Summer School & After School: The Ponygirl Omnibus Edition (3 page)

“If this is what
we wear for dinner, how do we eat?” Dori cried, by now totally frustrated by
the new apparel and wondering what was going on.

“You don’t have
to worry about that, Dori,” said Winnie, smiling. “I’ve got a few other things
here that will complete your outfit and later on we’ll talk about equestrian
things, okay?”

“Yeah. Sure. My
knees hurt, I can’t use my hands, my tits are stuffed into teacups and my
shoulders are killing me. What else are you going to do to make my first day as
memorable as you promised?”

“Well, shortly,
you’ll get to meet the rest of the class and Miss Wright will greet you all.”

“Oh boy,” Dori
said sarcastically. “I can hardly wait.”

“Sarcasm,” said
Winnie pointedly, “is not appreciated here. I’d avoid that kind of remark, if I
were you. When you are permitted to speak, it should be positive, not negative.
Do you understand?”

“Yes. I guess
so,” Dori trailed off, trying to find a comfortable position for her aching
arms and legs. She was still kneeling on the hooked rug and the position was
becoming untenable.

All of this gave
Dori more than second thoughts. What was happening here? The breeches were odd
enough and the shirt was close to some sort of straight jacket. She was now
kneeling in a bedroom of a farm house, hundreds of miles from home, while a
woman she had never met before secured her into attire that she knew she wasn’t
possibly going to get out of without some help. It was almost erotically
stimulating, but there was also an element of fear. Winnie was extremely dominant
and Dori had felt this since they first met. Now the other girl fussed about
her head with pins and rubber bands, pulling back Dori’s long dark hair into a
ponytail and securing it with a braid. When she finished, the braid was more of
a topknot and stuck up from the top of her head, slightly back of the center of
the skull.

“How’s that?”
Winnie asked, proud of her quick work. “Do you usually ride with a braid?”

“Yesss…
Sometimes,” Dori said slowly, uncertainly.

“Well,” said
Winnie. “You will ride with one here.”

Dori
knelt in the
brightly-lit room. She could see the spotlights mounted in the ceiling and the
bright whitewashed walls reflecting the light. She could see the tops of the
heads of her classmates and the instructors as they busied themselves with
their charges, but she could not see much else because her head was held back
with her face pointing at the ceiling. As soon as she finished with Dori’s
hair, Winnie fitted her with a heavy leather bridle and bit, among other
things, before bringing her downstairs to the pre-dinner meeting of the class.
Her new classmates were staring upwards just as Dori was and they all looked
quite astonished and somewhat unhappy about their state. Instructors and
grooms, male and female, hustled about, tightening straps and adjusting head
harnesses on the class. One or two of the girls were crying and their
instructors ignored the whines and pleas that came from behind drawn back lips,
the rubber plug gags and bridle-distorted faces.

Dori wore the
bridle Winnie had fitted to her head after the two had at first argued over the
arrangement. Winnie had tried to persuade the younger girl to wear the leather
and steel device without any struggle.

“If you just go
with this, I will make it easier for you. Fight me and it will get done anyway.
But it will hurt. I can always get a couple of male grooms to come in and help,
you know.”

“Yes. I know.
But I really, really don’t want this. I’m tired. I hurt. My legs are killing me
and my tits are being crushed. This sleeve is yanking my arms out of the
shoulder sockets or whatever they’re attached to. Come on, Winnie. This isn’t
fun or funny and I paid a lot of money to come here to ride, not to be abused.”

“Humm,” mused
the riding instructor, stepping back and surveying her charge. “I see. You want
to go home now?”

“No. Not home.
Just to bed. I’m really tired and this isn’t my thing. I had a boyfriend in
high school who tied me up once or twice and it was okay, but this is too much
and it’s too tight, damn it.”

“Okay,” said
Winnie. “We’ll do it my way.” She was behind Dori and as she spoke, she pulled
down on the girl’s new braid and bent Dori’s head back almost painfully until
the girl stared at the wooden wagon wheel chandelier over the bed. Dori yelped
from the sudden strain and as she did, Winnie jammed a rubber plug and metal
bit into the open mouth.

