My trainer and i occasionally play this game that I like to call "elastrator or..." (the little "i" at the beginning seems fitting because she's the one who enjoys this particular game the most). I always pick the "or". If you've had an elastrator on your balls, I don't need to explain why.
Well, not always. Occasionally I do choose the elastrator, but when I do, it's solely to fuck with her. See, that way the next time she wants to punish me, she'll think to herself, "Gee, I know what to do. I'll use this other thing. He hates that even more than the elastrator!" I can't do this too often, or she'll figure it out.
I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that's a horrible, mean thing to do and compromises the honesty on which the relationship was founded and blah blah blah. Whatever. She's a smart girl. If she hasn't figured out I was faking when I chose the elastrator over the spreader bar, she damn well should have. Besides, I know she fucks with me, so I figure it all works out. But I digress.
Today it was The Elastrator or The Treadmill. It's the holiday season, and I really don't feel up to having my balls banded (though we do have both red and green bands, so I guess we could be festive about it), so I chose The Treadmill. I don't actually make my choice for another few paragraphs, but it's not a spoiler to tell you now.
Anyway, on to the brief backstory...
Getting tacked up is one of my favorite parts of pony play. I'm always aroused during this phase of play. Later on, I may (or may not) fall into a work mindset, and I may not have the luxury of being turned on, so I savor every second of being tacked up.
The flutter in my stomach that is the anticipation of what is to come, while thrilling, isn't what I really enjoy. Mostly I live in the moment while being tacked up. I enjoy the smells. The smell of leather, rubber, freshly cleaned breeches, and sometimes copper.
I love watching T walk around in breeches, field boots and spurs while she fusses about with all the pieces of tack, arranging everything just so (she's so funny sometimes). I get a kick out of watching the humongous pile of tack getting smaller and smaller as I get heavier and hotter.
I love hearing the zippers of the catsuit, the rollers of the buckles, the soft sound of leather straps pulled through buckles and fed through keepers (and the even softer sound of laces sliding through eyelets and being tightened against soft leather), the creak of thick leather under tension, and the squeak of rubber as the hoof gloves are stretched open - then allowed to snap closed.
The tastes (rubber, or copper, or, sometimes, apple for the bit (stainless bits are fun but are usually taseless); rubber, but a more pungent rubber, when we use a tongue port) add to the experience, but they are not my favorite part and often get lost in the background noise that are my other senses.
The physical sensation of being progressively more restricted with each passing second, and especially the feeling of her hands all over me as she tightens, straightens, pushes and pulls everything - moving me, turning me - business-like, but still managing some sensuality.
I get warmer and warmer as I get tacked up. Not because of arousal (at least I don't think so), but because of the sheer volume of equipment. We start off with a latex catsuit - the only piece of gear that I put on myself, and only because I insist on doing it myself (though she insists on zipping it up) - then come the boots, and she works up from there.
By the time she gets to my bridle, I'm usually covered in a light sheen of sweat. Of course, you couldn't really tell since black latex covers me everywhere below my head.
With every last pound of equipment on me, she starts to restrain me. This part is always easy - there are so many D-rings, O-rings, and whatever-the-fuck-ever rings, that it takes all of 2 seconds to clip my wrists together, then to my harness behind my back. Another 2 seconds for the elbows (snapped with about 6 inches space between them - uncomfortable, but really not bad).
I can usually get a good idea for the length of the scene from the elbow bondage - touching and I'll be out in 30 minutes or less. Six inches...well 6 inches is easily bearable for hours: not a good sign.
Tightening the bridle is the next stop on the pony express. She tightens the left side. The strap gets caught and she pulls harder. When it comes free suddenly, it ratchets up 5 holes, surprising both of us and causing the bit to ram my upper lip into my teeth (is that blood I taste or a copper roller?). It tightens a little more, then loosens again, but not as loose as before she started her fiddling.
The curb chain gets tightened by what feels like all the 20 something links - I wonder if she realizes it is a curb chain, not a fluffy feather-filled curb strap with extra soft leather padding.
With the curb strap tightened down, I can't open my mouth. Well, that is to say, I can't open my mouth any more than the thickness of the bit, which is currently wedging them open. If not for the bit, the curb chain would have locked my mouth closed. Ostensibly to allow curb action, the chin strap is in fact completely unnecessary since there will be nobody at the other end of the reins for what she has planned (though I don't know this yet).
While perhaps unnecessary, the curb strap does prevent the decidedly un-equine habit of mouth breathing. After a couple minutes (30 seconds really), the saliva starts building up in my mouth. Since I can't open my mouth any wider to let it drop out (admittedly not an elegant solution, but with wrists and elbows bound tightly behind you, you have to forgo elegance on occasion), nor can I swallow it effectively (thanks to the tongue port), I have to avoid mouth breathing to avoid making a real mess.
After getting me all tacked up, she pulls out the elastrator, all stretched out and ready to go. I shake my head as emphatically as the posture collar and reins (which are attached to my harness behind my back to keep my head up) will allow.
She points to the treadmill.
I make no response. I don't really want to do anything right now, let alone run for who knows how long.
