
her Owner's luxurious penthouse and sleeping in his bed. Much of her
life was apparently spent either shopping or at the salon. I suspected
I would have another regular client on my hands when she left. There
were several owners that sent their favourites to me for boarding and
training, returning year after year.
Although he had nearly ruined his pampered princess with his mishandling,
he was quite sincere and the clients that had vouched for him were
convinced that he would follow up with the exercises and disciplined
training regimen I would send her home with. I didn't even really mind
that he spoiled the bitch. She was a cute little thing, all big eyes and
sly, coy sexuality. Not my type, but whatever floats your boat.
The important thing was that she would probably be motivated to continue
her exercises at home. There wasn't a lot happening inside that fluffy
little head of hers but she understood self interest very well. As soon
as she figured out that she would come harder and more frequently as a
result of the training, there had been a dramatic reduction in her
whining.
I glanced over at her. She was occupied with the video feed for her
cell, watching some lucky bitch get electrical stimulation through the
specula filling both holes. The pampered bitch brushed her hair in fits
and starts, transfixed by the events on screen, her hips moving slightly
as she worked herself on the plugs in her training belt.
My novice bitches had their eyes on me, as they should. They didn't
have the time to spend hours playing with their hair every day. They
were working bitches in training, not some spoiled city princess on a
kinky holiday. I kept their hair trimmed with the number two blade on my
clippers, and they had both become quite adept at waxing each other for
the rest of it. I would likely sell them as a team in another eighteen
months, if the new bitch worked out. I had acquired them within days of
each other and had always trained them together, although I made sure
that they had plenty of time to socialize with my favourite.
I was training them on spec, as an investment. I knew I would make a
hefty profit on their sale. I was fond of them, but they would do better
with an Owner who would show them off. If I found a suitable placement
for them, the profit would pay for the new bitch and two more wild
prospects.
I wanted to get the wild bitch settled in her cage before the Owner of
the boarded bitch called for his report and a special training session.
She was lying quietly in the restraints, aroused and confused and
exhausted, but very clean. I eased the speculum free of the wild
bitch's anus, adding it to the bucket of goodies waiting for my
favourite to pick up for cleaning.
The sawhorse was heavily padded, designed to hold someone in bondage for
hours, but the long hours of transport and various forms of restraint
were making themselves known. She was shifting restlessly, trying to
stretch her sore muscles while still bound.
The wild bitch squealed, startled when I ran a slick finger around her
anal ring, admiring the results of her treatment thus far, the muscles
soft and relaxed and receptive. I covered the first dilator with lube
and eased it in, petting the bitch's engorged sex as I twisted it and
rocked it a little, drawing it back to seat it more firmly, letting the
straps of the training belt dangle between her legs. I used only a
couple of weighted and well lubricated eggs inside her almost untouched
cunt, letting the cord with its convenient ring dangle from inside her
body. She was nice and juicy between the lube and her reluctant arousal,
but I didn't want to teach her any more bad habits. The medic's report
stipulated an estimated age of twenty-five, old enough to have acquired
all sorts of odd ideas about vaginal penetration.
When it comes right down to it, both anal and vaginal penetration are all
about muscle control. The bitch needed to learn how to accept dilation
without fear or pain as well as needing to learn how to tighten the same
muscles, to clench and clamp down, flexing the PC muscle in order to
orgasm, or provide a special treat for some lucky biological male with a
flesh and blood cock. The wild bitch was unlikely to experience such
things again -- at least not unless I sold her. I don't let anyone
play with my bitches, and certainly not males. Toys, on the other hand,
would become a permanent part of her life.
I'm possessive. It's probably one of my less attractive qualities.
I'll show off my stock as happily as the next pervert, but ask before
you touch or I'll tear your head off and shove it up your ass. Hell,
my favourite bitch was my version of a pampered princess. I just had a
more rigorous attitude and style than the owner of the bitch I had in
boarding.
I fiddled with the training belt, getting the fittings adjusted so it was
secure and as comfortable as possible. The wild bitch would be wearing
the belt often and for long periods of time. But the neoprene tack was
flexible, softly padded, waterproof and easy to clean. There was even a
cut out to make it easier to reach her clitoris, a refinement of my own
design. I liked the classic plug harness, but usually it was fitted so
closely that it was all but impossible for the wearer to reach her clit.
