“This takes us to a high point overlooking the farm. You’ll enjoy the view.”
The ponies strain on an incline. Lady Constance whips the testicles and in tandem, the ponies dig in with their feet and maintain the chariot’s speed.
The vegetation begins to thin out as the road takes us higher and onto a rocky promontory. Lady Constance reaches for the scrotal cords and pulls. The chariot rolls to a stop. We step off.
“My farm. All the island’s vegetables are grown here. It would be cheaper to simply import all our food needs, but not as entertaining.”
I look down to see a lush valley with contoured rows of varied shades of greenery. Obviously an assortment of food is grown but my attention is quickly drawn from the flora to the human fauna. The field is being worked by several native women who are supervising human beasts pulling plows and carts laden with harvested food-stuffs. It is a scene from a feudal era with female serfs directing naked young males in place of oxen.
I turn to Lady Constance. She also is gazing downward at the incredible scene and her sizable breasts seem to swell even further with pride of ownership.
“Isn’t it nice to know troubled youths can be redeemed for useful purposes, Doctor. Every pound of fruits and vegetables produced is derived from their toil. Over time they seem to become quite proud of their endeavors.”
She returns to silence allowing me to take in the view and better understand the interaction.
I count some twenty young males laboring under the rather strict supervision of a half dozen Bagandan women, plus what appears to be their daughters. I narrow my attention to one trio. A large male is secured in wooden stocks, his head and wrists entrapped between connecting blocks of wood. The stocks are in turn connected to two horizontal poles emanating from the front of a plow. The naked male is bent over at the waist, straining to pull the plow and break up the soil. A Bagandan women stands atop the plowshare, whip in hand, her animated motions obviously directing the pointed sheet of steel to bite through the encrusted surface and encouraging the male beast to labor in earnest with flicks of her wrist.
But it is the smiling, naked young girl riding astride the back of the struggling male that provokes much thought. She is young and her modest weight cannot be physically unbearable. But instead, for the well-secured human oxen beneath, it is the mental burden of being directed about the field by this slight girl that must indeed be unbearable.
The plow slows, apparently brushing a rock or other impediment, and the girl leans forward and reaches underneath the male oxen’s chest. He cringes. The plow shakes with his renewed efforts and a stone is unturned. The girl laughs with her ability to control a grown male. The woman smiles with a look of admiration, which can only be found on the face of a mother. The young girl had obviously worked the oxen’s nipples, perhaps a sharp pinch, or a twist, or a pull. Whatever the technique the results are effective. But more importantly is the amazing process of the Bagandan woman training her daughter in the fine art of control and dominance.
As I scan the field I see more naked young girls. All seem to be supervised by an older Bagandan women wearing a colorful sarong and brandishing a whip. Some ride a male in stocks as with the plow girl, others lead a naked human beast by way of a leash attached to a nose ring, the subservient male afforded an enticing view of nubile buttocks.
I’m not sure why I find the interaction to be so shocking. Well accredited research into the African tribe documents the female’s disdain for non-Bagandan males. And as a research psychologist, I should realize that such behavior is most likely taught not genetically acquired. Therefore I should fully understand the training process, teaching the girls at a young age to relish their authority over bound and naked males. And I would conjecture that the lack of clothing is not entirely attributable to the climate, but instead adds a degree of sexual excitement for the girls in their years of developing sexuality. Judging from the reaction of the smiling girl atop the human plow oxen, there indeed appears to be a certain level of arousal attained in feeling between her naked thighs the warm, sweaty flesh of the subservient male. His underlying muscles straining and reacting to the whip of her mother and the painful pinch of her fingers.
And then there is the thorough humiliation of the naked males. Forced to labor under the complete control of girls half their age, I ponder their mental state. They cannot think. They must react. The sting of a thin whip cannot be ignored, particularly when the source of the pain is from the sensitive and precious reproductive organs. And so resistance must be futile. I find myself witnessing the complete submission of the male gender, and it must be doubly humiliating to have to offer such submission to the fickleness of young girls.
Lady Constance excuses herself and returns to her ponies. They kneel in rest. A plastic water bottle is produced and she gently slips a straw into the mouth of the right pony. She squeezes and the pony swallows. With the bit separating his lips, much of the water flows out and drips to the ground. The left pony is likewise watered and I am impressed with the tenderness this most dominant woman applies to her task.
Next she reaches down and releases the Prince Albert ring of both penises. The phalli have become somewhat flaccid in rest and Lady Constance takes one in each hand and points it downward. It is interesting to watch a woman handle the male appendage so skillfully. She leans forward and whispers something into the ears of the huge males. After a pause, they simultaneously begin to urinate with Lady Constance directing the flow away from her feet and the knees of the two beasts. It is a fascinating display of her control and the ponies’ training. In addition to walking, cantering, trotting and running in unison, they also empty their bladders. I contemplate the training process by which such strict coordination is developed.
She dutifully shakes the final drops of excretion from the tips of the penises, pulls up the lengthy tubes of flesh and again hooks the Prince Albert ring to the abdomen of each pony.
“The power plant is next, Doctor. Once I show you how to use a pony cart, you can come back here any time.”
She seems to sense my captivation with the farm, but wishes to stay on schedule. I nod and enter the chariot.
“Nice and firm for me boys.”
She is addressing her prize team while diddling their penises. She insists that her ornate chariot be pulled by well muscled males with stiff appendages leading the way. I suppose for her it is a symbol of her authority, directing the biggest, most erect phalli on the island with an evilly thin whip and a firm grip on the reins.
The ponies expertly turn the chariot to return to the main road. The whip snaps and their spasmodic response to the sharp pain can be felt as the chariot shudders but quickly accelerates.
Reaching the main road we turn right and proceed at a steady but quick pace. When the road takes us through a
n occasional clearing, I can see the large windmill ahead, which appears to be our destination. At one point we approach a cart stopped to the side. It is laden with vegetables and a yoked and naked male has been pulling it. Standing before him is a native girl, somewhat older than those in the field but completely nude as the others. She turns her head to look at us when she hears our chariot. She smiles bashfully. Lady Constance pulls on the scrotal cords and our chariot slows then stops along side.
“Naughty girl, Luana,” Lady Constance admonishes with a smile.
Luana’s right hand is holding a leash connected to the male beast’s nose ring. She has pulled it down and forced the face of the servile beast to the level of her pudendum. There a shockingly long tongue is licking away at the teenage girl’s genitalia. Her left hand holds food of some kind and she slips a treat into the male’s mouth as he attentively plies away with his tongue.
Luana’s nipples evidence her arousal. They are crinkled and point skyward atop firm developing mammaries.
“Motamba will be waiting...”
Lady Constance strokes right then left and our vehicle rolls again.
“She’s manifesting her dominance nicely, don’t you think Doctor? But I have to encourage some level of attention to the chores. She’s expected at Estovia. That load is for our dinner.”