On the Horse

Miss Piggy tears up when I tell her she will ride the horse. "Am I being punished?"

"No, I need you as a source of inspiration. I'm trying to write a short story in the BDSM genre, and the excellent sight of you writhing and sweating for a couple of hours on the horse is just what I need."

She begins to sniffle, her face a study in fear and apprehension. "Please, Doctor, do I really have to? Couldn't you just paddle me or something?' Cos the horse hurts me so, so much." Her plaintive entreaties, reminiscent of a naughty little girl in fear of her father's belt, make my sadistic blood boil.

"Yes, you do, and I really don't need a reason. You're my treasured toy who suffers to give me pleasure. Besides, a few hours of having your cunt crushed may motivate you to lose a few pounds. Like fifty."

Fat shaming is a time-honored part of our ritual. She's a well-preserved 55 who's holding the advancing years at bay quite well with exercise and Botox; yet despite strenuous efforts, she's losing the Battle of the Bulge, and she hates herself for it. I buy her ice cream; which she cannot resist, I pinch her bubble butt and tell her she's a sow. In truth, I rather like her the way she is. I like the way her huge meaty boobs and pot belly quake and undulate under the cane. Or on the horse, which occupies a place of honor in my study.

The horse is a model of simplicity. It has two uprights like a bench press frame, with a bar of adjustable height between them. It sits on a sheet of plywood with an eyebolt under the center of the bar. I bind Miss Piggy's hands in the small of her back and stand her over the eyebolt, with her bare feet on wooden wedges that raise her heels by three inches. I fetter her ankles to the eyebolt so she can raise her feet no further, thus insuring she can neither dismount the horse nor fall off. I turn screws, raising the bar until it's snugly against her cunt.

Her cunt is her best feature. I've been working on it for as long as we've been together. It's always smooth -- I shave it every day with an electric razor. I've been reversing the discoloration of age with a topical bleach, and her vulva is now as pink as that of a young girl. She has a prominent clit as long as the first joint of my middle finger and fleshy meat curtains hanging on either side of the always-gaping mouth of her tunnel. I make sure the bar is between her labia as I raise it, and note with amusement that, despite her protestations, her clit is hard, and her hole is dripping thick white grool.

She starts wiggling almost immediately, looking for a comfortable position that doesn't exist. Already the study is smelling like sex. "How long, Doctor?" she whines.

"Two hours. But I don't want you to be staring at the clock, so..." I bring out the hood. It has two small earholes, two nostril holes, and a hole for the mouth. I always want the mouth to be open to the air -- otherwise, a sudden fit of vomiting could be fatal. She whimpers as I pull it over her head and tighten the collar buckle.

"Comfy?" She shakes her head, boobs swaying. They're really quite lovely; milky, with a fine tracing of blue veins, small reddish-brown areolae and prominent nipples. The nipples are hard, as if asking for the Clover clamps which I now apply. The clamps are at either end of a short chain which I put behind her neck, lifting her boobs upward and outward, the titties pointing northeast and northwest. The weight of her own flesh will make the clamps agonizing after a few minutes.

"There. Looks like you're all set. Now let me get to work." I know she can hear me as seat myself behind my desk and boot my desktop. I open the story I've been working on, a depraved yarn full of female suffering, and begin typing. The view across the desk is lovely; Miss Piggy is already starting to shuffle her weight from foot to foot. A fine sheen of sweat has appeared. Her calves are quivering; in a few minutes the cramps will begin.

It's time for Phase Two. I quietly retrieve my smartphone from my pocket and call the number of the landline number on the desk. The landline rings, loudly -- a sound that Miss Piggy knows well. I answer it and begin a one-sided conversation.

"Hello? WHAT? Oh my God. Is he OK? I'll be right there." I hang up the landline and stand. On the horse, Miss Piggy can hear everything.

"Emergency," I call in her direction. "I'll be right back." I head for the study door. I can hear her calling after me. "Doctor" Doctor? Could you please take me down?"

I pretend to ignore her. I bound down the study steps and make a right turn into the garage, slamming the door behind me. I open the roll-up door; Miss Piggy will feel the vibration, since the study is above the garage. I can hear her faintly through the garage ceiling, houting; "Doctor, come back! Take me down! Take me down! Please, please, I'm begging!" I step outside onto the driveway, wait a few seconds, and then lower the door. More rumbling. She'll assume the car is gone; there's no way she would have heard my Tesla.

I'd unlocked the front door an hour ago and left it ajar. I slip back into the house and close the door with nary a sound. Perfect. I tiptoe back up the study steps and lie down on the day bed, which gives a good view of the horse and rider.

It's as if I can read Miss Piggy's mind. He's left the house -- what if he doesn't come back? What if he has an accident? What if he can't tell anybody about me? I'll die on this thing! I'll die in agony!

She begins to fight the horse in earnest: pulling against the eyebolt with her feet, trying to dislodge it. Struggling against her restraint, boobs swaying, belly and thighs trembling with effort, rocking back and forth, back in forth, hoping to turn the device on its side and take the horrible pressure off her cunt. After the first hour she glistens with sweat. After ninety minutes begins to curse, then whimper, then cry --- after an hour, the cries become panic-stricken screams; "Help! Doctor! Anybody! Help me!"

Making every move soundless, I retrieve a bottle of lube from under the bed, bring out my cock, and begin edging. It's throbbing, the dickhead is as sensitive as an eyeball. It's heaven. I don't come out of fear I may make a sound and ruin the scene.

It's been two hours and Miss Piggy is wrecked; flushed all over, drenched in sweat, every muscle trembling with fatigue and pain. Her cries have turned to a repetitious chant; "Oh please God oh please God o please God...."

That's right, I think. I'm your God, you pathetic broken animal. I'll take you off the horse, kiss you, comfort you, let you think this horrible day is over. Then after supper, I'll cane your already sore bottom, and fuck you in your bruised asshole, and you'll try to scream through your ball gag, and life will be good. Afterwards, as usual, you'll rage at me and threaten to leave, and as usual I'll say, Go ahead, pig, but where will you go? Nobody wants you. That's how you ended up here in the first place, living with me as my punching bag and fuck toy. Better to feel pain than nothing at all. And you'll scream and sob and I'll beat you and tomorrow we'll be back to our usual routine with two soft-boiled eggs and toast and a blowjob.

I walk to the horse and give the bar a hard kick. She shrieks with pain and surprise. "Hey, Piggy, miss me?" I move a step stool next to her, stand on it, take her head between my hands and turn it to press my dickhead against her lips. "Give me the best blow job ever, Cunt, and I might take you down. I say might. I don't know, we'll see."