“Mummph, ounnhph
uuuuoh,” came the instant response.

Winnie forced
the plug all the way into Dori’s howling mouth and brought the steel bit back
until Dori’s cheeks were distended and pulled firmly back, baring her fine
white teeth and the black rubber plug that filled the inside of her mouth.

“You may not use
this thing on your horse, Darlin’, cause it’s a bit cruel. But it works fine
for big-mouthed broads who can’t keep their mouths shut. This is in for the
evening, Honey, so adjust to it.”

The tone and
level of Winnie’s voice changed dramatically as she forced the bit and plug
into Dori’s surprised mouth. Now Winnie was all business. She pulled straps
from the rings on the sides of the bit backwards and buckled them behind Dori’s
shaking head. More straps followed round the top of her head, down her cheeks
and under her chin. A thick leather collar was fitted around Dori’s neck,
pushing the turtleneck collar down and providing a base for the many other
straps that came from the bridle. When Winnie finished, Dori’s head was
encapsulated in a web of leather and the bit was firmly seated back in the
girl’s straining and nearly silent mouth. Winnie tied a leather thong around
Dori’s booted feet and roughly pulled until both feet were tightly together
with the heels digging into her butt, then she ran the thong through the back
of the wide belt, down through the cleft between her now compressed buttocks, up
through the vaginal slit and anchored to the belt in front.

 
A bit of drool ran down the corners of Dori’s
mouth and dripped on the front of the tight white turtleneck shirt. Dori’s head
was all the way back, her braid anchored to her feet with a leather thong. The
single sleeve of the shirt had been pulled back and down and through her crotch
with another sturdy thong; the end fastened to the front of the wide waist
belt. The thong bisected her crotch, disappearing inside the furry slit and
emerging where the breeches began. Dori wiggled her hands inside the shirt’s
tight sleeve, trying to get a grip on the thong that was pulling her hands down
and cutting her vaginal slit in half. Winnie responded to this defensive action
by wrapping a wide leather band around both Dori’s wrists and pulling the band
tight, slowly bringing the notches in the buckle tighter and tighter until both
hands were palm to palm. She locked the buckle. Winnie completed the strange
bondage by tying the wristband to another thong and pulling that one through
Dori’s crotch as well and knotting it to the waist. She reached down and
carefully worked the multiple leather strands into positions on either side and
in the middle of Dori’s lower lips, pushing the lips outward and pinching them
between the three lengths of rough leather.

“Ever wonder how
horses really feel?” Winnie purred as she busied herself with the thongs
surrounding Dori’s cunt. “One of the key parts of your training is that you
learn exactly how horses feel when you put harness and bridle and saddle on
them. We add a few other things to make it real for you, but its all part of
the approved course of instruction.”

After tugging on
the leather cords enough so that Dori was sure she was being cut into several
bloody pieces, Winnie took another wide strap and put this over Dori’s
sleeve-enclosed arms and around her already belted waist. This strap pulled her
bound arms close to her body and stopped any possible movement of the upper
torso. Then she sent for a luggage wagon and loaded Dori onto the steel floor
of the four-wheeled cart. She fastened a chain from the top of Dori’s braid to
the overhead bar intended for hanging clothing and suit bags. Then she took the
cart and her charge down the hall to the elevator. Dori squirmed and hissed on
the cart; trying to get a less uncomfortable position and fearing that she’s
topple off the moving cart and be dragged by the chain attached to her braid.

Something is really odd here and I am going to have
to find out what this is all about,
Dori
thought.

The lift
descended to the main floor and they rolled down the long, carpeted hallway to
the main meeting room. Other instructors and their new guests had arrived and
the meeting was about to begin. Each of the sixteen students was dressed the
same. Those with short hair had their heads tied back with straps and thongs
from their bridles instead of braids. All of the students were recent high
school grads or college girls. All were over 18 years old and none over 25. It
was the school’s primary rule that no one outside of this age group would be
allowed in the summer classes and it made for an excellent selection of talent
for the session, as the school’s Head Master and Head Mistress were later to
note in their welcome addresses.