She was still getting used to being handled, so I needed particularly
easy access to her clitoris until she settled down, as well as needing to
provide for urination without being forced to remove the belt. I removed
the loose helmet I had hastily covered her with, revealing the separate
blindfold and earplugs. The wild bitch moaned, voice garbling
plaintively as she tried to ask questions around the ball gag...which
reminded me.
"Gag the boarder," I told my senior bitch. She grinned and fetched a
ball gag. The boarded bitch obeyed my bitch's hand signals with wary
caution. Nobody ran afoul of my bitch without impunity. The spoiled
princess had learned a few hard lessons that first week.
Knowing that my bitch had matters well in hand, I fetched the clippers,
plugging them into the power strip mounted on the sawhorse. "I will
have silence from you three," I warned my stock as I began to shave the
wild bitch's head, ignoring her sudden cry of outraged protest.
She sobbed as I shaved her head, clipping away her pretty shoulder length
mane. It wasn't as tidy a job as I would do the next time, but I was
working around all the various straps and fittings that held her gag, the
blindfold and the earplugs. The next part was tricky, and I did it in
phases.
I removed the blindfold and unfastened the gag, but left it in her mouth,
pausing to run a damp washcloth over the bitch's face, wiping away sweat
and tears and snot as she blinked and whimpered. The next hood would fit
better, now that her hair was no longer in the way. After a quick glance
over to the boarder to verify that she was safely gagged, I removed the
ear plugs and pulled the next hood over my wild bitch's head.
The earplugs and blindfold went on over the hood, covering her sense
organs through the cut outs in the hood, plunging her back into the dark
and silence. She moaned when I eased the ball gag of her mouth and
whined when it was immediately replaced with a rubber bit. Even with the
ventilation holes in the ball gag, I always worried about leaving a bitch
unattended since she could conceivably asphyxiate in a matter of seconds
if any number of unlikely scenarios happened in a particularly malignant
sequence.
Her words were more intelligible as she tried to ask questions around the
rubber bit in her mouth. I ignored her, rearranging the restraints
around her wrists and lower arms so I could fit the bondage mittens on.
I released the restraints on her upper body and down as far as her hips,
letting her figure out that she could kneel up although her hands were
clumsy paddles inside the padded hospital mittens. There were designed
for the safe confinement and restraint of violent and aggressive
psychiatric patients in criminal hospitals and the like. There was
actually an outfit known as Humane Restraint who manufactured all sorts
of lovely toys, although they were a legitimate and perfectly vanilla
company with simply a rather unusual market niche.
Much of my equipment was from them, or featured their products heavily
modified for more nefarious purposes. My friend the perverted transport
medic had rather an arrangement, an entire private clinic operating in
the unused and conveniently abandoned wing of an old nursing home. I
suspected several people were making a great deal of money there, since
it offered a very kinky total immersion experience for the very wealthy,
either for their own enjoyment or for the education of their toys, and
reportedly their enemies. It also functioned as a depot for the
transport company.
The wild bitch finally figured out how to brace herself while her hands
were in the restraint mittens, kneeling up cautiously. She flinched when
I ran a gloved hand over her front, startled by the sensation of latex
gliding over her breasts. A small abortive move was the only protest,
although she was still babbling around the bit. I moved my hand to cover
her mouth, muffling her protests.
She was a clever bitch. It only took two warnings, my hand simply
covering her mouth. I grinned at my favourite bitch as she rejoined me,
having completed her chores. "She seems smart," my bitch offered,
encouraged by what she had seen so far.
The wild bitch showed promise. "We'll see," was all I would say yet.
"Steady her while I work the front for a bit." My bitch might not be
the biggest woman around, but she's sleek and wiry and surprisingly
strong. There was little softness to her body after five years of hard
training.
The wild bitch flinched again and then squeaked a little as the rectal
dilator reminded her of its presence. Her protests were muted, muffled,
just small sounds and twitches as I ran my gloved hands over her breasts
and belly. I toyed with her nipples, gently brushing them with my
thumbs, warming them up before I started pinching them between my thumb
and two fingers.
Once again, I didn't hurt her, although it was probably something less
than comfortable. I just wanted her to accept the handling without
protest. She surged in my bitch's grip when I slid my hand down to
massage her clit, tugging playfully on the string tied to the eggs
shifting around in her cunt. My bitch just held her steady, biceps
popping and deltoids flexing, the traps rising up as my favourite rode
out the wild one's aborted protest.
I dallied a moment more, just to make a point, and then released the leg
restraints, leaving the cuffs attached to the leg spreader bar. A sturdy
hospital restraint wrap stabilized her torso for easy handling, pinning
her arms by her sides and outfitted with two sturdy canvas handles to
help us manhandle her around.
