Summer School & After School: The Ponygirl Omnibus Edition (15 page)

“Oh, don’t worry
Honey,” he said, as he threw the jeans, underwear, shirt and vest into a large
woven basket intended for trash. “They’ll make a jean skirt out of the jeans
and you might even get to wear it again.” In the same moment, he cut the sides
of her bikini panties and pulled them through the tightness of her bound
thighs. As she so often did at school, she once again stood naked and bound
without anyone to help free her.

“Shall we have
sex now or later?” Roger whispered into her hooded ear. “You do have a lovely
set, Dori. Probably the best tits in school,” he added dryly.

“UUUMMMM.” Dori
buzzed through the gag and hood, shaking her head. The idea of sex with Roger
had occurred to her several times in the last few minutes, but now all she
really wanted was to get free. Whatever he planned, it was not going to be any
fun, she thought.

“And your ass is
nothing to complain about either,” he added dryly. “But okay, later then,”
Roger said, unhooking the rope from the top of her hood and picking her up with
his arms under her knees and across her narrow back. “In you go.” He placed
Dori into the crate face first, which surprised her and she struggled a bit as
she felt her hooded face come in contact with soft padding on the front inside
of the crate. As Roger let her slide down into the depths of the crate, he
jammed his hand between her bound thighs and she felt something hard glide
stiffly into the small triangle of her crotch. After apparently making sure it
was properly in place, Roger removed his hand, leaving the stiff device where
it was, lightly in contact with the tops of Dori’s thighs and the edges of her
lower lips. The thick foam around the sides of the crate cradled her warmly and
she felt as if she was being mummified. She also felt something soft and cool
against her breasts and her crotch and she wondered what he would do to her now
that she was in the crate and not exactly easily accessible.

Roger busied
himself with a dozen straps that went across her back, further binding her
arms, waist, legs and feet. More straps crossed behind her legs at several
places and finally a series of tight straps went around her neck and hooded
head, forcing her against the padded front of the crate. Finally the top was
shut and Dori suddenly realized that the air coming through her nose tubes was
somehow restricted and she was not getting enough to breath. She was
suffocating and no one would even know it, she thought.

“My God, what a terrible way to die,”
she thought.
Roger must have forgotten to free the tubes from her nose and now they were
pressed against the crate and her body. She was going to die from lack of air!
She began to thrash around in the straps and felt the crate being lifted
upright and then suddenly there was air in the tubes again.

Terrified by the
air restriction, Dori took in big deep breaths. She realized that the thing
between her legs now served as a sort of saddle and that some of her weight was
resting on this small fixture. Then she heard and felt something being moved
against her breasts. What she could not see was Roger opening a small panel
that exposed her naked breasts and as the panel opened, the release of the
compression allowed them to sort of pop out of the hole in the crate.

He gently
massaged the soft mammaries and tweaked the nipples until they stood up
attentively, then he left them alone while he opened another panel at her
crotch. Dori felt the cool room air against her intimate skin and then,
suddenly, there was Roger’s rubber gloved finger thrusting into her cunt
without any preamble or preparation. He slowly added a second finger and she
twisted and struggled at the violation, but of course could do nothing to
prevent his slow and studied exploration of her internal organs. Apparently
satisfied that she still had an operative vagina, Roger withdrew his fingers
and inserted, with the same lack of subtlety and tact, one of the many fat,
ribbed rubber dildos that were constantly being applied to students’ cunts and
assholes, whenever a mistress or staff member decided they needed a bit of “in
depth learning,” as it was called. The deeper the dildos went, the better the
student learned.

“What the hell
could I have done to deserve this!” Dori pondered as she tried to shift her
mind away from what Roger was doing. She also tried to shift her body backward
in the crate to avoid the impending penetration. She failed at both efforts and
the thing went in deeply and was mounted on the small saddle that was already
between her legs. Roger’s hands went back to the nipples, attaching the standard
and hated spiked tit clips that Dori first endured on Samson. Once the clips
were in place and digging into the girl’s poor nipple flesh, Roger closed the
padded front panels. This pushed the clips hard against the now compressed
breasts. Dori yelled unheard into the gag and waited for the next hurt that she
knew was coming. It came as Roger slammed the panel over the crotch saddle and
then pushed up on a lever controlling the saddle mount, driving the dildo
deeper into its new home.

