Full Rigor Pt. 07

The good news AND the bad news was that our slave grades had to be made permanent in the form of brands that would decorate the pony girls in the team. I still can't talk or even think clearly about the excruciating suffering involved--not just at the moment of branding, but for several weeks thereafter. But I know that, whenever I wear a swimsuit or other revealing clothing, the brand will speak for itself--a stylized longhorn skull burned diagonally across my left buttock, superimposed with the letter "P" for prime.

Heaven knows that enough football players ran their fingers over that brand as they fondled it and me, often before plowing one or both of my lower openings until both they and I orgasmed. I was a Prime piece of ass, farmed out to the best performers in every football game that fall--with the emphasis on "Ball!" Even though they knew they were guaranteed to "score" with a pony girl, these guys were usually very kind and friendly, not to mention well-hung, in our trysts.

What about the rest of the team, you may ask? Fear not--they got their chance in two major pony gang-bang events, one before school started and the second just before homecoming. The nine newest ponies were all strapped into pony mounting stands, which left all three of their orifices available for anyone who wanted to sample us. I was relieved to learn that both the team's coaches (most of them veteran pony girls themselves) and the five carry-over, second-year ponies were armed with charged cattle prods to ensure that the boisterous players didn't hurt or abuse us. I was more than a little nervous waiting for the first gangbang event, but I gradually relaxed and enjoyed myself, thinking fondly of how my feminized father had so happily experienced being used sexually in a similar manner. Three months later, I was actually looking forward to the second evening, when (as best I can remember) at least a dozen of these muscular young guys dipped their wicks into my various openings. Both they and I enjoyed intimate contact with healthy, attractive members of the opposite sex. For me, it was a thrilling combination; I was flattered to be the center of all this admiration AND domination. A good time was had by all, and I say that even though I was the good time that was "had."

The gang-bang "pony mountings" were fun, but I have to admit that I most enjoyed parading as part of the pony team. Imagine that up to 100,000 people were staring at you, admiring your athletic beauty as our breasts, hair, and hips all swung in rhythm, literally "sex on the hoof." It's so much fun that I along with four of the other girls are thinking about trying out for the U.S. Pony Team--the Olympic Committee has authorized it as an exhibition sport at the next summer Olympics. Even if we don't win the competition, I figure we can fuck the Russian athletes to a standstill so they no longer have the energy to win!

(Len Harkins' perspective)

By now, you've read the evil thoughts of every other member of my family. I might have maintained a dignified silence except for Penny casually mentioning that I squeezed her breasts when she went for her initial slave grading. If nothing else, THAT requires a little explanation and self-justification.

I have grown up in the close company of a mother whom everyone describes as a MILF and a sister that's a stone cold fox. There have been days when every one of my college classmates simultaneously found that their jeans were too tight, right after they saw these two beautiful, graceful redheaded women appear. That does NOT mean that I want to have incestuous sex with my mother OR sister, even though in the course of this story both women have admitted that they enjoy being naked, helpless, and shafted in every opening. So I was a horny 18 year-old guy (redundancy) who wondered what his sister's tits felt like--so what?

Actually, while the rest of my family have all migrated towards sexual submission, MY personal preferences are towards the "D" in BDSM. Trouble is, your average female college student is understandably reluctant to allow a guy to tie her up! (Can't imagine why, but you know it's true.) So, that spring vacation when the three of them were all talking about surrendering their bodies for sexual use, I was wondering how I could find similar people who would surrender to ME.

While Mom and Penny were off talking about the joys of sexual slavery, my Dad was sensitive enough to ask why I seemed unhappy. Somehow, my desire to be a dominant came pouring out of me. When I finished, I was a little bit embarrassed, but Dad reassured me, making some comment to the effect that the submissives of the world would be very frustrated if they couldn't find dominants to make their fantasies come true, so why shouldn't I be interested in the other side of the power exchange? Without naming names, he recounted a few experiences where HE had been the dominant in sexual situations.

My mind was filled with rosy, erotic images of "learning the ropes," so to speak, but then I registered the latest thing my father had set, and it brought me up short.

"Wait a minute," I interjected. "If I want to be a dominant, why do I first need to SUBMIT? That makes no sense at all."

"On the contrary," my father replied, smiling broadly, "It makes perfect sense. If you don't understand the mental experience of the bottom, how can you be a top? You need to ensure that your submissive gets what she or he needs to be happy, otherwise the bottom will safeword and NEITHER of you will have much fun. Besides, you need to experience being the helpless bottom so you know how to reassure that bottom and calibrate the amount of pain you inflict on her or him. And once you finish, you have to provide aftercare to bring your submissive back down to ground without any adverse consequences or freakouts--which means you have to understand exactly what runs through a submissive's mind, right?"

Damn. I hated to admit it, but as usual my father made at least a little sense. Since he had a lot of experience at both ends of the power exchange, it stood to reason that he would know more about BDSM than a wannabe like me. As we kept talking, I reluctantly admitted that I would have to learn how to bottom before I could be a top. With my final summer of undergraduate life approaching, this seemed like one of the last opportunities for me to experience that. So, I VERY reluctantly agreed with my Dad that I should "apprentice" myself to a female domme who could introduce me to the world that I wanted to enter.

"OK, Dad, but it's not as if I can just offer myself online as a would-be submissive; I might disappear and never be heard from again. Where can I find such a domme to train me?"

He smiled. "Do you remember our friend Doctor Shirley Holmes?"

My mind instantly delivered an image of a tall, well-built, VERY self-confident woman whom I'd met on several occasions. Suddenly, her self-confidence made sense. "I guess I should have realized that a woman like that was a domme." My dad was smiling and nodding alone. "Do you suppose she'd be interested in . . .?"

"Let's find out," he replied, pulling out his cell phone. After a pause, I saw him smile again and begin speaking. "Mistress Shirley! I was wondering if you had room for a new dungeon apprentice this spring?"

The volume was so high that I could easily hear her respond in an amused tone of voice, "Perhaps, my little slut. I've been thinking about choosing a new boytoy, if only to challenge George to give me better service . . ."

(The End)