No longer able to move on all fours, Sandy shuffles upright, as stated, sliding forth right knee then left. This, of course, alternately stresses the right buttock ring then the left which cramps the glutei, which in turn brings her to inadvertently tug with her arms which in turn strains the breast chains.
Overall, Sandy cannot move without putting on a most salacious display, buttocks rolling, spiked breasts bobbing. My role is to optimize, to assure indeed that she puts on a show for us, and not lie still in conciliation. So I watch, deciding that just a little more tautness on the buttock chains should bring the level of aggravation and frustration to that of barely tolerable.
Mr. Haig seems to agree. Despite reveling in the soft, warm and wet attendance of Sandy’s mouth, lips and throat this afternoon, I do believe viewing the slow suffering has brought renewed priapism.
Though little Mr. Haig tends to think for himself, most times we find ourselves in agreement.
***
One year into Sandy’s captivity, countless penetrations of her two available cavities, there develops within the group a form of ennui, sexual ennui, in having Sandy perform night after night. For libertines the ‘been there, done that’ regimen comes quickly I suppose. Web viewership recedes, there come nights when Sandy is not used and thus I stop by and cane her feet to assure she does not feel lonely and unwanted. The tears flow marvelously.
Alas, I decide it becomes time. I visit the modest website of the Devon Ranch, ‘Horses for Sale’. Being mid winter, I know any inquiry sent will receive prompt attention since there is little breeding stock for sale. So in the space for ‘communications’ I type a brief message...
Philly for sale, trained and disciplined, breeding possible.
I include the web address and an access code, the source of our group’s entertainment. I am sure Daddy, if not able to recognize his stepdaughter, will certainly recognize his handiwork of black wrought iron.
Within a day there comes a reply...
You either must know that it is my stepdaughter or your random offer is one of the most rare of coincidences. I am glad to know she is well restrained and treated appropriately. But I have interest in reacquiring my property under reasonable terms.
Now having a direct email address, my return message will be timely received. I type...
The terms are quite reasonable. Arrange transportation from New York City. As you have observed, Sandy no longer walks. She has come to too much enjoy the torment and our group finds her to be too complacent in being whipped and sodomized.
Within an hour, a deal is struck. Mr. Devon will come to New York, forward the particulars of his hotel arrangements and we will meet. His final message ends with a curious request.
Please let me know when the bitch will next ovulate and have coal available.
Apparently my offer has prompted thoughts. Plus in viewing the website, my corner space with oven, anvil and blacksmith’s tools provoked a need... or at least fond memories. I shall indeed assure that adequate coal will be on hand.
***
Within a week, Louise finds it necessary to enshroud Sandy’s upper thighs in the only covering ever permitted, the white strips of absorbent cloth for her menses. As the web camera reveals the white turning incarnadine, I send a brief message to ‘Daddy’ Devon.
Ovulation in two weeks.
A reply comes, offering a Saturday date. A hotel. A time to meet. And a curious request...
May I assume within your playroom that girls with certain needs and penchants can be appropriately suspended?
I smile. Mr. Devon is one of us. Coincidentally, with the nature of the industrial space, nothing had to be added to the beams. Indeed, overhead hooks are numerous. I thus affirmatively reply. Then I call it a day, heading directly to the lower west side.
Once again the appeal amongst our group for caning, cropping, whipping Sandy’s well trussed form has wavered. The poor girl needs company... as does little Mr. Haig.
***
The Saturday arrives. Cold, rain expected to turn to snow... more annoyance than hindrance. Still I check and learn the airlines are for the most part on schedule. Later in calling the hotel, a deep male voice answers the phone when requesting the room of Mr. Devon. We exchange pleasantries. I am known to Devon as ‘Haig’, again shielding my true identity.
“I have some trinkets, Haig, shipped here by UPS. Too heavy to carry on airplanes. That a problem?”
“No. I’ll meet you in the lobby and we’ll take a cab.”
I depart. A subway is quicker into mid town, and in the rain, cabs are not to be found though the hotel will have transportation available for guests.