“Pity I forgot
to put one up your ass,” Roger said to himself as he locked up the crate and
put it on the two-wheeled dolly. “You little cunts never learn. My only
interest in you all is in seeing and hearing you suffer. The only thing that
might be better is if I had a couple of guys in here to do it with.” He pushed
the dolly out the door and wheeled it over to the Rover that was parked next to
the barn door.

“Hey Dori,”
Roger yelled at the top of his lungs. “Here’s your ride.”

Beating
Marcy

The cellar
lights came on and Marcy Neidler waited tensely to see who would be her
tormentor. She was somewhat surprised to see not Mistress Wright, but “his
Supreme Excellency,” (as the staff called him behind his back), Mr. Boswick
instead.
Uh oh,
Marcy thought.
This is going to be worse than I expected.
She
knew Boswick had a curious fascination for techniques and procedures that no
one else in the school knew or used. That he was now with her in the deep
basement was an ominous sign.

“So, Miss
Neidler,” Boswick said softly, with a big smile on his otherwise dull-looking
face. “You have fucked up once again, I see.” He plopped himself into one of
the heavy wooden chairs that were bolted to the stone floor, crossed his legs
in a rather feminine fashion and studied the sweating, painfully suspended,
lean body now illuminated by several mini spotlights in the overhead. Marcy
studied the stone floor and gave no sign that she even knew he was in the room.

“Okay,” Boswick
said, still amicable. “Let’s you and me make a plan for today’s games, shall
we?” He took pen and pad out of his jacket pocket and flipped through a few
pages, then started to write on a fresh page.

“First, you
neglected to acquire a gag for yourself. Humm. That’s bad. Probably just some
of your rebelliousness showing.” He wrote as he spoke, flipping another page in
his notebook. “But that’s still bad. Bad girl, Marcy. You will be punished for
that,” he said, chuckling a bit to himself as he continued to scribble in the
notebook.

“Then, of
course, there are the initial infractions which, I am certain; you knew you
would be reported for, didn’t you?”

Marcy didn’t
respond, thinking that anything she said would not help her and might simply
give Boswick yet another infraction to load onto her already ponderous
discipline obligations.

“No comments?”
Boswick queried, glancing up from his notes. “Okay, how about the little
session with the new toy that came in from Germany yesterday. You apparently
felt it was your duty to check out her qualifications.”

Marcy looked up,
forcing her head back against her chained arms and trying to look Boswick in
the eyes.

“I know nothing
about that,” she said in a quiet monotone, lowering her head once again and
wondering what the hell that was all about. She knew the new girl had been
placed in a cell in her area, but she had not had any contact with her…yet. So
this charge was pure fabrication and perhaps a cover-up by someone else for
what they had actually done.
“When in
doubt, shove the blame up the line,”
was a mantra she often heard at the
school and she had done it many times herself, assigning fault to someone in
charge rather than taking the fault herself or letting it far to one of her
girls.

“Nice little
item, don’t you think?” Boswick added. “Is she going to be a valuable addition
to the school team, Miss Neidler?” Boswick pressed, putting his notebook on the
floor and standing up. Marcy said nothing.

“Okay. That’s
the interrogation for now,” Boswick said merrily, walking over to the trunks on
the wall and opening each at random, then choosing a single item and, turning
around, putting it behind his back so that Marcy couldn’t see what he held.
“Let’s improve your attention a bit, Neidler.” He stood in front of the hanging
girl and, grabbing her single braid at the top of her head, pulled her head
back and through her extended arms, then jammed a huge rubber plug into her
open mouth. The gag was large, but Marcy had accommodated larger ones in her
time and she accepted the plug as a gift for the moment because it precluded
her having to answer any more of Boswick’s stupid questions. It would keep her
from incriminating herself as well. The gag fit easily and Boswick pulled the
wide strap around her head, making certain that the external pad was correctly
fitted just below Marcy’s nose and covering the area around her plugged mouth,
sealing the aperture and helping muffle any sounds that might later come from
there.

