A peculiar leather riding saddle draped over a wooden 4-strut sawhorse. Beside it, a tall stool. "Left foot first, milady. If you please." Mavis stretched her leg high, heel on stool. Straining her thick plump body to its limit. A series of loud shameless farts ensued. Amos chuckled. Thrust a filthy crooked middle finger into Mavis' painfully parted rectum. She shrieked, emitting copious snot and spittle. It flowed slowly down her face. "Heh heh. Them was Poop Farts, they was. Use the manure bucket outside. Horse suppositories as well." Mavis scuttled away. Pooped prodigiously. Amos wiped her with an oily rag. She assumed the previous stance. He tied tight leather cords on her big toes and thumbs. Placed her across the saddle, affixed them to the struts.  It had a chin rest with head straps. Mavis' face affixed firmly forward. "Open that pretty mouth. Get a taste of what's comin' to ya, fore and aft. Do it nice 'n slow ...

Lord Ashcroft stripped his eldest daughter Mavis, 40. She plodded barefoot naked thru the dung and mud to a nearby stable. Mavis has an extraordinarily large rump. With 3+ inch sulci. Her chubs shuddered like puddings. A wrinkled old codger ( tautology! ) in the Bridle Workroom was making boots for his great-granddaughter. She wears them - nothing else - for Milking Sissies. He looked up. Grinned. "How much this time, lass?" "Your discretion, Amos." He drooled, grimaced. "You'll suffer much, sadly. Over the saddle now, girlie. I must cord your big toes and thumbs to the trestle legs, mustn't I?" "Yes, sir." He shuffled forward. "Wait a tick. Wait a tick. I should finger your fine plump twat first, shouldn't I? Like always?" Eyes blinking, tears. Humiliation. Terror. "Yes, sir."