buggy whips

cloeslut: Broken Pony, Puppy, And Milk Cow... PERFECT Slave

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is the final part for poor Chloe. I’d like to thank the requester for giving me the idea of what she was seeking. I hope you all enjoy this, and PLEASE, let me know if you wish to have a story of your own.


chloeslut pulled her Master’s cart, like the obedient animal she had finally become. While her initial acceptance of her situation had occurred shortly after her piercings, she had still not fully embraced what she had become.

Indeed, she had, in fact, gone through her very own five stages of grief. In her case, mourning the loss of the life and existence she had previously known. He had fully expected this, of course, and he had used this knowledge to both further her training and breaking, and judge her progress.

Denial had been first, and she’d tried to fight and resist, during her initial capture, and then sporadically the first week. These failed efforts were always accompanied with anger, at him, at the situation, but mostly at herself. He took advantage of that, and always made it a point of reminding her that it was her own actions that had brought her to his attention.

She’d tried denying this and would shake her head in an effort to refuse to accept her new destiny and situation.

The repeated beatings served to drive home her reality.

Just as her forced sexual service reminded her daily of her true purpose.

Since she was never allowed to speak, and anytime she’d tried she’d been punished, severely, he was spared the “bargaining” step. He’d long ago gotten bored with the same tired lines repeated over and over again by the countless slaves he’d captured, broken, trained, and sold. There was nothing new she could say to him, so he didn’t bother giving her the chance.

This denial of even the ability to speak, and her forced piercings, had helped to protel her headlong into the fourth stage, depression.

chloeslut had been more or less obedient but sullen. Simply going through the motions of any training he used. She resisted when tortured, she wasn’t that capable of disconnection, but other than that she seemed completely out of touch with reality.

He worked hard to put her in the moment, using pain, and/or severe stimulation, usually of her newly pierced clit and soaking wet cunt to keep her from escaping into herself. At the same time, using severe bondage to never let her ignore the truth of her situation: she was here to be used.

 It was obvious to him, early on, that she’d still been holding out some hope that she might be rescued; might still be able to beat the odds and regain her freedom. She seemed to cling to this hope with a desperation he’d not seen for a long time. She was always looking to the door of the dungeon, or looking around anxiously anytime he took her outdoors to train her.

He always chuckled at the new level of defeat she suffered when she found herself, at the end of a training session, once again back in the dungeon, bound as she had been the day before, and the day before that.

He used that to push her further and further into her slavery, and over the last six months had made sure that the possibility of “rescue” had been completely erased from her mind.

Of course, that was not the only thing that he had erased.

He’d erased every aspect of her former personality and the person that she was. For him breaking a slave was an art to be savored, and it was to be done as thoroughly as possible.

The result was awe-inspiring. Five months ago, four months ago, even two months ago, if she had somehow, remarkably, regained her freedom. There was still a chance that she could have regained something that resembled a normal life. She would’ve, of course, required years of therapy, and psychological help, but it would have been possible.

Now, she could never be free again. The simple reason was that she no longer knew how to be free.

Freedom was for persons, for human beings, individuals that possess their own sense of self-worth, and individuality. For the slave formerly known as Chloe, all those things had been stripped away and eradicated from her psychological makeup.

Whether it had been through repeated forced orgasms, and then the punishment for orgasms that she had no permission for. Or being held, just at the edge of orgasm four minutes, sometimes hours, denied that release, crushing her psychological resistance, or even the vicious infliction of pain, and degradation.

These tools, and others, had been used by her owner to completely subjugate chloeslut to his will. To take away all concepts of “person”, “woman”, “human”, and “me” or “I”.

She had accepted her classification as an “it”.

Servitude had become her lot, disobedience, an impossible contemplation. Now she embraced her servitude as if that was all she had ever known.

Indeed, in many ways, it was.

Her pony training, was a perfect example of this. When she had first been strapped into her harness, and the bit and bridal wrapped around her head, she had balked at the realization of what he inteded. She mentally jerked away from the very idea of being nothing more than an animal.