It took both of us to hold her steady as we pulled her backwards off the
horse and into a standing position. We had to catch her several times
before she mastered the trick of hobbling backwards. She was quicker to
pick up how to walk forward, with the wide legged rapid shuffle imposed
by the leg spreader bar.
We hand walked her for an hour, making her walk and stand and turn,
shuffling forward and backwards, deaf and blind inside the hood. We had
her change position frequently, arching backwards to offer up her breasts
and clit, tipping forward at the hips to offer up her plugged ass and
another angle of access on her nipples and clitoris.
I didn't care if she enjoyed it or hated it or if she was simply
terrified. All I demanded at this early stage was that she obey. We
even made her shift her hips from side to side, and then backwards and
forward, forcing her to ride the dilator in her ass. It was no larger
than my two fingers, entirely suitable for an anal virgin. There was
even a vent to prevent the inevitable pressure build up.
I spanked and teased her in each posture and position, my hands rarely
still, plucking at nipples, stroking over a bare flank, circling that
tender nub between her legs. I nearly laughed when I saw her cunt start
to ooze again. I dabbled a finger in her melt and brought it up to her
nose, and then painted it over her lips, where she could flick out a
tongue and taste herself.
I could see her blushing where her face was exposed between all the
fittings. She uttered a particularly despairing little sob, making my
bitch chuckle. I reached down and toyed with the wild one's engorged
clitoral shaft, slipping through her melt and sliding over her clit, over
and over and over again, until she was juicing up beautifully, hips
starting to move.
It broke her, almost as totally as the purging had done. Amused, I
promptly abandoned her reluctantly interested genitals. Rape is rarely
about sex. Non-consensual sex is about power, or the lack of it. Even
someone who is truly unwilling can be forced to experience arousal, if
the handler is skilled enough. It was more common among male victims of
sexual assault, due to the vulnerability of the prostate gland, but it
has also been documented in women.
Being forced to recognize that her body was aroused by what was being
forced on her was totally shattering for my latest acquisition.
Leaving the wild bitch in my favourite's capable hands, I opened up the
cage door and started the set up for her next treatment. The whole side
of the cage swung open on its heavy duty hinges. The cages were raised
off the floor to improve air circulation and to make cleaning easier. A
cunning arrangement of dense foam shapes, similar to the Liberator line
of play room furniture, allowed me to restrain a bitch in any number of
positions. By removing one section of the bedding, there was a niche
where one could even put out a litter box. There were guides and
channels and pulleys rather like on a sailboat, capable of holding either
rope or chains. I had a plethora of options when it came to attachment
points. There was even a small DVD player that could be set up in any
number of locations both inside and outside the cage, although outside,
it was just easier to let my bitches all watch the big screen TV in the
central training area.
We soon had the wild bitch in position, her head locked into place by the
leash on the hood and a few sturdy web straps. She was lying on her back
propped up in a semi-reclining position, the leg spreader bar replaced
with retractable lines. She could straighten her knees and stretch her
legs, although she would be forced to do so by stretching her legs as far
apart as they would go, the lines running through the channels welded in
the upper corners of the cage roof. The slack in the lines as she
stretched was automatically taken up by the counterweights, keeping the
ropes taut and untangled.
Her other choice was to relax her legs, at which point her knees would
bend, her legs supported in something very close to a sling, with broad,
padded support under her thighs and calves. My bitch fiddled with the
DVD player and hooking up the sound to the lines trailing out of the wild
bitch's hood as I did a final check on her wrist restraints, the tension
lines fastened to the suspension cuffs. Once again, it would enable her
to change positions, although one hand was restrained over her head,
still in the clumsy mitten, with enough range of motion to bring her
wrist down to chin level. Because of the angle on that tension line,
when relaxed, the wild bitch's arm would rest on top of another set of
foam padding, providing support to the arm and shoulder.
Her other hand's resting position was pointedly between her wide spread
thighs. I stroked her clitoris with gloved fingers and then freed her
hand from the mitten. I guided her own fingers to her clit, encouraging
her to play with herself. The lines ran to the lower channels on the
floor of the cage, so she could lift her right hand as far up as her
belly, giving her enough flexibility and range of motion to minimize
muscle fatigue and cramping, always the hazard of long term bondage. The
torso straps held her firmly to the cage bed.