He tightened the
strap behind her head, moving it lower so that it rested on the base of her
skull, more on her neck than on her head. As this was being done, Marcy noticed
that it was an inflatable gag and her earlier thoughts of this possibly being a
slightly less rigorous punishment dissipated as Boswick pumped the inflation
bulb enthusiastically, expanding the plug inside her mouth and forcing her jaws
even wider. Marcy gasped, deeply inhaling through her nose. Boswick pumped
more. Her mouth was jammed open in the position of a gaping scream and her jaws
ached immediately from the strain. She moaned involuntarily and Boswick, giving
the tight inflation bulb a final squeeze, nodded approvingly and disconnected
the bulb hose from the valve at the front of the gag pad.

“There. That’s a
good start, Neidler. Now, do you want to tell me about your soirée with the
German cunt or do we go to the next level?” Boswick said, still composed and
appearing very relaxed. Marcy groaned and continued to stare at the rafters
because her head was held back behind her extended arms and Boswick was busily
tying off her braid to the post several feet behind her. He also adjusted the
post’s suspension mechanism so that Marcy hung in true hammock fashion, with
her wrists at about the same height above the floor as her ankles. The stress
of this position was intense and she knew that if left there for any length of
time, something would be damaged, perhaps beyond later reclamation. She weighed
a mere 110 pounds, but the position was extremely hazardous for many reasons
and she seldom used it except for a cursory introduction to discipline with
students. From this painful state, most victims willingly cooperated in any way
they could. Now she was stretched from wrists to ankles and feeling as though
her shoulders and knees were about to pop out of their sockets and leave her a
cripple for life. Compared to the horizontal rack, which was only used now and
then because it was, according to school lore, an archaic training device, this
post and arm gibbet thing was a much greater horror. Marcy was sure that
Boswick knew this too and she hoped that he also knew she was near the limits
of her endurance. She shut her eyes and tried to make the tears of pain go
away, but they didn’t. Boswick saw the tears, wiped them from her cheeks and
quickly fitted a padded leather band over her eyes. The blindfold completed her
“uniform” for the moment and Marcy knew this was still a prelude to what came
next. Boswick’s full concerto was yet to come and she wasn’t looking forward to
it.

The eight foot
long horsewhip struck without warning, searing a thin red line around her waist
with the cracker ending up in the middle of her back where it left a deeper
welt. So surprised was Marcy at the blow that she had to subconsciously
recalibrate herself before her body and brain reacted to the burning pain from
the lash to her midsection. Boswick seemed delighted at her delayed reaction to
the blow.

“How’s that for
a warm-up?” he said, slowly re coiling the whip and then lightly touching the
weals on Marcy’s waist and back. “There’s plenty more where that came from,” he
said. “But right now, I think I want to improve your education about this
particular gadget you’re so neatly dangling from.”

What the hell does he mean by that?
Marcy wondered.
She pretty much knew every tool and toy in the school’s inventory. What did Boswick
have in mind?

Part of the
beauty of the post and gibbet structure in the sub basement was that it seldom
revealed all of its qualities at one time. That is, people who were disciplined
on the post might not even be hung from the gibbet and those who were strung up
by, say their feet for the gibbet, might never experience the complex
suspension that Marcy was currently in. Others might spend a night or two hung
facing the post while their backs and buttocks were flogged while others might
only recall being chained to the base of the post while some portion of their
body was violated. Boswick knew every nuance of the post and gibbet and he was
about to display an aspect that Marcy and most of the rest of the school didn’t
know about. First, he went to one of the trunks and removed what looked like a
duplicate of the gibbet arm with various hardware and fittings on it. Carrying
it to the post, he reached up and attached the new arm to the top of the post
with three heavy bolts and wing nuts. When he was done, the post now looked
like a “T” with the initial arm still holding Marcy’s arms. From the end of the
second arm, he hung a double chain with a bar suspended at the ends. At the
ends of the bar were cuffs like those that now held Marcy’s wrist and ankles.
Though Marcy could only hear him work, she knew whatever it was, it was going
to hurt.