The evening was
enlightening for the entire class. They quickly learned that they were there at
the option of the school and that the money they had paid would be put to good
use in making sure their training was effective.

“You will all
learn to ride far better than you thought you could before you came here,” said
Head Mistress Wright rising from her seat behind the head table. She was an
attractive woman of perhaps 35, but for observers, her age was unclear. Like
many equestrians, she cared for herself and had others care for her to the
point where age was a fleeting thing and few people would dare to ask.

She wore what
everyone knew was her Head Mistress uniform: White riding breeches, elegant and
carefully polished black calfskin boots with a sharp, four inch stiletto heel,
a body-hugging black knit sweater with a deep and revealing neckline and a
heavy silver chain around her neck. The chain dipped deeply into her perfect
cleavage and whatever was on the end of the chain was hidden, buried between
her full and blossoming breasts which appeared to be enhanced by a tight and
well boned corset. Her dark hair was perfectly coiffed and came below her
shoulders to what she occasionally referred to as “nipple length.”

 
“When you leave here, you will leave with the
firm conviction that you have accomplished what few young women ever
accomplish. You will be better people for the experience.” She stopped to
survey the sea of strained faces, some tear-stained and all looking confused
and worried about their fate. “Now,” she said. “Head Master Boswick has a few
words for you all. Headmaster,” she said turning to the tall, lean man standing
beside her.

Boswick was
rather ordinary in appearance. He did not look like a school administrator
because he was didn’t wear glasses, a moustache or a V neck sweater under his
suit jacket. His jacket didn’t have leather patches on the elbows. He was
simply too well dressed for this sort of job. He would not stand out on the
street or in a crowd. He wore a dark blue suit from Barney’s, a custom fitted
white shirt and patterned Hermes tie with tiny horse heads on a dark blue
background. His light brown hair was medium length and came slightly over his
ears, but was carefully combed in an executive style. Anyone meeting him would
probably have thought he was a businessman or banker perhaps.

“This school is
not exactly what you thought it would be,” Boswick began. “You have found that
out already. But you came here to ride and ride you will, for hours every day,
rain or shine.” He stopped, paused for a moment and smiled a pleasant smile,
looking at the gathered students and staff with a benign expression and a bit
of devilishness that Dori thought she saw.

“Your little
personal sex lives will change as well,” Boswick continued. “We have an
integrated curriculum, which will bring about some other changes you may or may
not like, but they will take place anyway. Adjust to us here and we will help
you. Fight or resist us and you will pay dearly for it. For those of you who
are entertaining fantasies of legal action at some later date, I encourage you
to read the terms of the contract you each and your parents or guardians signed
before you were accepted here. You are all 18 and over, so you are responsible
for your own actions. You signed the contract. Let me assure you that the best
legal minds available have told us that we are operating well within the bounds
of that contract, so as I said before, ADJUST and you will be happier people in
the long term. Now, let us enjoy dinner. We will eat, you students will kneel
and watch. There will be milk and cookies for you all before bedtime. There’s
always plenty of milk…” the Head Master droned on absentmindedly. “Oh yes,” he
suddenly added. “There is one more thing.”

Boswick paused
dramatically, then turned to one side and waited while curtains behind him
parted and three grooms pushed out a large metal platform on wheels. There was
an audible inhalation of breath from the bound and gagged students who could
see the platform. There were three upright posts mounted on the wheeled
platform and on each post a single, naked, youthful female form writhed in
discomfort, if not pure agony. On the first post, to The Head’s left, a tall,
tanned, well-built girl stood bolt upright on the tip-toes of her black patent
leather pumps. The shoes had extremely high heels, but the girl was
nevertheless perched on her toes. She was not bound in any way, but the center
of the polished steel post disappeared between her closely held, trembling
legs. She was tightly gagged with a leather pad over what was clearly a
well-packed mouth. Her long, light blond hair was in complete disarray and her
face above the leather gag was tear-streaked, her eyes swollen from crying. Her
hands fluttered back and forth from front to back as she tried in vain to lift
herself off the narrow post that impaled her. Her hairless crotch triangle was
spread wide by the massive impaling shaft and anyone who could see her
understood the tremendous strain she suffered while trying to keep the shaft
from penetrating any deeper than it already had.