He had dealt with that resistance quite simply. He had strapped electrified vibrators into both her cunt and ass, both coated in a Habanero Pepper paste. This same paste was liberally applied to her pierced clit as well.

The pain, as expected, did its job, and made it feel like her asshole, cunt, and clit were literally being burned from her body. She had never imagined such pain in her entire life.

Added to that, the occasional electric shocks from the dildos, made the pain even more pronounced, and she had literally no place to escape to.

 During all this, he continued to use the buggy whip, forcing chloeslut’s struggling, straining, and suffering form to continue always moving forward, pulling the cart, just like the trained animal he sought her to be.

After that session, it was a very contrite, and desperate to please a slave girl that was strapped to the buggy the next time.

Every attempt at resistance, whatever form it took, always met the same kind of fate.

Whether she tried to hesitate as she pulled a cart, or the first time she tried to struggle as she was strapped into her puppy suit, or the first time her Master attached her swollen breasts to the milk machine. Whatever the situation, she was always taught that even the slightest hesitation, the slightest resistance, even the perception of refusal was met with horrific brutal punishment.

And so, faced with that overwhelming level of domination, where any resistance, or even the perception of it, was met with savage pain, and brutal torture ensuring she bent to the will of the person training her, a will that proved to be unbending and unyielding in its demands of perfect instant obedience, and complete and utter submission, it was no shocked at all that Chloe surrendered, accepted, and then abandoned all sense of herself in order to survive.

What now pulled the pony cart, was what was left. A biological masturbation and amusement tool.

Three fuck holes, two tits to milk or punish, and flesh for torture, and modification.

A simple slave, called, chloeslut. An animal so low, it’s name didn’t even deserve capitalization.


As her training continued, seemingly unending, chloeslut had become exactly what she was intended to be from the moment her Master first kidnapped her.

Her days were spent either pulling her Master’s cart, perfecting her pony training, or, locked in a puppy suit, arms, and legs folded up, forcing her to walk on her knees and elbows, and perform tricks for his amusement.

Sometimes, when he was feeling kind, her face was left uncovered, most times, however, it was completely encased in a leather hood, rendering her blind and deaf. During these times her Master oftentimes would play, “remote-control puppy”.

In this case, she would have electrified dildos in her cunt and ass, electrified clamps on her nipples and clit.

The lessons and directions were very simple.

A shock on her left nipple meant to go right.

A shock on her right nipple meant to go right.

A shock in her cunt was for forward, and in her ass for backward.

Shocks to her clit were administered if she hesitated, made a mistake, or simply for amusement.

As with her pony training, the repeated training in the puppy suit had, slowly, bypassed her conscious mind completely. Now, after months, and months of this training, she didn’t even need to think about her directions anymore.

She might as well have been a true remote-control animal for all the level of conscious thought she was capable of. She obeyed without thought or hesitation. More than once, for his own amusement, her Master had walked her right into a wall, just to see if she would follow her signals and continue to do it if so directed.

In every case, she had done exactly that.

Mindlessly, automatically, and obediently…almost, desperately so.

She had so fully embraced her role as an animal in fact, when put outside, chained by her collar, she sat obediently on all fours, without her suit, waiting like the obedient pet she was.

As hard as the training was, during the day, her evenings were not, in any way, a time of relaxation. In fact, when a stray thought did, occasionally, enter her mind, she missed the days when she would simply be chained to the wall, and left to sleep on an old, dirty mattress.

To her modified mind, those were the good old days.

Now, her nights were spent strapped into the milking machine, her tits, after multiple hormone injections, stimulations, and training, had begun to produce milk.

Each night, Master would strap her into the machine, watching her silent and broken acceptance even as she displayed the fear of the pain that was about to come as she was, unforgivingly, milked by the machines. He smiled often when he saw that there was no longer a look of humiliation on her face when he did this. She was so broken at this point, it was impossible to muster the self-worth that was required in order to feel humiliation.

Humiliation was felt by persons, she was an animal, a slave, and for her, whatever was done to her was exactly what she deserved.

