CHAPTER 9 (Preview 2)
While getting 'the tour', Tom was naked and wore the Countess' deerskin armbinder. A soft leather bag that held his arms folded. Like crossing your arms in front, this one held them crossed in the back and was tightened unnecessarily. Further below, and locked with his piercing, he had to wear a temporary chastity tube (to his great disappointment). And around his ankles, the Countess had fastened a real cattle hobble, thick and sturdy, but only needed hands to be opened again.
During all their talking and touring and showing, they had reached the end of the sunny corridor of her stables. It ended in a cross-corridor forming a T, while the longer one they had just strolled along ended at a big, open gate that led in another room. Above their heads, the birds still fluttered, tweeted, and chirped, and it all made him feel like he was just on a farm visit.
"Out here," she said, pointing to the right, "it goes to the arena and hot walkers, while the left leads to the big paddock. But that's just boring, so let's go to the wash stalls and pay 'Pleasure' a visit."
She didn't exactly leave him much of a choice with the leash clipped to his cock piercing, and pulled him straight ahead, through the gate, and inside a white, tiled room that looked just like she'd said: a huge washroom. Tom, looking back from where they had come from, her stables looked hazy with the dust of hay and sun. The smell inside kept him mesmerized as she pulled him ever deeper.
"This is the main wash and grooming area," the Countess said.
Tom stood in a long, rectangular room that went as far to his left and right as the whole stables' width. The place was filled with the smell of soap and leather while a dampness clung to it. To his right, he saw four wooden pillars in a row. Between one of them stood a tethered 'Pleasure' who looked forward and couldn't see them; to his left and all the way in front, he was confronted with bare and bent structures. Iron-gray and made out of raw metal, they looked like frames to hold cattle. Black hoses run up the ceiling four times. And behind, with a second row.
A painful tug on his penis told him he had just stopped walking. Tom quickly shuffled forward with tiny, restricted steps (from his hobble) while constantly fighting the grip around his ankles.
"Sometimes it's best to show and not tell," she said merrily, pulled his leash through a hook in front of a frame, and walked back to him. He dared not to elicit any more pain out of his sore piercing—he could barely endure it as it was—and walked forward to ease it somewhat. As he moved into the metal frame, a padded plastic brace touched him on his hips; in front, vertical bars lay; on the sides, rounded frames rose; and from behind, it clicked loudly as cold metal arms grabbed him below his buttocks.
"Usually we do this with the nipple-nose chain," she said and a firm hand pressed his shoulder down. Tom had to move his head through two vertical and broad steel pipes that gave way to the side as he pushed his head awkwardly through. Echoing loudly in the large room, the chute had clicked back in place around his neck. The frame had closed around him. He couldn't pull his head out again—or his body. The bare way by which the frame held him gave the clear impression as if he was nothing less than cattle—either ready for washing or milking (not that he had any milk to give).
Its grip was cold and unforgiving on his skin. It felt efficient yet callous towards the one being held. He was only missing horns he thought. In his back, more rounded steel arms had come down with a weight, and had clicked in place. They held him bent forward with ease—one above his shoulders, the others, broader, and following the curve in his lower back. It felt perfectly designed for his armbinder (that simulated a pony's arm-restraints: a reverse-prayer position high in the back which was the usual armless illusion her mares displayed).
His bare feet stood in a sink. It felt wet. Another winch was turned and rattled, raising his hips until his legs slowly lost contact with the damp floor. The thick cattle hobble between his ankles made his role perfectly clear. When the loud clanking had finally stopped ringing in his ears, he lay bent forward. He could no longer reach the floor with his toes; all he could see was another one of those frames, only this one faced him.
"We don't need the leg restraints from the frame now," she said gently from behind. "Here, the ponies get emptied and cleaned. When we pull their beefy tails out, they can't help it; their dung simply drops out and into the steel funnel below. It's not a nice business, but someone needs to do it. Though, that's all groom work and they rotate it weekly."
A wiggly finger entered him, pushed inside his asshole without opposition, and played with his manliness as if it was nothing; as if a warm, squirmy worm had just found another fine hole to burrow into. It had happened too quickly, and the Countess's determined finger would give him no peace.
"Ahhhh," was all he could gasp, together with a sudden helplessness washing over him. Any movements with his torso and the hard touch of steel greeted him—around his neck, his chest, and back. He stopped struggling—it hurt too much to press against it. Only his leather-encased hands kept fidgeting, moving, fighting as she violated him. Nevertheless, a hopeless pounding was coming from his dangling chastity tube below, and he feared his poor cock would either soon start leaking—or exploding. The violating sensation was scary, dehumanizing. The wicked fingers of the Countess disappeared from his asshole as quickly, leaving him dry.
Now he knew indeed what she had wanted to show him.
Before bending over, Tom had seen, but couldn't see anymore, a stainless steel funnel, long and slender, organically shaped like a splash guard that could fit neatly below his groin and in part over his buttocks. If he had to shit, he probably could now. The warmth of the Countess's full body pressed against him, against his bare buttocks, smooth and tender, and her soft riding leggings touched him with an urge. With her groin pressed against his, the power she now wielded lay as evident as his nakedness in this room; he couldn't see her, nor what she was up to, and that left him with a nervous urge to try and turn around, just a quick glance to reassure his brain. But the two snug steel pipes around his neck were like a chute and blocked his view.
"And that's where I will fuck you later," the Countess said (or rather stated), "if I can hold out that long. What a cute asshole."
