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.
