After which you would do the same for your Owner, freely, the wind dancing through the trees, the soft sound of leaves fluttering, while you hold my beautiful Cock in your small hand and stroke, slowly and carefully at first, then with vigour and intention, staring at those horses as I unload.

I nod and you reach under the belly of a horse and massage his shaft free, while you, my young pet, would be giggling and blushing.

You don’t do anything else but to help that purple and pink marbled member to appear.

How we walk past a couple of small horses, light brown with gold blonde manes, standing in the shade.

I allow you, my beast, to step over the thin plastic lines bordering their meadow, to caress and hug and cuddle with the other animals.

The thistles’ needles streaking soft red lines on your bare skin.

You help me pee, and clean my Cock with that lil tongue.

I make you crouch and urinate while I am intently watching. Right there along the rather deserted trail.

… over narrow cow paths between fields of high ferns and thistle, over sharp rocks, a trail covered in small stones. A cool breeze picks up, drifts over your body.

Your nipples hardened, sensitive, I notice your body react to the cooling draft.

I offer water to drink from my bottle. Like a child.

She is so good at it. And cute too.

The best part is the tit sucking, groping and slapping. And her disheveled wet hair.

My fingers linger not for necessity but for love, for the quiet satisfaction of seeing you reborn, cared for, and at peace.

The ritual ends as it began: no words, only the shared hush of devotion.

Nails tended, stray hairs brushed away, little imperfections acknowledged and adored, pubis shaved once more, kept so perfectly soft and every fold of flesh or surface of skin visible, exposed, pure. (cont.)

Your body welcomes the worship, sighing, each motion both a conversation and a promise, silent.

Grooming you is the final act, the smallest of gestures, yet the most complete. (cont.)

I can sense how your body aches to be touched, held, hugged, but this is not the moment.

When lotion meets your skin, it is with reverence. My palms glide across you once more, spreading softness and scent, sealing in the care I have given. (cont.)

Each stroke untangles more than hair — it unravels the space between us until there is nothing but closeness. I move, slowly, only a hand holding you, and the comb gliding, my body’s warmth and softness just a brush of air enveloping your skin. (cont.)

between your thighs that smooth mounded cleft, until you are ready for the next tender tending.

A comb drawn slowly through your hair, easing through the damp strands with infinite care. I keep the rhythm steady, and I watch your head tilt slightly beneath my touch, surrendering, trusting. (cont.)

The towel is obedient in my hands, pressing away the lingering wetness, not rushing, never rushing. I dry you as though your skin might bruise beneath too much pressure, smoothing the cloth along your arms, legs, the hollow of your back, ... (cont.)

I let the stream fall in thin sparkling sheets over you, the droplets finding their own paths along your skin. I move around you in silence, attending to every inch, until your body is clean and shining. (cont.)