“Ms. Randolph,
Ms. Debbie Randolph, whom you see on my left, made the terrible mistake of
deciding to take leave of this school without my permission,” the Head Master
said loudly over his shoulder as he surveyed the three suffering young women.
“She will stand here for the evening and entertain us with her moans and her
discomfort as a reminder that no one, NO ONE, leaves here unless they are given
permission.”

As if to
emphasize this point, Debbie Randolph let out a horrible groan that came from
deep within her throat. It was a terrible noise that sounded more like a death
rattle, which made many of the students close their eyes even more tightly as
they imagined having this immense pole driven into their most private orifice
and being forced to stand there, as Debbie was, unable to free herself from the
uncomfortable hell. Complementing this internal invasion were the six-inch
heels on her t-strapped shoes and the tiny sharp spikes that lined the inside
of each shoe. The toe area was free of these nasty little spikes, so Debbie had
to stand on her very tiptoes to stay off the spikes. When she relaxed even for
a moment, the soles of her tender little feet felt the spikes. Her hands went
occasionally to her gag, but it was clear that the thick leather band around
her head was locked on and that without a key or a cutting tool, it was not
coming off.

There was one
other little thing that everyone could see contributing to the girl’s vast
discomfort. Large gold metal clips were fastened to each of her lower lips and
these clips were in turn connected to the post by short chains. As she rose up,
attempting to relieve the internal pressure from the impaling post, the clips
pulled down sharply on her little fleshy lips. When she sank down only a bit,
the clips relaxed their grip but the probe rammed home inside and the spikes on
the shoes dug into her soles. These little annoyances kept the girl in a
constant up and down dance of pain and fear, her gurgles and groans of
helplessness simmering from behind her gag.

At this point,
Boswick stepped behind the girl and put his hands on both of the tormented
breasts. The new students in the audience gave a sudden gasp and other audible
expressions of surprise. Head Mistress Wright stepped to the microphone and
continued while Boswick roughly massaged Debbie’s breasts.

“Ms. Ellen
Levine, on the center stage,” Mistress Wright continued, now shouting a bit to
make herself heard above the commotion in the audience, pointing to the girl in
the middle, “is enjoying a slightly different form of entertainment. She
refused a lawful order given by an instructor this morning. Normally, she’d
undergo this training in one of the cellars below the house or the barn, but
she is up here, nice and warm tonight, for your education. You learn at her
expense. Observe the combination breast clamps and the nipple rings, if you
will, please.”

Ellen Levine was
a dark-haired beauty with large breasts that were, at this moment in time,
being painfully stretched well beyond their usual outstanding size and
extension. The post was a standard Christian cross with a few modifications.
Ellen’s wrists were securely bound to the ends of the cross’s horizontal bar. Her
head was just below the junction of the two square wooden beams and her legs
were pulled back on either side of the vertical center post. Four feet below
the horizontal bar and behind the vertical post, was a second cross bar. The
girl’s feet were secured to steel rings at the ends of this bar, placing her in
a suspended kneeling posture. She was gagged with a roll of soft leather
packing deep between her teeth and a wide leather band that went between her
jaws and held her head back against the top of the post. Her tearful eyes
stared up, looking over the ballroom crowd that stared back at her with a
mixture of fear and sympathy. The awkward position would have been
uncomfortable enough, but the heavy metal clamps that surrounded the base of
each breast were a torment all to themselves. These devices were heavy,
locking, metal collars that had been shut around the base of each swelling
globe when the breasts themselves had been pulled as far away from the chest
wall as they could possibly go without being torn away. The girl had shrieked
and screamed into the gag as the twin steel bands were shut closed, pinching
some bits of flesh that became caught in the clamps as the locks were engaged.
From the bottom of each breast clamp a long chain reached down towards the
floor of the platform. At the end of the chain was a large weight that swung
slowly in a wide arc with each tortured movement the girl made to ease the
situation. However, there was no way to ease the unbearable strain.