Her position exposed that attachment point under the rectal dilator, just
as every posture she would be trained to hold would expose her sex and
ass. I fitted the end of the Hitachi Magic Wand to it and flipped the
switch, the distinctive throbbing purr of the vibrator sounding very
loud. The wild bitch whined a little, but I swatted her inner thigh and
drew her fingers firmly back to her clit.
I didn't expect a lot from her. As long as her fingers at least rested
on top of her clitoris, I was happy. But as soon as her fingers slipped
away, I cut loose with a volley of stinging slaps to her inner thighs.
She uttered a muffled shriek and hastily put her fingers back on her
clit.
I would be cautious about the bitch seeing my face, or any sort of
identifying clothing or marks. It would probably be a few years before I
would trust her enough to let her see my face. My favourite had seen me,
but the two novices had not yet earned that right. The boarding bitch?
Please, do I really come off as being that stupid?
Only the transport company crew knew my location. None of my neighbours
knew what I did, and only a handful of trusted leather folk knew me from
play parties and events. The kink scene in any large city is somewhat
transitory. Only a few knew of my interest in training bitches and
certainly none of them knew that I was anything other than another
slightly kinky country mouse with a particular fondness for anal sex and
some fairly peculiar relationships with gay men in the leather scene,
both in Oz and abroad.
I wish I could say that the timer on the Hitachi was some miracle of
modern technology run from my laptop. Unfortunately, it was just one of
those household timers that one can buy at any hardware store for less
than twenty bucks. Hell, for less than ten! It was designed to turn the
lights or the television set on and off according to the times set on the
device, which simply plugged into the usual power outlet, or `power
point', as the locals called it. It may have been prosaic, but the
damned thing worked pretty well.
Training bitches is a lot like training performance horses, and it's
just as scientific. Whatever fancy technology that you've admired in
television clips about sporting heroes probably was born out of the horse
industry. Training performance horses -- whether they were race horses
or Grand Prix Jumpers or even flashy little Hackney ponies - it was based
on both science and tradition. There's always been big money there;
the sport of kings.
Interval training, building endurance, developing flexibility, speed and
power - it was all the same. Elite performance horses swam in swimming
pools, ran on treadmills and were massaged and pampered at least as well
as elite human athletes. The neighbours saw the Welsh ponies I spoiled
worse than grandchildren and probably laughed at me.
I would break my wild bitch just the way horsemen have gentled wild
things for thousands of years. She was bound, so she couldn't hurt me
or herself. The hood kept her calm and quiet until she grew accustomed
to my touch. There were blinders for her to wear and a variety of other
tack and training accessories that would be introduced.
She would be trained through repetitive exercises, given no alternative
except the choice I wanted. She wouldn't even have the opportunity to
protest. When the exercise had sunk into muscle memory, her performance
would be fine tuned and polished until it was perfect. Of course, if I
asked her to perform, I had to be sure that she was physically ready for
the movements and pace and activities I asked for. There would be long
months of careful physical development, specific exercises to make sure
the bitch's body was capable of doing whatever I wanted.
So my homely little household timer turned on the Hitachi Magic Wand and
turned it off fifteen minutes later. I had cannibalized several timers
so that I had enough start and stop pegs to set the timer to alternate
fifteen minutes on with fifteen minutes off for a period of three hours.
I didn't expect to get her off, but the vibration was relaxing, and very
far from painful. The purpose was to simply relax her anal sphincter
enough to accept the next size of rectal dilator without discomfort.
The training harness with its clitoral cut out meant that I could start
training her to masturbate right away. Once again, I didn't expect much
in the way of a performance, but she would grow accustomed both to
wearing the equipment and to being touched. We left the cage door
standing open, making it easy to pet her and tease her and play with her
clit or her nipples as we went about our day.
My three bitches descended on the boarded bitch and prepped her for the
special training session. The pampered princess from Hong Kong was
almost more afraid of them than she was of me. My bitches weren't
spoiled darlings, and they had very little patience for the sly brat.
With a final sigh, I left my new project and trudged over to deal with
the brat. Just because I didn't like her didn't mean I wasn't going
to do my best with her.
* * * * *
The special training session for the boarded bitch was more successful
than I had hoped. Under the frantic fluffing and coy bullshit, there was
actually a strong young woman. Her Owner was clearly besotted with the
bitch, but even he had run out of patience with her. He was stern and
loving and unyielding, monitoring events via web cam, his voice coming to
her through the speakers. I had planned the session carefully, coaching
her Owner and making sure that it would have as much impact as possible.
