Summer School & After School: The Ponygirl Omnibus Edition (12 page)

“Uhh, uhh,
uuuhh, ah, ah, ah, ah,” Neidler moaned as the multiple hands and dicks took her
from anxious to insatiable. Her hands were on Hoyt’s dark-haired head, pulling
the woman’s hair to get better mouth to mouth contact while her other hand
reached and grabbed the long blond hair of the woman reaming Amy. Amy’s hands
were now locked behind her assailant’s back; the woman having inserted herself
between the girl’s bound arms and wiggled in against her bent back.
 
The session went on and on. There was
grunting and moaning and cries and screams. Amy, caught in the middle,
continued to jam the dildo into Marcy and the woman behind Amy continued to ram
her harder and harder. Amy couldn’t stop. She couldn’t escape. The orgasms came
and went for each participant until the phone rang. It rang six times and
stopped, then rang again.

“My god,”
screamed Neidler. “I’m supposed to be up at the head shed in three minutes.”

Instantly, the
party stopped. Neidler shoved Amy back and she fell over with the naked woman
still pinned behind her and the prong up her ass. Hoyt backed off and
rearranged her clothing while Neidler recovered, buttoned her shirt, reached
into a desk drawer for a fresh pair of black bikini panties and pulled them on
over her boots, then dashed out the door.

“Put her away in
the closet,” Neidler shouted. “Or play with her. I don’t care. But not into the
population quite yet,” the last few words faded as she hurried up the stairs
and out to her car.

“Hummmm,” Hoyt
mused, surveying the pile of two young bodies on the floor. The blond was
trying unsuccessfully to disengage herself from Amy, but the position they’d
fallen into and the size of the dong strapped to her waist were making it
difficult to get free.

“Boy, Kim, you
sure got fucked up this time,” Hoyt laughed.

Meanwhile, Marcy
Neidler entered the Head’s office. As she ran through the front door to the
building, she glanced at her wrist and saw that she had forgotten to put her
watch back on.
Oh well,
she thought,
I’m already late, what the hell?

She paused at
the brass trimmed oak door, pushed back her long, dark brown hair and carefully
knocked three times. To her surprise, the door immediately swung open and
Mistress Burns, a senior mistress who served as secretary and councilor to both
Mistress Wright and Head Master Boswick, stood in front of her.

“Well, Marcy,
come on in. You look like you’ve been living in a barn,” Burns said loud enough
for The Head to hear.

Mistress Wright,
standing with her back to the door, said, “Come right in Neidler, come right
in, Marcy.” The greeting was far too casual, too nice, too smooth. Neidler knew
she was in deep trouble.

Stepping into
the office, Marcy came to attention and looked straight ahead. The Head was
standing at her large picture window as she always did when she was unhappy,
studying the icy Vermont landscape outside and slapping her riding crop quietly
against the seam of her tight leather riding breeches.

“You know why
you are here, so let’s get it over with,” intoned Wright gravely. “Strip and go
downstairs to post three. You know the drill. Wait there,” the Head Mistress
snapped without turning around, without looking at Marcy.

Marcy noticed that
her hands were shaking as she removed her jacket and the fitted gray shirt
under it. The shaking made it difficult for her to undo the three hooks on her
bra and she immediately felt the cold air of the office as she pulled off her
polished black boots, knee high stockings and cotton socks under them, then the
riding breeches, and finally the black, nylon bikini panties. She then stood
again at attention, uttered a soft “of course. Thank you, Ma’am,” and then
turned, walked rapidly to the stone stairs at the side of the office and slowly
descended the cold, marble steps, feeling the worn and near freezing stone
surfaces under her feet as she mentally counted the steps.