Which was why she would so willingly open her mouth to accept the ring gag. He liked to use her wet mouth to service his cock as she was painfully milked. The gag wasn’t necessary, of course, as she was long past the point of trying to bite. However he used it because it was a reminder that he was taking what he wanted, she was never in a place to give anything, because she was nothing, and had, nothing.

A reality she had embraced completely because, as with the rest of her situation, he Master left her no other possible alternative.

She was now producing more than a liter of milk a night. That production came at the cost of very sore nipples that she had to deal with the next day. More than once, her Master had sadistically taken advantage of that and brutally tortured her nipples, usually with electricity, as a means of furthering her complete and utter subjugation.


Her Master thought on all of this, as he sat in the buggy with a proud smile on his face, watching the gorgeous, churning ass before him. He reveled in the control he had, and watched, amused, as the shit fell out of her body, through the hollow butt plug she was forced to wear. She didn’t even register it anymore. She was an animal, and of course, an animal shit where it was.

He had, more than once, admired how obediently she would now stand, her tail plug already installed, only the most basic bindings to hold her, as she waited for her bit, bridle, and other pony fittings. It was these moments, when she would unresistingly accept her tack, where she truly displayed how broken she had become.

He did notice she still shifted, uncomfortably, when the flies would crawl around, and even into her, using the opening of the hollow butt plug to access the soft sensitive flesh inside. But the shifting was all she did, just as one would expect from a horse, but even this discomfort was accepted with the complete obedience, total silence, and utter submission of the true slave that she had become; that he had created.

He regretted the fact that it would be time to sell her very soon. He had enjoyed her thoroughly. She had been one of the most responsive, and difficult slaves he had ever trained while at the same time being one of the most enjoyable.

Her early, temporary surrenders followed by a pathetic attempt to muster some form of resistance had been a delight that he had not experienced in years.

However, business was business, and her trifecta classification as both a trained pony, trained puppy, and a milk cow, would bring him mid six figures easily.

That thought brought another large smile to his face, and he “celebrated” by snapping the whip quickly twice across her ass, and then once over her shoulder.

That shot was rewarded with a severe squeal as of the tip of the whip met one of her tender nipples.

“Get a move on cunt,” he said in clear delight, “we have a long night ahead of us, and I’m going to need to put together your final sale information to find your new Master.”

The pony registered the words with seeming indifference, as she mindlessly followed the guidance of her reins.

However, deep inside her mind, past the training, past the degradation, pass the humiliation, and virtual, “reprogramming” that she had gone through. Past the whippings, the beatings, the electricity and the rapes, Chloe was still there. A small, insignificant, and, ultimately, flickering piece of who she was, still existed.

That part of her cried out in strangled, silent anguish and pain at the thought of her, of its final future.

That knowledge, of what was to come, and, more importantly, that there was no hope of altering her future or destiny in even the smallest way, served to all but snuff out this final ember and ensure the young, beautiful, intelligent, conniving woman, person, human being, and free person known as Chloe was, for ever more, nothing more than the chloeslut,

The absolute slave.

This doesn’t have anything to do with art, animation, career, or anything, this is just a memory of my Great Grandpa I stumbled upon yesterday, and I only now realized how unusual it is. I’m curious if anyone out there has similar storytelling traditions in their own family.

A bunch of great grand kids would sit around my Great Grandpa, a few Grandparent and Parent generation around the outside, grinning at each other like they were all in on some inside joke. There were a few famous family narratives- the escaped convict, the cougar, the relative’s haunted farm house, the mad dog…. All of which were probably a combination of truths and improvisations building with each telling for the past 60+ years. One that just stood out to me as particularly bizarre was the downfall on the chivalrous gentleman-

Southern cultural lessons were packed into the explanations and backstory of these narratives, like a history lesson wrapped around a kernel of truth. Great Grandpa would start,

Back in the horse and wagon days, my Grandpappy, which is your great great GREAT Grandpappy,  and his friend Adam, grabbed themselves a couple dates and went to the old country dance.”

Then would usually come a bit of an aside about the setting, ALWAYS complete with an over explanation of the technology, because to Great Grandpa, and older people in general, the younger generations have less than zero concept of the world before their birth.