It was his idea to use the raw ginger for a proper figging session. It
was my lead bitch who suggested turning the raw ginger root on the lathe
in my shop to improve the shape, crafting a plump butt plug. His
princess didn't look quite so polished anymore, red faced and sobbing
pitifully around her gag as she shuddered in her restraints.
I don't believe in short cuts. It makes my training methods slower in
the beginning. I had given the boarded bitch a taste of the basics, and
I suspected that she would be more dedicated than her owner. I felt like
a damned marriage counsellor as they negotiated new boundaries to their
relationship.
Hell, maybe I'm lazy. Maybe I'm just a control freak. I don't have
the patience for keeping pets anymore. All that talking and discussing
and negotiating would drive me round the bend. I was more tired after
listening to them natter on for an hour than I am after a hard day
training my stock.
I was more than delighted to finish with them and get back to my wild
one. She was just finishing her final fifteen minutes of vibration when
I checked on her, drawing on fresh gloves as I circled her cage and
checked the lines. When her treatment was finally finished, I pulled on
the appropriate lines and tied them off when her legs were as stretched
and spread as she could tolerate.
I unhooked the Hitachi from the base of her training belt and unbuckled
the soft neoprene, please by the evidence of her arousal as I gently
coaxed the dilator free of her body. She was so wrecked by everything
she had experienced thus far that she didn't protest when I immediately
replaced the dilator with two slick fingers that twisted and teased and
worked more lube into her soft hole.
The next dilator was no longer, but it was thicker. Her sphincter was so
relaxed after the long hours of vibration and massage that she barely
even protested the larger size. I left the eggs in place in her vagina,
encouraged by the rich scent of feminine arousal. She probably hated
herself, and me, and the evil wonders of the Hitachi corporation most of
all.
Judging from her tear stained face, red nose and copious vaginal
secretions, I would wager good money that she had orgasmed at least once
during that three hour treatment. It was a good sign, but that didn't
mean that she was suddenly cooperative or that the sex was now
consensual.
Let's not dress this up, shall we? I was using sexual assault to
systematically break a prisoner. It was rape, even if her body
responded, even if I were able to force her to orgasm. Male rape
victims frequently struggle with this, particularly since it's easier to
force a man's body into an unwilling ejaculation. Just because she was
wet didn't mean that the wild bitch really liked or enjoyed or gave
consent for what I was doing to her. Her body was responding simply
because I knew how to manipulate her nervous system.
Forcing a newly captive bitch to an entirely unwilling orgasm was
infinitely more to my taste than pampering some pretty little fluff
headed pet.
Suddenly in a much better mood, I twisted the new dilator, tugging it a
little until it was seated properly. We hooked up the leg spreader,
untied the wild bitch and hand walked her for an hour, forcing her to
hold the various postures and poses. She was incredibly grateful for the
water we offered her, her desperation making her easy to control as we
removed the gag long enough for her to drink.
Of course, eventually all that water had to come out again....
I waited until she was begging just as prettily as the transport medic
had promised she did, although I wasn't as indulgent. We manhandled her
into position over the traditional Japanese style toilet, which was
stalled flush with the ground with two tidy porcelain foot rests for one
to set one's bare feet in while squatting delicately over the loo.
Her legs were spread too far apart by the spreader bar for her to
discover the foot plates or anything else as I backed her into position.
She didn't know that she was standing over a toilet. With my lead bitch
holding her steady, we forced her into a squatting position over the
toilet, chuckling at her whimpers and squeaks of protest as the change in
posture shifted the dilator in her ass.
A little pressure, low on her belly, right over her bladder, and the wild
bitch finally lost it. I rubbed her clitoris as she pissed, more to get
her used to being handled so intimately than out of any interest in water
sports. Toileting my bitches is just part of the cost of owning slaves.
They're dependent and helpless. If I didn't feed and water and
exercise and toilet them, they would die.
After more quiet time with the relaxing throb of the vibrator stirring
the dilator in her ass, we covered her cage and then reached in from the
rear access hatch to remove her blindfold. With her head bound, there
wasn't much she could see, just the inside of her cage, the dark blue
cage cover and the screen of the DVD player in front of her.
I monitored her from outside the cage, via web cam, just as I always
monitored any cage I kept covered. It took her a few minutes to blink
and refocus and start to perk up a little. I was in no hurry. I waited
until she was blinking more naturally, her brain clearly busy trying to
figure out what was happening to her, but she was ready soon enough for
more.
After about five minutes, I started the DVD player from outside the cage.