Head Master
Boswick moved a few steps toward the platform and kicked the suspended weights
with his glistening black riding boot. The weights swung. The girl howled. The
audience gasped.

Adding to
Levine’s anguish were additional breast torments specifically intended to
enhance her already painful situation. From the apex of each anguished breast,
a large shiny steel ring extended outward. The rings were driven deeply in
behind each nipple so as not to pierce the nipple itself, but rather to be
imbedded into the actual breast flesh…a much sturdier foundation for such heavy
metal rings. Connected to each ring was a steel cable, far stronger than
necessary, but used to make a statement that was not lost on this audience of
horrified and bewildered young women who were already in distress. The twin
cables came forward and met another shorter post with two roller blocks mounted
on it. Here the cables made a ninety-degree turn towards the floor and they too
were attached to large metal weights.

“Ms. Levine,”
said Mistress Wright, looking into the pained eyes of the poor girl. “How much
weight are your big tits carrying tonight, sweetheart? If you can tell me, I’ll
take off half of the pounds.”

Silence filled
the ballroom.

Then there was a
distant whimper, a cry, a whine from the throat of the center posted girl. Then
another. Then many more. Mistress Wright counted on her fingers, holding them
up for the audience to see. When she held up ten fingers she began again until
she had done so twice. The whimpering stopped.

“Excellent,
excellent. Twenty. Twenty pounds per boob. Forty pounds total on her tits it
is,” the Head shouted. “Roger, please take off twenty pounds. She’s earned a
respite.”

Roger, a twenty
something groom with a shaven head and a small blond moustache, stepped to the
platform and replaced the massive steel ball weights with slightly smaller
ones. This left only five pounds on each nipple and five pounds on each breast
clamp instead of the original ten.

“Now, before we
eat and enjoy our farm-fresh milk and ice cream, you must all turn your
attention to our last guest, Ms. Diane Jonas.” Mistress Wright swung her right
arm toward the last of the three figures on the platform of agony.

“Diane has a
very, VERY bad mouth,” Mistress Wright said slowly for emphasis. “She opened it
once too often last night and has been in this pose ever since. She will stay
here for the rest of tonight, perhaps tomorrow as well.”

Diane was
chained upright to her sturdy wooden post, her arms pulled back behind it and
bound at wrists, elbows and shoulders with narrow chromed chain. The harsh
metal links dug deeply into the strained girl flesh and the audience could see
the marks clearly. Her feet and legs were bound to the vertical structure with
loops of the same kind of chain around her ankles, above and below her knees
and at the top of her narrow thighs. Around her neck was a heavier chain that
held her head firmly to the post. In her mouth, extending horizontally outward
to both sides like a massive bit, was a huge three-foot long wooden post. Her
wide open jaws were locked into the side of the wooden post, spread impossibly
apart and held there by her teeth sunk deeply into the soft wood. Chains from
the ends of the wooden bar extended back on either side of her face, holding it
in place. Diane’s face was a contortion of horror. No sound could exit around
the soft wood bit and she could not move her jaws a millimeter up or down. She
could only try in vain to chew through the four or five inches of wood that
held her jaws open. On her small feet were a highly shined pair of dark brown
Hermes riding boots, but with five inch heels. Each boot was equipped with a
pair of polished iron spurs, but at the rear of each spur, instead of a rounded
wheel or point was a small drilled hole in the metal spur frame. A small pad
lock was threaded through the two holes and forced the girl to keep her heels
close together and her toes pointed outward in a very wide “V”. To assure that
this position wasn’t compromised, an adjustable metal spreader bar attached to
her tanned legs, just above the knee. The chain loops around her legs kept her
close to the post and she was frozen in a strained posture that made her appear
to be doing deep knee bends with her knees pointing outward instead of forward.