I reflect during the ten minute ride. I am going to miss Sandy, but life moves onward. Somewhere there is another strumpet, young morsel of flesh, in need of direction, I console myself. And knowing that Sandy will be returned and placed under proper authority is comforting.
I also reflect on the goodbyes Louise and I offered. Last night, we turned off the web cam and took double pleasure, Louise sitting before Sandy’s encumbered face, enjoying sedulous cunnilingus, the tongue and lips perfectly positioned by my strict chin and neck restraint. Meanwhile, little Mr. Haig availed himself of a well cleaned and lubricated rectum. Despite being so often placed under the penis, Sandy’s supple and well trained purse string muscle squeezed and released in a cadence nonpareil.
Every girl should be so trained, forever curtailing unwanted pregnancy.
Devon proves easy to identify, his cowboy hat a Manhattan outlier. We exchange greetings. In shaking hands I endure the grip of a blacksmith, skin of leather, calluses in abundance.
“Nice of you to take care of my daughter, Haig. Been worried about her. Mother ran off as well a while back”
I nod understanding.
“She’s not been running anywhere of late,” my understatement bringing a raucous laugh.
“Your work, the foot restraints?”
“Moving about upright seemed a little too privileged for a girl of Sandy’s penchant. Crawling is best.”
It is Devon’s turn to nod. He then picks up a leather pouch, long and slim, suggesting an eagerness to journey.
“The neck thing... lots of work there. Must weigh a ton.”
“Some thirty pounds. She can withstand it, but it slowly wears and tires, reminding her of her bound servitude.”
I lead from the lobby. Having requested transportation from the doorman on the way into the hotel, a cab awaits.
During the ride to the lower west side we discuss what prompted my initiative and my generous offer.
“Our group is a mercurial lot, Devon. Envision aficionados of the opera. Despite the quality and execution of a given performance, one needs variety. It’s been over a year since Sandy arrived and groveled for shelter. So it’s time for the next opera. Still, we can’t just cast her into the streets all bound in iron and to release her from her restraints... really unthinkable. So much toil and sweat wasted...”
“She needs guidance, no doubt, Haig. Needs to be protected from her own fickleness. Imagine running off after all the years of care and upbringing...” a concerned Devon explains. “Well, she’ll be reluctant to leave again,” Devon patting the long leather pouch resting on his lap. “Got the turkey baster in here and a little something to help remind her of her place.”
We arrive, the street quite desolate on a Saturday in winter. Devon notes the quiet with approval.
“Hope the pigeons won’t mind some screams,” the words sarcastic.
Up the elevator, through both security doors, stepping into the loft I note Sandy has obediently positioned herself for sodomy in hearing our arrival. She knows not that I have brought ‘Daddy’ and Devon remains silent, stepping into the faux stall where Sandy lies, tummy down on her padded bench, knees parted to display in full her ringed and chained cunny... a moist crinkled rectum offering welcome.
We’re going to miss her... me and little Mr. Haig.
D
evon stands over the naked form, assessing... elbows restrained to the buttock rings, encumbered hands secured to the chains of the breast spikes. As always, Sandy faces the barren wooden interior wall. In not being able to turn her head she knows not who visits. In counting footsteps though I am sure she knows there is more than one.
Finally, Devon’s left hand parts the cheeks and the index and middle finger of the right plunge into a most receptive anus with humiliating ease. As trained Sandy squeezes her cheeks in a wordless gesture of amenable greeting. Devon laughs and I note the sound of his voice brings a chill as Sandy freezes in fright. She recognizes.
“You’re coming home, little girl,” Devon proclaims. “The ranch hands miss you. Had to increase their pay.”
I step to the front to assuage. A concerned Sandy is quickly turning lachrymal, her look that of one who has been betrayed.
“But I’ve been good... I’ve been open to all.”
“Yes, Sandy. But time moves on, new flesh needs to be bound and tormented.”
“Yes, back to the ranch for you, girl,” Devon adds. “And since we brand the horses to identify ownership should such run off, I brought the branding iron for you. Should have done it long ago. Can you fire up your stove for me, Haig? I’ll want the iron nice and hot. That way I can apply it longer and get good penetration of the skin,” Devon patting the buttocks to denote the target of his intention.