The films she saw that first day were sex education videos, but the good
ones that actually dealt with things like orgasms. Betty Dodson's
famous documentary about her notorious masturbation workshops, Self
Loving, was the first selection, the sound piped in through the tiny ear
phones. There were DVDs about the G spot, about female ejaculation and
about safe anal sex. There were instructional videos for several
different devices, including the Epino, which would be one of the most
important things in her life for the next few years. There were detailed
video presentations about female reproductive anatomy and sexual
function.
I didn't try to talk to her or interact with her. It would have made
little difference and may have even made things more difficult. I just
let the experts give her the information that every female over puberty
should have, and so rarely did.
She was not happy when the blindfold went back on when the DVDs were
done. She went wild when she was plunged back into the darkness and
silence, the sound no longer being fed to the earplugs she wore. She
went from relaxation to total hysteria in the space of a heart beat.
I had been expecting it. Hell, there would be tantrums and wild fits for
at least a year. I gave her something to focus on, knowing that a great
part of her panic was probably the return to a crude form of sensory
deprivation. My touch reminded her that she had other ways to interact
with the world, other senses she could rely on.
She quieted as I ran gloved hands over her body, simply petting her
soothingly, as I would any other frightened wild thing. When she
calmed, my lead bitch and I went through the same routine of hand walking
and posing, even offering her a chance to urinate. It took a couple of
times before she began to understand when we carefully back her into
position and forced her into a squat, but on the third time, she figured
it out, dutifully emptying her bladder while I rewarded her with a gentle
massage of her clit.
Feeding can be an adventure with the wild ones. I have the scars to
prove it. Fortunately, my wild bitch was far too hungry to worry about
anything but chewing and swallowing everything I offered her, feeding her
from my own hands despite the hazards.
It was a light meal -- small bites of fruit and a tub of yoghurt. I
didn't want to overload her system after all the stresses of the day,
but I also wanted to get a little protein into her. The yoghurt would
help rebalance her digestive tract.
My favourite and I were both yawning by the time we walked the wild one
for the last time. I bedded her down in her cage, lying restrained on
her back with a pillow under her knees. I left enough play in the lines
so she could shift a little, and once again, her right hand was tethered
over her exposed clitoris.
* * * * *
Training a wild bitch is a full time job that never ends, although the
first weeks and months are the most demanding. I still sometimes wonder
how I managed to make it through that first year with my favourite. I
learned, the hard way, that training wild stock is no different than
dealing with a wild horse.
When one is dealing with a wild animal that weighs half a ton, there's
no way to win an outright battle. The Trainer has to be smarter, and set
the wild thing up to win. There's no way that they're not going to
blow. The trainer has to plan for it, and provide a safe way to channel
that that energy.
Yeah, you can contain it, at least for a while, but then there's nothing
for the wild one to do but explode, usually messily and with appalling
collateral damage. I always planned on multiple levels of containment,
multiple strategies for dealing with a shit storm. That level of
planning removes the opportunity before it happens, and provides
alternative activities and approved ways to vent.
And when all hell breaks loose, and it will, I have ways to deal with it
already in place.
It's no different dealing with a wild bitch than it is dealing with a
wild horse.
So for the first days, the wild bitch was kept hobbled by the leg
spreader bar, unless I had her securely in some other form of bondage.
Her hands were kept locked in the paddle style mitts when I didn't have
her right hand chained on top of her clitoris. She was hand walked and
stretched in various positions to prevent problems with cramps or
clotting, maintaining at least a modicum of muscle tone.
I kept her blindfolded unless I wanted her to watch a DVD, usually
without benefit of sound except for the educational videos, which she saw
several times. But there was a lot of porn. I had endless hours of
extreme kink downloaded from the Net, and other films available only to a
very select company of Owners.
There were dozens of films, most often gyno scenes featuring serious
electrical play and machine fucking. Spanking videos usually made me
roll my eyes but there were certainly a few good ones that I thought she
should see. There were some wickedly perverse selections from Germany,
most of whom featured seriously sadistic rubber clad nurses doing
decadent things to beautiful women. I included some of the better
leather and dungeon films, including both dykes and gay leather men.
Most of the films featured the very hottest anal sex. It wasn't the
size of the toys or the cocks, it wasn't how hard or how fast or how
long. It wasn't the position or the number of bodies involved.
Although I looked at the impact of the entire film, the one thing all the
films had in common was that the bottom got off. Hell, let's not be
delicate. In each of the films, the bottom got off long and hard and
explosively, squirting everywhere.