He couldn't deny the dripping arousal from her voice as if she herself had great trouble keeping her hunger inside any longer. Touching only air with his bare feet, Tom tried to get his hobbled legs up. Sturdy steel bars stopped him, and the warmth of her groin slowly drove him insane. He could only utter moans and remain clamped in place, right in front of her hungry and playful crotch.
"Only good ponies get to cum in my stables," she purred, "while me and my grooms will of course have all the work and fun."
Those words were too much for him. "Please, Countess, just one last orgasm before the weekend starts. Please!"
"Stop begging... my pretty boy." And her warm presence had vanished from his bare ass. He heard her unclip something and pain exploded on his bare buttocks, echoing loudly, together with his own cries. He twisted and turned against the frame as she gave him two lashes. The burning lines rushed through his body without a choice and left a barely endurable sensation. He quickly stopped his begging. A throbbing line of fire kept pounding on his buttocks and he bit his jaw, unable to reach for it, unable to ease it.
"But if you want to take a shit now," she said with an even sweeter tone, "you can—not that I had felt something in there."
He checked his rectum, thought about it, but he doubted he was ready to go.
"No?" she asked. "Maybe you need to piss? Go on, you can."
"Yes, Ma'am, I'll try..." The whip had made him docile in a split-second.
Soon, it splashed below, then gurgled while his feet hung idly in the air. He could hear the metal funnel catch it as his piss sprayed filthily out of his tube; actually, he had had a full bladder and it shot right out of him for a long time. The humiliation of the act was not far behind, rousing, and it became difficult to piss any longer.
"Those waste-funnels for the ponies," she said, "are used to collect fresh manure—like yours—then get composted until it's safe as fertilizer for the fields. Isn't it pretty?" she said while he pissed. "From growing your own food to fertilizing it again with the remains, now in the form of dung, going full circle."
A cool spray of water hit him right in the ass-crack. He couldn't help but flinch and stop pissing. She rinsed his balls and steel-tube and the cold water felt like the complete opposite of having a good erection. The metal of his snug tube quickly cooled off, and soon that had been sorted out for him by the Countess's diligence. He gave a dispirited sigh. The temperature was hair-curling. His horniness was still pulsing hotter than ever through his body but he seemed unable to feel a satisfying erection any longer under the cold water. The cranking of the winch clacked until his soles touched the wet drain again. It banged near his neck and a helping hand pulled him back out and upright. He could finally stand again. His ass and balls still felt wet when, from behind, the Countess pressed herself against him. Her chin rested on his shoulder, and her warm hands hugged him until they held his pierced nipples.
Her dazzling scent of lavender was stuck in his nose, her dark hair tickled his face, and her warm fingers explored the thick piercings on his body. He felt so helpless with his armbinder, shivering, not just from arousal but a chill. Yet her warmth was all he needed.
In his nipples, he still wore his 1 Gauge (0.3", or 7.6mm) barbell piercings, and they looked like two glued-on steel beads. Yet when handled, they were very much pierced through his tender nipples, responding, lusting, first with an ache, then with a pain as her fingers had her way with him. The thick cattle hobble around his ankles, now wet, wouldn't let him out, nor his folded arms (which grew slowly numb in his back). His sturdy armbinder only had a few clasps that needed opening, but he was miles away from reaching any of them. The Countess teased his pink and pierced knobs expertly. His nipples were generally tender, could randomly grow hard, but wouldn't give him any sorts of pleasure, not really. Only the certain knowledge that a woman like her loved to play with them was good enough for him.
His eyes darted through the room as he gave the occasional helpless moan, or she made him wince under her sharp fingernails. The left sidewall with all the white, sterile tiles, had stable stuff hanging from it: coiled up garden hoses, black harnesses, and pink extensions—like thick sausages. Until he realized what he was looking at. She hadn't been joking when she had said she was going to fuck him. He squirmed even more in his predicament, with nipples getting pinched, winding and struggling against his tight armbinder, he could not get her to stop.
"You'll soon like it more than anything else—up your ass," she whispered closely from behind. "It takes a while to get used to, more mentally really, but it teaches a pony submission better than any whipping can."
He had no doubt about her mastery of the whip, nor about her horse-breaking skills. And she seemed to love to keep her subjects in chaste torment. The thought that she might be right about this hurt. Even if he had wanted to get away from her, he couldn't. She kept molesting him. Some of the now evident dildos on the wall were black and large, while her soft, feminine body wouldn't let go of him again, holding him, embracing him, tugging on his chaste cock, then pulling on one of his piercings somewhere else, probing. His wet butt-crack, balls, and feet were still irritating until he noticed, with contorted eyes, the maid was still watching them both. Her eyes were eager and she bit her lip while staring blatantly. The Countess played with him, and the heat was back in his face. He couldn't help but feel a humiliation burning, trying to resist her, becoming reluctant, more unwilling under her forceful fingers. It all came back to his chastity tube and his forbidden orgasm still lingering inside.
He stammered a "Please, not my nipples... ahh." Or sucking in air when she played with his stiff chastity tube until he gave a weak, "please don't, that's too tender."
She breathed excitedly in his neck while she became fired up. A second later, and he stood naked in the room, no more caressing hands, no more warmth of her body, no more of her hungry embrace; instead, he felt a staggering tug on the tender tip of his penis.
"Ahh, I'm coming, I'm coming..." (Though, not in an orgasmic sense.)
Why did she always have to be so rough? Everything was terribly new and confusing and awfully kinky. Tom had great trouble noticing every little detail of horse stuff, devices, gear—in this room and the others. Only the transparent tubes on the cattle frames caught his eyes. They looked like they were used for feeding or drinking.
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