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