Lightning quick, she unzips one of the "convenience" zippers of my catsuit with her right hand, while grabbing the elastrator - with pre-stretched band - in her left hand. In 2 seconds flat I feel the elastic of the band and the cold metal of the applicator at the bottom of my scrotum. Another 2 seconds and she has both testicles through the band, which is now at the base of my scrotum.
I'll give her credit: she was fast. My guys are quick to retreat upwards, but she caught them completely unawares.
I start to react and back away, but it is too late: she literally has me by the balls.
She releases the handle of the applicator a little, and I feel the elastic start to close around me. I nod my head frantically in the direction of the treadmill.
This is quite a precarious position. I keep indicating that I've decided that I'm fine with running on the treadmill after all (by flipping my head in its direction). At the same time, I am trying to track the movements of her hand with my hips.
She releases the handle a little more, and the real pain starts. I stop tempering my head nodding and decide to go all out. At this point, I'm not nearly as concerned with the coughing and gagging spells induced by the bit port as I am with the pain in my balls.
One second...two seconds...three seconds. The pain, and the anticipation of pain far worse than even this, builds. She doesn't release the handle more, nor does she reopen the band. Instead she leans close to me (close enough to smell the arousal on her breath, which both scares and excites me) and whispers in my ear, "I should put it on you AND make you run".
My throat goes dry. I can't swallow. Not from the bit, but from fear (or maybe excitement - I can't tell the difference between the two at this point).
Fortunately, she doesn't do that. Before I could make any more objections to her statement, she squeezes the handle, which re-opens the band, then pulls it off my balls.
Without missing a beat, she rezips my crotch zipper and sets the elastrator back on the table. Finally, she unzips the top part of my catsuit to expose my chest.
I'm quite perplexed by this move until she shows me the nipple clamps...no, that's not right...they are bells. They are nipple bells that also clamp - the clamp part is an added bonus I suppose (depending on your perspective). Value for your money: humiliate your ponyboy and hurt him too! (or so I imagine the advertising slogan).
But anyway, when she shows me the nipple bells (that also clamp) with their long pincers, I notice the bells first. I start to offer a mild objection (I find bells mildly humiliating for some unknown reason), then I notice the clamp portion and reformulate my objections to make them more strenuous. I tell her that:
I tell her all of that, but through the bit and tongue port, it comes out as a little line of drool at the right corner of my mouth and a bunch of glottal sounds as my tongue struggles against the port (and is repeatedly rebuffed by the insanely effective long rubber protrusion). And all of this from a mouth that doesn't move (except for a little twitching of the lips, which is the likely cause of the rivulet of drool - a parody of Mr. Ed perhaps?) thanks to the curb strap under my chin.
She smiles. That's not good. That was the evil smile. But she doesn't have the crop, so maybe it was the good...
Ahhhhhhh! She flicks both nipple clamps and the bells go crazy in their high pitched lunatic song (or maybe it was me that went crazy) as I collapse onto my knees before realizing I was already on my knees.
"It looks like they're secure" she says, and the smile grows, then falters a little when she realizes she may have overdone it with the flick. It was a hard flick, and she did overdo it, but I try and force a smile to reassure her.
My eyes must have betrayed me because she says sorry (and means it) before kissing me (oh, how I love being kissed through a gag), even managing to get the tip of her tongue just inside my mouth - quite a feat since my jaws were clamped tightly around the bit - and rubbing my back.
She eases up on the clamps a little, and the intimacy is broken.
With a firm yet gentle tug on my tail, we both stand up. She walks me over to the treadmill and helps me on it. I can't really look down because of the taut reins (and the posture collar), so I don't get to see the devious part, but she narrates it for me as she connects my bit rings to my nipple clamps (in a crosswise fashion: left bit ring to right nipple clamp and vice versa) and tightens them.
Ugh. I can't tilt my head back now. Or turn it to the side.
Finally, she connects my clamps to the front of the treadmill, additional motivation if I start to lag. This is usually where she would give a light (maybe not always so light) swat with the crop or some such, but clearly she's still feeling bad about earlier because she just pats my ass and says "good boy".
She hits the start button and walks out of my field of view. To the couch undoubtedly.
The machine slowly comes to life, but the slack on my nipple reins gets taken up all too quickly. I take a few panicky steps forward to alleviate the additional pressure on the clamps, but pretty soon I fall into a rhythm and it's not so bad.
For a whirring sound, it's surprisingly loud. I can't hear the TV that I know she has going. All I hear is leather squeaking, hoof boots stamping, the belt running, bells jingling (it's the holiday season after all), and chains clinking (but not the curb chain - it's far too tight to clink).
From an outsider's perspective, the scene could easily have been asexual (though I suppose at this point it very nearly is, for me at least), non-BDSM pony role play (well, non-SM anyway; aside from the nipple clamps there isn't much pain, so appearences are not deceiving in this case): simply a pony practicing his gaits on a treadmill because it's too cold and wet to work outside.