“Okay, Marcy,
now you and I are going to adapt to a new situation. I am going to unlock your
right ankle from the shackle and place it in a different one. You will have to
stretch a bit, but if you cooperate, I will not use the horsewhip again. I
promise,” His Supreme Excellency said, sounding sincere.

As though I really have a choice,
thought Marcy
as she hummed a short “mmmm” into the inflated gag plug.

“Okay. Good,”
said Boswick and he released the right ankle, holding it firmly in his hand and
pulling the leg back towards the post. With his other hand, he touched a hidden
switch in the side of the post and the gibbet arm began to retract back towards
the post, moving Marcy’s body in the same rearward direction.

“Very nice,”
said Boswick. “Just a bit more and we’ll have it.” He held the switch for a
moment more and then locked the girl’s right ankle into the new shackle on the
right end of the suspended bar behind the post. “Now let’s do the other one,”
he said agreeably. Marcy cooperated by letting him release the left foot and
reattach it to the same bar. This move didn’t really alter her suspension that
much because she was still hanging by ankles and wrists in a more or less
hammock-like pose with her gagged and blindfolded head held back by the braided
cord. The one difference was that her legs were now spread wider because of the
bar suspended from the second arm and the post was between her spread knees.

Boswick walked
back to the trunks again and this time came back with what looked like a large
cigar box of polished wood with brass fittings. He set the box on the floor
beneath Marcy and opening it, removed a rather large, brass penis-shaped object
that he fastened to the side of the post with a simple slide arrangement much
like what one might use to attach a kitchen appliance to the wall. The penis
was on the post, pointing directly at Marcy’s split crotch. Her legs were on
either side of the post with the brass prong aimed directly at her cunt.

Not able to see
this, Marcy had no idea what was going to happen next, but Boswick pushed the
switch again and the gibbet arm retracted further backwards and Marcy moved
back slowly until the cold metal prick’s head just touched her slightly open
lower lips.

What a shock!
Marcy flinched and tugged at her ankles and wrists, only bruising them more, as
she felt the cold prong between her legs.

Oh shit, not this,
she thought, hissing through the
gag and blowing hard through her nostrils in an attempt to tell Boswick that
she would tell him anything, anything she could, even if she didn’t really know
what he wanted to hear. It was clear that what he planned to do was impale her
horizontally with the brass prong on the post, a somewhat different twist to
the much more common school technique of forcing disciplined students to stand
for hours or even days impaled on a single post that was topped with one or two
similar prongs imbedded in their lower body cavities. Marcy visualized the
possibilities of what was to come and wondered if she would like or hate it.
This seemingly cavalier analysis of the obscene torment she was about to endure
was actually quite rational; Marcy used her own personal experience to help
decide what she would do with students and what they might be able to endure
and tolerate.

Boswick then
adjusted a wide leather belt around Marcy’s narrow waist. He buckled it in
front and pulled it tight. Then, although she could not see it, she felt him
attach a chain from the overhead arm to the back of the belt and then tighten
that a bit. This additional enhancement accomplished three things: it
immediately took some of the weight off Marcy’s wrists and ankles, it provided
a stabilizing point to prevent wild gyrations of the body that was in the
suspension and it raised her mid section to an almost horizontal position that
would make expelling the anticipated impalements much more difficult.

The drive motors
for the overhead arms whined again and the prong pressed Marcy’s portal, shoved
the lips aside and drove directly into the dark, warm cave that Marcy hoped
would not be invaded this time around. Her hopes were dashed as the hard cold
prong continued to force its entry and stopped only when her pelvis and groin were
pressed firmly against the side of the post and the probe was inside her in its
cold, metallic entirety.

“How’s that for
a penetrating melody?” Boswick asked. “Keep listening, there’s another chorus
to come,” he added confidently. “By the way, do you prefer hard or soft? I
meant to ask you and decided that since you are in charge of the pig pens, you
probably want it hard, so you got Mister Brass Pecker for, ahem, openers.
Forgive the pun.”