The staircase
wound downward for a total of one hundred and one steps, down 50 steps past a
small wooden landing for the first basement and wine cellar, then down 51 more
steps until she stood on the cold slate flooring of the sub basement, an area
that had been built as a secret hideaway by the original Vermont owners nearly
three centuries before. The lighting was dim electric bulbs behind metal
gratings in the ceiling and the walls. The effect was grim. The walls were
stone, each one carved to fit exactly into the other around it without need for
mortar. The slate flooring was just as it had been in the late seventeen
hundreds and the surrounding gloom of the large cellar was fittingly tuned to
the universally unpleasant events that frequently took place there. Marcy
walked nervously to the far wall where three different wooden posts stood about
15 feet apart and set well away from the walls. She slowly moved to the post on
the far right and shuddered as she touched its ancient scared surface. Above
her head, a five foot long yard arm of identical dark and heavy wood formed a
lopsided “T” and extended outward from the front of the post. This extension
had metal rings attached to it at several places. There were also holes bored
through the arm and these too were well worn and scarred.

At the end of
the post, dangling from a short length of steel chain a foot or more above
Marcy’s head, were a pair of heavy metal manacles, the cuffs open and hanging
almost exactly an arm’s length away. At the foot of the post were a similar set
of steel cuffs, attached by a short chain to the base of the post by a steel
ring that surrounded the entire post. The design and the marks on the post
indicated that this ring could slide up and down the post; from the floor to
the top where the extending arm would stop it. Tears running down her cheeks,
Marcy Neidler bent easily at the waist and locked the cold shackles on her thin
ankles, then slid her bound feet forward until the shackles held her tightly
and she was unable to move any further. Then, taking a deep breath, she reached
her arms over her head and barely touched the hanging manacles. She stretched
carefully and grasped one cuff, fitting it around her right wrist and then
snapping it closed. The sound of the cuff locking seemed impossibly loud in the
silent room. Putting her weight on the bound right arm, Marcy stretched again
and slid her left wrist into the other cuff and with the already cuffed right
hand, snapped the left cuff closed and locked. Relaxing a bit, she let her body
weight hang from the suspended manacles and felt her feet lift slightly off the
stone floor. The position was one she knew well, for she had placed students
and staff on this and other nearby posts many times. But she had never been in
this spot before and had never felt the strain on her shoulders, wrists and
ankles as the post creaked slightly taking her one hundred and fifteen pounds
easily on its century old design. Looking around the dimly lit room, March saw
the steamer trunk on the side of the first post, its metal bands polished
carefully by students assigned to clean and maintain the room.

“Oh shit,” she
said to herself. “Now I am really in it!”

It was only then
that Marcy remembered that she had made another terrible mistake. Whatever it
was that The Head was punishing her for would be amplified by the fact that
Marcy had neglected to properly gag herself before going to the post. Getting a
steel brank/gag combination that fit her out of the trunk was impossible now.
She was stretched on the post, her chained hands high above her head, linked to
the end of the extension arm and her feet tightly chained to the base of the
post. Knowing The Head’s obsession for perfection, Marcy shivered again as she
contemplated what would happen to her here in the deep hole of an ancient
cellar. In good time, the Head or one of her minions would descend the 101
stone stairs to attend to Marcy and award her whatever the penalties might be
for whatever transgression she might have carried out. Marcy knew that Wright
was aware of everything that went on in the school. She and her weird partner,
Boswick had spies everywhere. They had made deals to defer or mitigate
punishment to students and staff alike in order to gain their cooperation and
no one in the school was immune from ratting on anyone else if it meant getting
out of situations like the one Marcy now found herself in. Whatever she had
done and been caught at, she was going to pay even more dearly now that she had
missed one of the punishment keys: the key instruction in preparing a student
or staff member for discipline was that they were to exhibit knowledge and
understanding of all preparations. One of these was that the victim was to be
securely gagged and the trunk across the room held an assortment of toys and
tools to accomplish this objective, as well as many others that might be needed
to enhance the punishment and improve the demeanor of the “guest” in the
cellar.

“Oh God,”
Marcy muttered again, with only the
ancient posts, the chains and the cold cellar walls to hear her.
“I am not going to like this.”
Then the
lights went out.