Sandy shudders... deliciously.
“But there is some good news, girl. Since I’m going to breed you, this big cunny ring will need to go. But not to worry, I will replace it with two smaller rings I can lock together, not that the hands would want to take you there. But it’s good precaution. And I’ll unlock you each time you drop a foal.”
Devon steps to the front to stand next to me, for the first time showing himself to stepdaughter Sandy. Neck well encumbered she struggles to look up.
“Hired a hand from a dairy farm. You’re going to spend lots of time with a rounded belly and being milked,” Devon lowering his hands to caress the spiked breasts. “Keep your thoughts in place. You’ll not be running too far, even if you do learn to walk in those iron slippers.”
A hand reaches into a pocket to produce a sizable vial of white cloudy sludge.
“Got a little something from the sperm bank. Years ago your mother came back to the ranch... came back to me... pregnant and begging for shelter. Guess you will too.
“I’ll need some ice to break open the cunt ring. Then I’ll need her hung. Don’t want to have to inseminate her too often. They too quickly come to enjoy the penetration.”
***
A life of breeding horses, for Devon, impregnating a girl seems routine.
After complimenting me on the cunt chain I so meticulously forged, Devon arranges for the end of the chain and large cunt ring to be immersed in a bucket of ice. Thus Sandy ironically shivers in coldness while the branding iron heats, a three foot rod with an ornate letter ‘D’ attached to the end.
“Don’t know anything about the sperm I purchased. They offered some particulars on the donor, but I declined to know. Don’t matter much. Going to put the offspring up for adoption every time she drops one,” Devon offers while selecting a sharp tungsten steel chisel and formidable hammer from my tool collection.
“More than one?” I incredulously inquire.
“She’s good breeding stock. I’ll have that cunt basted with semen every year, slathering it with whatever the sperm bank offers at the lowest cost.”
Devon’s strength impresses as he picks up the anvil and moves to position it between Sandy’s parted knees. A well chilled cunny ring is brittle. He rests the huge circle of iron on the surface, aligns the chisel and I am impressed again at that which has brought Sandy so much sexual frustration cracks open with a single blow... strident and exacting.
“Ring you again when you’re back in the barn,” dashing any mental relief.
For the first time in well over a year, Sandy and the floor of the loft are not one. Yet any sense of liberation is obviously misplaced. So many, many pounds of metal adorn her flesh, hands useless, and feet not to bear her weight.
Meanwhile, Devon looks to the ceiling assessing the beams and the many industrial hooks, at one time used for hanging gadgets and machinery of unknown use.
“I like to have gravity assist in inseminating a girl. But she’ll be heavy Haig, with all the iron. Need you to help.”
How can I refuse?
“Ankle rings should do it, but not take all her weight. Must be two hundred pounds with your neck restraint,” spoken as Devon hooks a finger through the nose ring and cruelly tugs, guiding Sandy, foot restraints scraping loudly on the thick wood of the flooring.
Nearby Devon finds an appropriate pair of hooks. Sandy’s short excursion ends.
“Why not pull up a chair, rest her head in your lap. Take off the weight of the neck collar.”
I comply as Devon retrieves rope from my toy collection. The rancher/cowboy deftly threads one end through an over head hook then bends to likewise thread it through Sandy’s right ankle ring. I sit and as Devon tugs, Sandy’s right foot rising and rising. It’s painful, stressing the Achilles tendon and with it the soleus and gastrocnemius muscles. And sure enough, Sandy yelps and begins to beg. Her entreaties are ignored and soon my plaything is incredibly split, splayed open to reveal all, right foot high, left foot and knee searching the floor for support. I cradle her head, her face tearful. Mr. Haig inwardly smiles, the level of duress so much amuses.
Vaginal lips open, spread wide for the first time since ‘Daddy’ ringed her cunt, the room fills with feminine fragrance, further amusing Mr. Haig and earning Devon’s attention.