Then there were the rare DVD's featuring ponies... Oh, there was lots
of `pony play' and `puppy play' videos out there, but this was
footage from the last major competition featuring real life ponies, not
porn stars.
There were the show ponies, with their pretty manes and bright smiles and
flashy movement. There were the power events, individual and team weight
pulls, as muscular ponies sweated and strained to pull the sledge the
required distance. Teams of fine carriage ponies - singles or pairs or
the most exclusive of fine harness events, the four-in-hand team - pulled
specially designed and built vehicles. Much like auto racing's Formula
One or MotoGP, there was even a manufacturer's title up for grabs each
year as well.
I loved the carriages and the jog carts and the all the various vehicles
drawn by ponies. Part of the design was to ensure the safety of the
ponies, and rightly so. But then several demented and creative souls had
gone mad in the machine shop. The only thing I've ever seen that came
close has been the time machine featured in several version of the H.G.
Wells classic, or perhaps something from Jules Verne, or out of Alice in
Wonderland.
There was even some footage of my lead bitch, her body oiled and
gleaming, muscles rippling as she impatiently circled the ring before the
endurance event. She loved to run and it showed. Another small clip
showed my pair, out at their maiden event just a few months ago, where
they had impressed more than a few fine harness fans, as well as the
judges. They lost in the final round to a pair of sleek, muscular studs
who moved with the unconscious arrogance that the wild ponies so often
had, but I was still very proud of them.
Obviously, I couldn't put the new bitch through the extensive enema
series as a regular routine, but it only took a few days of carefully
timed meals and toilet breaks coupled with the judicious use of glycerine
suppositories and the occasional small enema to get her on a regular
schedule. Going forward, aside from a small rinse and a hand spanking
every day after she emptied her bowels, the wild bitch would be routinely
purged once a week, in addition to during the preparations for certain
training and conditioning procedures, as well as before competitions.
I bided my time, just letting her get used to being handled for those
first few days. She was walked, fed, bathed, and posed. She received
three sessions of rectal massage and vibration each day, during which
time her hand was suggestively bound over her clitoris, although I did
not expect much in the way of masturbation or orgasm yet. She was bound
in a variety of positions and wore either the training belt with the
rectal dilator, or any one of a wide assortment of butt plugs. Her ass
was never empty for long.
This is where most anal training ends, and that's a mistake, at least in
my experience. Rectal dilation and stretching is only part of the
story. Pelvic floor training may be even more important. Still I
waited, pleased that the wild bitch was responding to with arousal and
one or more orgasms during each training session.
The apparent cooperation was only a veneer. I had no delusions - she
hated us. She probably hated herself for responding, no doubt feeling
betrayed by her body. There were tears, almost daily, and inarticulate
snarls and wild torrents of questions the first few times we removed the
rubber bit to feed and water her.
The first time it happened, I pressed my hand over her mouth, cautiously,
ready to snatch it away if she tried to bite. The wild bitch kept
talking, louder, her body rigid with defiance. Rolling her eyes, my
lead bitch silently handed me a clean rubber bit. "No!" the wild
bitch roared the protest as I expertly slipped the bit in her mouth.
The rubber bit gag isn't designed to silence a bitch, but there was a
good chance she might take the hint. She had already shown that she was
a clever bitch. Instead, it threw her into a full blown rebellion.
I wasn't a fool. The wild bitch was blindfolded and securely bound.
She couldn't hurt herself or anyone else, but she surged and struggled
and snarled around the rubber bit. We simply ignored her, waiting until
she wore herself out. Getting angry at her or punishing her for
resenting her captivity wouldn't help matters and it wouldn't teach her
anything.
When she quieted, I tried removing the gag to feed her again, and we had
another round of temper. Unperturbed, I simply replaced the gag and
left her to rage. She missed that meal, although we sponged out her
mouth with water, leaving the gag in place.
After a couple of missed meals, she was willing to be more cooperative.
Nothing else about her training changed. She was massaged, vibrated,
exercised and stretched.
At each meal, I tried again. I waved a bite sized chunk of freshly
grilled chicken breast under her nose before I removed the gag.
"Damn you," she growled hoarsely after a day of defiance, but then
obediently opened her mouth and waited for the first bite to arrive.