One Good
Whipping Deserves Another

In the dark
mustiness of the old cellar, Marcy hung from the post, her self-bound wrists
and ankles aching almost immediately from the tight, wide cuffs. Her feet were
no longer resting on the stone floor and it was only the tips of her toes that
now touched the floor at all. The ring around the post had slid upward, a few
inches away from the floor and, as it had been designed for, the post and
extension arrangement caused the girl’s body to swing outward as the chain from
the extension moved outward on its track, away from the post. Marcy knew this
would happen because it was yet another of those unique disciplinary devices at
the school that Boswick and the Head Mistress created.

This adaptation
of the ancient hanging gibbet had some modern modifications to it and Marcy was
now being treated to the functions of the device. When she attached her wrists
to the manacles above her head, the increased tension caused by her weight had
activated the device that moved the chain further out on the extension arm,
pulling the supported body up and outward. At the same time, the sliding ring
on the post moved up the post, pulling the chained ankles with it. The motion
was slow and without any noticeable sound, but Marcy knew that as it continued
she would eventually be slung well above the floor with her feet several feet
up on the post and her arms pulled outward to the end of the overhead extension
arm. Her weight was almost entirely on her wrists and ankles and she was slung
like a hammock between the overhead extension arm and the post. There was no
way for her to change her position and movements tended to allow the sliding
ring to move further up the post, then slide back down a bit. Marcy tried to
look up to see her straining hands, but the effort was too much as her head was
wedged between her extended arms and her chin was pressed to her chest. In the
total darkness, she could not see them, but she felt her weighty breasts
hanging outward from her chest, the nipples hardened from the self-induced
suspension and the cold. The weight of her breasts created something of a
downward force, pulling her chest towards the floor and, as she well knew,
creating a perfect target for whatever weapon or torment that The Head would
use on her.

 
She had undergone an extensive flogging of her
fine, double D cup breasts twice before, once at the hand of The Head and
another time in retribution for a prank she has played on another staff member.
The victim of the prank had not been amused at Marcy’s short sheeting of her
bed and went directly to Mistress Wright, complaining that after a double shift
in the training ring, she was entitled to an unencumbered bed and a joke-free
evening, free from the stupid, juvenile games of her associates. The Head
rewarded her with six strong blows on her wide ass from her favorite riding
crop. Three for being dumb enough to come whining about a silly prank and three
more for not knowing how to get even with the culprit, who was Marcy, as The Head
had known from the start. Then, to make sure everyone knew her intolerance for
dumb fun and games, The Head arranged for a public beating of Marcy Neidler
with a cat-o-nine-tails on the tits, the twelve blows strung out over three
hours at the rate of four an hour, or one every fifteen minutes. Marcy was hung
naked by her taped and bandage-protected wrists with heavy leather cuffs
attached to a chain suspended from an overhead beam in the dining hall.

As she was being
strung up, The Head asked her if, as an accommodation to her pride, she would
prefer to be gagged so as not to embarrass herself, as she surely would be,
when the terrible knotted cat tentacles struck over the three hours. Foolishly
thinking that the woman was truly considerate of Marcy’s welfare, she agreed to
be gagged, barely catching the tiny smirk on her boss’s face as she nodded and
walked away, telling Karen Walker, the offended victim of the prank that she
could chose Marcy’s gag. Karen had smiled and gone to the cabinet at the side
of the room and extracted a complex gag harness; one that was seldom used
because of its known cruelty and difficult attachment. With nearly an hour to
go before the dinner hour, Karen proceeded to install the brutal gag system on
Marcy’s head and face as she hung there, her feet still on the floor, but more
or less immobilized. Karen enlisted another instructor to help and they first
bound Marcy’s feet and secured them to a floor-mounted steel ring, then roped
her legs above and below the knees with braided leather cords to enhance the
girl’s discomfort.