“See. The little trollop cries out. But she’s wet, that cunny smoldering,” the words offered with a sardonic snort.
“Need a moment, Devon. A little something I implanted to keep her happy,” my hand rising to signal a pause.
Almost forgotten, my vaginal tube and the rolling ball which has brought so much frustrating near pleasure while Sandy’s been butt fucked time and again. With the pierced outer labia now yawning wide open, right foot to the ceiling, left foot and knee on the floor, it’s a simple matter to slip thumb and index finger into the pink folds, rummage about for a moment, locate then tug. Sandy is indeed dripping wet, the ironic reaction of the masochist, inwardly aroused beyond any capability of emotional control. My tube slips out with mocking ease.
“Ha,” Devon’s reaction. “She’ll not be so fortunate back at the ranch. You’re a gracious one, Haig. Hence she’ll feel the penetration of the turkey baster once a year... and that’s it.”
With that, a second rope finds a ceiling hook some three to four feet from the first. It’s threaded then drawn to the left ankle ring, I carefully hold Sandy’s head, supporting the weighty neck restraint as Devon slowly pulls, bringing more yelps, more pleas as he lifts the left foot. Slowly, the thighs and buttocks rise in suspension. Without my support, I am sure the intense agony would bring the relief of syncope.
“Hung like a piece of beef for inspection,” Devon quips with another snort.
From the long leather pouch comes the promised implement... the turkey baster. Tubular, of smooth stainless steel, rubber bulb at one end, tapered to an opening at the other, Devon finds his vial of semen, a gooey mass of cloudy white sludge.
“Gonna breed you, Sandy. Keep your attention where it should be... lactating and dropping a foal every nine months or so.”
Sandy has the dilemma of enduring pain but having to remain motionless to minimize the intense stress on the ankle rings and resulting cramping. She can thus offer no resistance in watching as Devon squeezes the bulb of the baster, inserts the tip into the filled vial and releases to load up with inseminating essence... source unknown.
“Now just hold still, I’ll diddle that little love button of yours to make sure you’re ready for breeding then fill that cunny for you. Let you hang awhile while the little spermatoz
oa find their way. Then I will brand you. You’ll recognize the mark... the Devon ranch brand. So if you somehow run off again, it will be known where you’re to be returned.”
“Please no, Daddy. I’ll be good.”
“I know you will, ‘cause with a nice plump belly you’ll not be getting into trouble... and you’ll be more nurturing. The boys at the ranch will like that. You’ll soon be letting down like a dairy cow.”
Rough calloused fingers of the left hand indeed go the clitoral hood, gently frig, bringing an excited clitoris into view. Next, more tantalizing finger work brings a sigh of pleasure which cannot be repressed. With that there comes a manly snort and the baster begins its journey, the equally calloused and scabrous right hand slowly inserting, Sandy’s wetness most accommodating.
“I like to make it memorable, Haig. Think she’ll forget her first conception? Well, she’ll not be forgetting her second, third, fourth or fifth either,” Devon’s observation coming with a wicked uproarious laugh.
With that the bulb is squeezed, releasing the contents and presumably flooding Sandy’s vagina, inundating the cervix. Being suspended upside down, I doubt Devon’s spermatozoa will miss the opportunity to swim where such are programmed. Sandy is ovulating. There is sure to be a waiting egg to offer the expected reception.
***
With two deep burn wounds, left buttock and right, mercy obviates a good bye butt fucking. Instead a kneeling Sandy fellates, little Mr. Haig encapsulated in warm wetness. Sandy is an accomplished fellatrix. I shall miss the depths of her throat.
“What’s the address again?” Devon calls out from the kitchen area, pouring a brew and working the cell phone.
I repeat. He taps into the phone, memorializing the warehouse address in a text message.
“Long truck ride for you, my little strumpet. Be sure to take care of the boys... just as you do Haig here,” noting as I buck my hips to heighten the friction.
With Sandy unable to move her head, we basically face fuck her, plunging into quite the receptive orifice.
Dr. Winthrop Samuels Series Page 29