An insider's perspective though is very different. My calves feel rubbery, my toes, thighs, and nipples are on fire, the back of my throat raw - not just from rapid breathing, but also from the tongue port hitting the back of my throat on occasion and starting a brief coughing spell (if I'm lucky; a gagging spell if I'm not). Sweat pooling everywhere, running into my eyes and burning, but I don't dare shake my head to throw it off. The thin lines of drool quickly turn into foam as I can't help but occasionally exhale through my mouth.
Sweat and drool slowly drip onto the big conveyor belt that sweeps it under my hoof boots only to reappear a second later as the belt makes its eternal loop. Or so I imagine. I can't actually look down to say for sure.
And the bells. Always the bells. Tinkling merrily with each step. Cheerfully belying my discomfort with each step.
It's annoying as hell. I can't shake my head to flick the sweat off. What is there to look at in front me that necessitates blinders and reins to hold my head straight up? What is there to concentrate on?
I need to wipe my eyes...and my mouth. I really need to itch my nose. Damnit.
Okay. Shaking my head is out due to the taught connection with the nipple clamps. Ditto for an upward jerk of the head. Maybe there's a little give in the leather of the reins going down my back. A short jerk forward of my head reminds me that I'm wearing a bit with a long tongue port.
I start to gag, but control it enough to only cough instead. The lesser of two evils perhaps, but each cough sends a razor of pain through my nipples.
On the bright side, I forgot about the itch on my nose...never mind, it's back.
The blinders block any peripheral vision, and the tension of the reins prevents me from turning my head to glance at her.
I can imagine her sitting there on the comfortable leather couch. Probably not looking directly at me for fear that I will see how interested she is in watching me. Not just watching me, but watching me in my discomfort.
I close my eyes because the physical sensations are too much. I can't take the physical sensations and the visual information simultaneously. It's too much.
Closing my eyes was a mistake. Without sight, I can only feel, and right now I feel too much pain. I reopen my eyes, then decide to close them again. Am I going insane? Maybe I'm just blinking. I don't know.
How long have I been running? I was just walking a minute ago. Why didn't I notice the speed of the belt change? Did we skip the trot completely?
In answer to my question, the incline becomes steeper and the speed faster. This is a freaking hand gallop up a hill.
The tinkling of the bells is more insistent. My mind switches to the task at hand. I try to focus on running and let other thoughts get lost in the furious stomping (or maybe clomping. Either way it is a far more substantial sound than mere clopping, let alone clip-clopping. Whatever adjective describes the sound, it definitely contains an "m") of hooves on the treadmill.
I keep trying to focus on galloping, but my mind begins to wander. Well, not wander precisely, but defocus. Like what you had to do when you looked at those old (I guess early 90's is old now, over 20 years and all that) computer generated 3D prints. Except in my case, it is the mind's eye that is defocusing.
Concentrating, but not focused. Succumbing to feeling. No, not feeling, but instinct. I'm succumbing to instinct.
Running as fast as I can just to stay in one place. Who said that? He probably didn't mean it quite so literally, but he might appreciate my situation if only for the humor.
The belt slows, which grabs my attention. Time to focus again. Now focusing comes easy. Born of necessity in this case because I have to catch myself to prevent running into the front of the treadmill.
T helps me down and tells me how great I was. She says the workout program was almost an hour.
WTF? Less than 60 minutes? Just under an hour on the treadmill? That's not possible. I've been running forever.
She reaches toward the right nipple clamp, and for one horrible instant I'm sure she's going to yank it off. I shy back, nearly tripping over my own hooves. She grabs my harness to support me and pull me toward her, but when she takes the clamp off, she's very gentle. Nevertheless, when it loosens and comes off, it feels like she ripped it (and my nipple) off.
She puts her mouth on my nipple, and I have another horrible premonition that she's going to suck on it, but fortunately there is no suction, only the warm, soft pressure of her tongue, which eases the pain. Then the left clamp, again the sharp pain, and again the pressure of her tongue easing it.
A sharp exhalation of breath through my nose as the second clamp is released. Her tongue is already pressing on it, easing the pain. I feel a little euphoric with both clamps finally off, and I start to wonder if my ragged nose breathing left a booger in her hair. There was no booger, but this gets me smiling all the same. Then laughing, and this time the tears are from laughter not pain.
With all the bondage removed (except the boots), we go for a walk outside. The latex, which was oppressively hot inside, now feels deliciously cool, and the breeze, previously chilling, is now refreshing. We walk around the garden, and though my legs still feel rubbery, I enjoy the clip clopping (this time it is definitely a clop and not a stomp or clomp. Hooves sound so light and unsubstantial on the unforgiving stone) of my hooves on the stone.
The clip-clopping is entrancing, and in a flash of understanding - like a strobe briefly illuminating a dark room, a room where there is a sense of greatness and fullness that you can feel, but that turns our to be far more expansive than you originally thought (or could even imagine) - I understand what it is like to be a horse.
The feeling is gone as quickly as it came, full comprehension again alluding me, leaving me to grasp in vain at the thought as it fades. All the pieces were there for a brief moment in time, but the complete picture was impossible to fully store in memory in the short time it was clear, and no amount of trying will bring it back.
And then we, two humans, are walking again.