The gag harness
essentially has four elements: the head harness, the mouth-filling gag, the
collar and the nose/tongue immobilizer. So, the attachment of the device had to
follow a distinct, prescribed procedure: First, the victim’s tongue was
attached to the shackle connected to the bolt that pierced her tongue. Since
literally everyone in the school had tongue piercings, this was no problem. A
thin chain from the bolt shackle hung out of the victim’s mouth while the main
portion of the gag was fitted. This was a molded rubber plug fitted with what
looked like a safety mouthpiece that a football player or boxer would wear. The
center of the mouthpiece was the fat rubber plug that filled the oral cavity and
the mouthpiece itself allowed the teeth to descend around the plug. The rubber
gag had a hollow center and the tongue was pulled through the hole, using the
chain on the tongue bolt. While Karen and her accomplice were fitting the gag,
experimenting with various mouth-filling sizes and type of plugs, The Head
herself had stopped by. She walked over to Marcy, grabbed the tightly bound
ponytail that hung from the crown of her head and pulled the head back so that
Marcy was staring up at her stretched arms, the chain from her tongue dangling
from her open mouth. The Head then seized the tongue chain in the other hand
and pulled the ponytail and the tongue chain simultaneously, causing Marcy to
howl from the pain and struggle against her bonds.

“Well, Neidler,”
The Head remarked, releasing both the ponytail and tongue, “you are in for an
interesting evening, to be sure. Come see me tomorrow after they let you down
and we’ll discuss the values of pranks and penalties. Have fun tonight, my dear
Neidler. I hope this will teach you something about jokes.

Head Mistress
Wright went on her way and Karen and company went back to their gagging of
Marcy. They found a fat rubber plug in their voluminous stash and pulled
Marcy’s already aching tongue through the donut hole in the plug, jamming the
rubber mass into Marcy’s mouth with her jaws pried wide. Once inside, the plug
held her tongue snugly in its contracting grip and her teeth settled partly
into the intended outer portions of the mouthpiece. Marcy gurgled as the thing
filled her mouth, breathing noisily through her nose and trying to slow her
racing heart as the two other women punishers adjusted the head harness. The
first part of the harness was a simple leather headband that went around
Marcy’s head, covering her forehead, reaching around above her ears and being
buckled at the back of her head. This band with its numerous attachments
provided the base for the rest of the straps. From the front, a single strap
led down the forehead towards the nose, then split into two narrow bands that
passed on either side of the nose, meeting at the side of the mouth and holding
a rubber-covered clamp/bit that engaged the outer edge of the gag plug and held
in pressed firmly in the mouth. The bit functioned as a normal harness bit,
extending out from the sides of the mouth, pushing the cheeks back. The split
straps were left hanging from their attachment fitting on each side of the
mouth while the wide, thickly padded collar was secured around Marcy’s neck,
its many D rings and connecting points located at various locations on its
circumference. Then the split straps from the bit were roughly pulled down
Marcy’s cheeks, crossed under her chin and led under her jaw, then, after being
pulled taunt, secured to two rings at the back of the collar.

On top of her
skull, leading from the side of the headband, two wider straps were fitted over
the crown of Marcy’s head and tightened so that the band and rest of the
harness didn’t slide lower, out of position, on her head. Then another wide
length of black leather was brought from the band down, just in front of her
ears, under Marcy’s chin, snugged tight and buckled. As this was done, it
forced her jaws closed around the plug and jammed her teeth even tighter into
the mouthpiece grooves. A separate gag strap with a hole in the center was
fitted across the front of Marcy’s face, engaging the plug and bit, allowing
the tongue chain to go through the hole and slipping through slots in the
vertical straps at the side of her face, then again tightened without mercy
behind her head. This action forced the gag plug deeper into Marcy’s stuffed
mouth and drove the metal bit further back, pulling her cheeks roughly backward
against the opposite force of the chin strap that was forcing her mouth closed.
This dual pressure was a major function of the harness. The victim’s jaws were
being forced closed by the chin straps while the mouth was forced open by the
plug and the backward tension of the gag strap.