Back then, there was no phones, not television sets, no electricity at all, not even lights on the inside at night. They had to do everything by candles and oil lamps. Now, there wasn’t much to do back then, especially at night, so the country dance was about all they had going for them on a Friday night. But, they had these dances every once in awhile when the weather was warm, so they’d ask the girl from the next farm out to the dance. And they didn’t wash but about once a month back then, in a big washbasin the whole family used one after another. So they’d spend all day, get ALL dressed up, cleaned, get their finery on, and then they’d go. Well, Grandpappy’s friend, Adam, came up to my Grandpappy, soon as the dance began, and told him ‘I gotta go to the bathroom.’ And my Grandpappy, being a ROUGH and TUMBLE country boy, said,’ well, go ahead, right behind the barn there, and relieve yourself’. But Adam’s family owned the country store, and he was much more of a town boy than a country boy, and was raised to be more of a gentleman. Well, he said that it wouldn’t be right to relieve oneself, even out of sight, with all the ladies around, it would be impolite and would just be TOO EMBARRASSING if he were to get spotted, so Adam told Grandpappy he’d hold it.”

A dramatic pause, it added validity to us kids at the time, tension. Great Grandpa was probably just making up some new detail or something. 

Adam was doing alright at first, although my Grandpappy could see him squirming around all night,  dancing with his legs close together, sitting with his legs crossed like a girl, all to keep from peeing his pants. And he might have been alright, except…. The girls, the dates, you know, were having SUCH a good time, that they didn’t want to go home! They wanted to stay out late with the boys at the dance.”

Another little insert of southern cultural history worked in, and education about his perception of our past, our manners-

Now, to get home late in those days meant BIG trouble. Not like now, you might catch a REAL woopin’ from your daddy back then, even when you was almost grown. Or, you might never get to leave that farm again. So, if these girls were willing to stay out past curfew, just to spend more time with Grandpappy and Adam, then this was a rare opportunity. A gentleman like Adam was not one to turn down a couple ladies. So they stayed, and they danced some more, and then when it all wrapped up, they headed home under the stars. Adam and his date was in one buggy, my Grandpappy and his date was in another. Right as my Grandpappy and Adam was about to fork off to go their own separate ways for the night, he noticed Adam wasn’t looking too good and remembered he’d been holding it the whole time. My Grandpappy, having probably peed behind a bush 3-4 times throughout the course of the night, new Adam had to be in bad shape. Kids, buggies were slow! Real slow! It’s not like riding in a car, no! It’d take a couple hours to get the miles down the road to Adam’s house, and HERS, the dates, was past that in the opposite direction! So my Grandpappy said ‘Adam, stop that buggy once you get into those woods, and tell your date, that your Momma told you to pick her some berries on the way home. You get out of sight behind some brush, and you relieve yourself.’ Adam was looking pretty pale at this point, and he said he’d stop and pee only as a last resort, because there wasn’t much a chance of his date believing the story about the berries. But kids, stubborn as Adam was, there wasn’t a chance that he was stopping with that lady in tow. And Adam sure wasn’t gonna stop off home to use his outhouse neither. Well, Adam gets her home, kisses her hand goodnight, whips his buggy around and BOOKS IT home….  And they found Adam… next morning… on the side of the road… DEAD FROM A RUPTURED BLADDER!”

Shock, giggling, and ‘ew’s from all the kids.

“So kids, the moral of the story is, don’t stand on ceremony, if you gotta go, GO! Speaking of which, I’ll see you kids later!” And, just like that, he’d shoot up, chuckling, pretending to be rushing to the bathroom. Grandparents, Parents, and  the older, already indoctrinated kids exploding with laughter.

Looking back on this, all I can think is- Wait what? Was that a real story? Was that whole elaborate bit of performance art building up to the punchline of the fake pee break? It’s possible this instance of my Great Grandpa’s absurdist sense of humor was infectious enough to become a family tradition, even while being fully made up.