I fed her the bite and stroked my other hand over her breasts in
approval, petting her gently. I pinched a nipple and her mouth opened on
a gasp, and I fed her a bite of ripe mango. Not every bitch will
consider a hunger strike, but some do, like my first wild bitch. My
favourite made rather a career out of defiance and rebellion for a while,
but she soon decided that she preferred eating her meals to being force
fed with a stomach tube.
Her tales had apparently convinced every subsequent bitch not to try that
particular tactic. The wild bitch hadn't reached that stage yet, nor
had she had any opportunity to see anyone else, let alone visit with my
bitches. The important part was that I was prepared should she try it.
On the fourth day, as she completed a relaxation massage with the Hitachi
humming away against the rectal dilator, she groaned when the timer
switched the powerful vibrator off. I had just sized her up again. She
was wearing the third in the series of increasingly wider dilators, but
that groan sounded more like frustration than pain.
I like keeping an eye on things, even if I'm busy working another
bitch. The wild bitch was blindfolded, as she was most of the time
during her rectal massage, so the cage cover was off. Despite the bit
gag in her mouth, it wasn't hard to figure out that she was swearing. I
grinned when I saw her rock her pelvis slightly, riding the plug in her
ass, her fingers moving busily on her clit. She swore again and jerked
impatiently against the restraints that restricted the range of motion in
her left hand, preventing her from reaching any further down her body
than her nipples.
My lead bitch rarely spoke, too long out of the habit. She smirked, and
wiggled the fingers of her left hand, eyebrows raised in silent inquiry.
"You may be right," I admitted with rueful humour.
The wild bitch cocked her head as I opened the cage door, alerted by the
sound of the latch. She babbled at me around her bit gag, the tone
frustrated and angry and clearly the voice of a woman left hanging on the
edge of orgasm. I pressed the fingers of her right hand to her clitoris,
and she swore again, her hips rocking impatiently as she flailed her left
hand around in its clumsy mitten.
Chuckling, I pulled the mate to that mitten over her right hand, and then
switched the Hitachi back on. Yes, I *am* a sadist. I took my time
re-rigging the lines, switching the position of her arms as she squirmed
on the rectal dilator purring powerfully in her ass. Only when she was
properly positioned did I remove the mitten from her left hand.
She was quite beside herself at that point. I didn't need to guide her
fingers to her clitoris that time. Her left hand flew to her clit, index
finger moving rapidly back and forth across her clitoral shaft with the
sort of expertise, manual dexterity and fine motor control that confirmed
that the woman was left handed, at least when it came to masturbation.
The wild bitch whined when I pinch her nipples, rolling the little nubs
firmly between my thumb and fingers. They were already sensitive from
her own attentions, and my firmer touch was enough to send her soaring
over the edge into what looked like a truly spectacular orgasm.
"Good boi," I said quietly, running my hands soothingly over her body,
bringing her down. She had heard me say it before, but never to her. I
had begun to leave her ear plugs off more and more, letting her grow
accustomed to the normal sounds of every day life around my Training
stable. This was the first time she had earned that accolade from me.
I was very pleased with that particular orgasm.
God save me from martyred bottoms.
A bitch should *want* to have an orgasm. I want my bitches to be bold in
their hunger. My favourite was a demanding bitch who loved to get
fucked, just as she should. I had trained the pair to turn to each other
for most of their sexual needs, but when I set them up in the treatment
area individually, they responded beautifully. I was also delighted to
see that they often chose anal sex when left to their own devices.
The wild bitch was panting a little, her left hand resting on her thigh.
There was a slow spreading stain on the bedding underneath her body,
sexual fluids oozing out from under the edges of the training belt.
Excellent. I ran my gloved fingers through her juices and gently smeared
them over her mouth and under her nose.
She cried.
The praise, the first verbal acknowledgement that she was a sentient
being, coupled with the undeniable evidence of the pleasure she found in
what was being forced upon her, shattered her defences. I pinched a
nipple with the slick fingers of my right hand. Her mouth opened on a
gasp and I slid the slick fingers of my left hand in her mouth,
confronting her with her own arousal.
I'm right handed. Profoundly so. I wouldn't risk my right hand by
putting it anywhere near those teeth unless she was physically restrained
by a Whitehead gag or the like. I was more reckless with my left hand.
Fortunately, my risky move didn't end in a bite.
We continued with her program as if nothing had happened, moving her body
around to pose her for her scheduled rest period, adjusting lines,
checking the position of her joints, doing capillary refill checks on her
extremities.
I was very pleased with her progress.
To be continued? Let me know what you think! Feedback welcomed at
dr_country_mouse_top@yahoo.com.au