The two
punishers, seeing that time was running out for their agony-inducing mouth
work, went to the last stage of the process and installed a U shaped clamp
shackle into Marcy’s nasal septum. This was a simple little metal shackle that
had an adjustable screw fitting on the ends of the U. These had a small flat
pad at the end, looking a bit like the nose pads on eyeglasses, but smaller.
The screws were tightened with the pads fitting into each nostril, slowly
squeezing the septum as they were closed. As the screw clamps engaged the
septum, the center of the nose, they held the shackle, which functioned as a
nose ring without the piercing, in place. The screw clamps had set tiny screws
as well, so that once the clamping screws and pads were in place and tightened,
the set screws were engaged with a small jewelers’ screw driver to make sure
the clamp screws didn’t come loose. This septum shackle functioned as a highly
efficient nose ring. Any pressure on it brought instant pain and tears.

Finally, the
chain from Marcy’s tongue was fed up and through the septum shackle and locked
there with a small padlock. By crossing her eyes, Marcy could just see the
lock. Her extended tongue told her the rest of the pain story. Any tug, and
pull, any involuntary effort to pull her tongue back brought pain to both parts
of her tormented face. The nose ring hurt just being in place. The tongue
chain, holding her poor pierced tongue so far outside her mouth, caused
constant discomfort. Swallowing was difficult and she had to concentrate on
relearning the swallow reflex to ease her dry throat, already constricted by
the tight collar.

Looking at
Marcy’s now harness-distorted face, her two tormentors realized that there was
little skin to be seen. Her hair, gathered at the top of her head into the
tightly bound ponytail, cascaded down over the harness. Her crying eyes stared
out from among an array of straps. Her entire lower face was a mass of black
leather straps, with one under her chin holding her jaws clamped shut and the
gag strap jamming the rubber plug and bit back into her head. Her poor little
tongue stuck out through the hole in the gag strap, bound tightly to her nose
ring, the shackle clamp welded to her punished nasal septum. The harness was
punishment enough, Marcy thought. The anticipated and dreaded beating of her breasts
was entirely another matter.

However, the
dinner bell soon rang and the school’s entire population, except for those
engaged in punishment and other entertainment in the cellars and barns, filed
in and stood until The Head took her seat. As the meal progressed and Marcy
suffered, few of the student body even dared to cast more than quick glimpses
at her hanging, naked, harnessed, bound figure. A few more of the assembly
silently relished the thoughts of watching the tall instructor have her arrogant
and marvelous tits whipped from the hour of 1900 until 2200 that night. Staff
members openly stared at Marcy, perhaps putting themselves mentally in her
unfortunate position. At the school, there was always the possibility that
anyone could end up as she was, guilty or not from any of a thousand possible
infractions.

Dinner was
completed, announcements were made, tables were cleared and students and staff
filed out past the nude hanging figure, gagged with the mass of leather, rubber
and metal, tears running down her face, saliva seeping out from the multiple
straps that obscured her face and mouth. At 1900 sharp, Karen appeared with a
sizable group of students and staff surrounding her. The large timer/clock on
the far wall was started and, without preamble or any words, eager with
anticipation, Karen Walker took the first sizzling swing at Marcy’s exposed
breasts with the nine-tailed cat. The sound of the tails striking was more of a
thud than a slap and the impact was off center, striking more of the outside of
the ripe left breast than anywhere else. Cleary, Karen was inexperienced with
the cat and this lack of experience could work for or against Marcy in
subsequent blows. The first blow stung more than hurt and Marcy rationalized
that perhaps this wasn’t going to be so bad after all. She looked up to see a
student carefully posting a white card with a large back numeral one on a hook
next to the clock. If they were all like the first, she thought she might
survive with little more than a sore mouth, bruised nose and some stripes on
her tits.