Or, was this  bladder story some version of a real event? It Is equally possible this strange tale of some long dead dude’s very personal injury has been morbidly enjoyed, for over a hundred years, by my family; that it all started with my apparently gossipy great great great Grandpa. There is also the possibility that some long buried family incontinence caused this lesson about peeing frequently to be passed down via folktale for generations. Whatever the case, this and the other stories in Great Grandpa’s catalog felt like an initiation: ‘Welcome to the family, you too will be laughing at confused children someday,’

Definition of anachronism:

Starting your vacation planning by buying a book (and an actual paper book at that) to read on the plane, before you’ve made a hotel reservation (which I now have) or purchased airline tickets (which has yet I have not). I may still have a buggy whip around here somewhere…

Interested SoCal Tumblrs should watch these pages. Relevant details about ham-fisted attempts at meet ups will be forthcoming.


Day 15 -  Whisky for Breakfast on the Last Day.

We started late morning from downtown Chicago and arrived to Bob’s house just past 6:00 pm.    The last leg saw us finish James Joyce and find our ninth Whisky Distillery.  

My daughter Andie recommended the Journeyman Whisky Distillery in Three Oaks, Michigan to us at dinner last night.   She said the place was fun, the food was great, but she did not know how good the Whisky was.  We take Andie very seriously so we jumped off the interstate just inside the Michigan border and drove the two-lane into Three Oaks.   The Journeyman was in a converted corset and buggy whip factory and they have enough room to also have a busy restaurant on the campus.   The place was filling up and we saw tourists walking around the village  This was the first time we had whisky for breakfast on the trip - don’t worry, the driver did not partake but I had a whisky sampler flight with my meal.  

One of the whiskys we tried used to be called Ravenswood but the Ravenswood winery objected and Journeyman wanted to avoid a legal fight so thus changed the Whisky’s name to Last Feather.   Ravenswood was the original name of the Whisky because years ago the Journeyman owner had used the distilling equipment, after hours, at KOVAL, on Ravenswood,  in Chicago to make his first batches of Whisky.   We loved that story for the passion of the owner show to get his whisky going at great personal sacrifice (remotely, after hours in Chicago) - and we liked that KOVAL were generous enough to help start-up Journeyman like that.   Maybe all these small whisky distillers know each other.

Back on the road we finished off Story 15 of the Dubliners - The Dead.   This was more like a small novel that the rest of the stories.   In the end we enjoyed listening to a book of short stories for a change.   We would recommend Dubliners for anyone looking for a broad view of Dublin culture 100 years ago.   So much variety in the characters and the parts of Dublin Joyce uses as setting - and the stories we compelling.

Crossing the border was uneventful and thankfully we were not pulled in for inspection.   Some of our whisky had crossed two borders and some had even crossed three - so we might have had some explaining to do.

We made it home still talking to each other after a great two weeks together.   We enjoyed our generous hosts along the way, also learning as much as we did about Whisky making (and tasting).   And we met a few interesting characters along the journey.   The retired guys still need to finish the accounting - and we should have our epilogue done in a couple of days.  

As for Michael Flood and Agnes Flood.   Well we did learn that spent time on the Manitoba prairie and their daughter Gertrude has the birth certificate to prove it.   We also learned that they did not stay for long and moved back to the London area after a short time in Manitoba.   One surprise for us was learning that Agnes’ brother led the way to Manitoba - homesteading, then meeting and marrying a girl before having 6 children and many further descendants.  More on all this in the epilogue. 

You’re stuck? Poor you. Fuck it. It’s a mental thing. Don’t give in. Think through it. Karate-punch the story. Kick it in the teeth until it yields. You’re the boss. Worse comes to worse: write around the gap. Got a section where you don’t know what happens? Write in 144-point font: WHO THE FUCK KNOWS? FIGURE THIS FIDGETY SHIT OUT LATER and then write the next section. A stuck story might be you feeling stuck when really, the story’s zipping along just fine. And even if there really is a problem, you can’t always identify the problem until you’re done the whole damn thing. So: you’re stuck? Fuck it. Fuck you. You’re not the horse. You’re the rider. The one with the spurs, the buggy whip, the carrot at the end of a stick. Make it move. Get it done. Your words are a battering ram: knock the door down and walk on through.
—  Chuck Wendig