Summer School & After School: The Ponygirl Omnibus Edition (19 page)

      
The
sounds pleased Sister Angel because it was her experience that as long as the
victim of her work was able to protest vocally, all was well. Should the noise
stop, then Sister Angel, in her ever most merciful manner, would perhaps loosen
the straps a few centimeters and see if the protests again emerged from the
bit-distorted mouth, the widely stretched jaws and the collar. She would now
and then add some incentive by flogging any available girl flesh that she
found, often choosing the enticingly presented breasts, nipples or the most deliciously
tender area at the inside top of the thighs. This always elicited verbal
commentary by the victim and pleased Angel enough to allow her to proceed with
her bondage work.

      
Since
there was never a word spoken in the cloister, the restraints used on Lucy and
the other students always included gags of the most oppressive and burdensome
type. Indeed, Mother
Bolia
proudly maintained a
fascinating collection in her private museum totally dedicated to gags, bits,
bridles and head harnesses, virtually all of which were designed to suppress
even the most strident of vocal complaints. Each sister in the order had
extensive firsthand experience with such devices and could not only testify to
the efficiency of each design, but also knew from personal experience what
combination of bridle, bit and gag would work best on even the most
recalcitrant student. Thus, the bond between student and instructor, (or more
accurately between captive and captor), was initially created. Sister Angel
became Lucy’s primary mentor and trainer and the Sister delighted in tormenting
Lucy almost as much as Lucy, the reluctant guest, hated everything about the
cloister. In short, no matter how bad she thought the school was going to be,
it turned out to be much worse.

      
As
the days passed, Lucy found that this institution had much in common with the
one in Vermont, only it was, as far as she could tell, more extreme. This was
perhaps the reason why she was now here, constantly kept in solitary
restraints, gagged, bitted and bound in harness straps or chains and
increasingly subjected to exhausting pony or horse work.

      
Of
course, her sex life also expanded. The sisters had full reign over their
subjects and used this control to provide entertainment for themselves in
cloistered secrecy as well as for paying guests, clergy and others. The funds
they obtained from providing subjects for the dominant inclinations of these
visitors exceeded the funds derived from the sale of their specialty liquor,
but used in the right combination, the God/sex/booze arrangement usually
yielded generous donations to VSR.

Lucy’s First Visitor

      
Lucy
had not been at the cloister three days when they took her quietly from her
cell in the dead of night and hustled her down the dank corridor to a room
outfitted in what might be called Contemporary Inquisition décor. The stone
walls dripped dampness, the furniture was late 12th century wrought iron. The
accessories included horizontal and vertical racks, multiple rusted rings on
the walls and in the floor, tiny barred cages, metal boxes for heads and feet,
upright adjustable posts mounted in the floor, suspension chains, two whipping
posts, an iron maiden and a smoking brazier with various branding irons, large
pliers, a few sturdy metal picks and other implements of torture stuck into the
glowing coals.

      
Sitting
in a massive raised chair was an obese male figure in a draped red garment with
gold piping and sash, plus a small red velvet cap. He wore a half mask and a
lascivious grin as he watched the guards drag Lucy into the chamber, her
hobbled feet and legs trailing behind her. In the usual silent manner of the
order, the guards unstrapped Lucy’s arms from behind her back and bent them
painfully upward to be locked in a set of the hanging manacles. They unlocked
her hobbles, substituted a spreader bar with rigid ankle cuffs, and hoisted her
just high enough so that her toes touched the cold and dirty stone floor. With
her arms extended upwards in apparent Godly supplication, Lucy tried to find a
comfortable position. She was tired and anxious. Her chest rose and fell with
her ragged breathing and her nipple ringed breasts shook enticingly. The
spreader bar was long enough to force her legs wide apart, providing excellent
exposure for her sex.

The seated man
gave a familiar Papal wave of his red-gloved hand and the guards left the room,
slamming the heavy iron bound door behind them. With his sunken, beady eyes
locked on Lucy’s succulent figure, the man in the chair laughed an ugly laugh.
Lucy cowered, trying to turn away, but only succeeding in twisting the chains a
bit and then spinning back to face the man in red.

      
“Don’t
be afraid,” said the man soothingly in what was nearly a whisper. “The code of
silence doesn’t apply here. I’ll relieve you of this bridle and gag. You can
scream all you want.”

      
Lucy
whimpered, salty tears filling her eyes. This was stuff out of horror movies
and Edgar Allen Poe, she thought, not something that really happened in today’s
world. She tugged ineffectually at her chained wrists over her head and tried
in vain to bring her widely separated knees together. It was, in her confused
mind, a repeat of the school in Vermont, only with a religious twist.

      
The
man in red got slowly out of his chair, shuffled over to Lucy and unfastened
the bit and gag bridle, allowing it to drop with a clang to the floor. Lucy’s
freed mouth was dry. She could not speak and she had nothing to say. She
learned in Vermont that the best thing to do was never speak unless asked a
specific question and even then to wait until given permission. If this man was
going to torture her, talking to him made no difference anyway, she thought.

      
Once
again, for the hundredth time, she wondered why she had ever agreed in Vermont
to being sent to the nunnery.
“How could
I have made such a stupid mistake?”
She often wondered. Indeed, Lucy had,
after several sessions with the head mistress at the Vermont Summer School,
agreed that she would benefit from the religious tutoring in this far off
cloister. She read and signed documents that said she was an adult and free to
make her own decisions. There was already no doubt in her mind that this had
been a wrong decision, but it was too late now.

      
“I
am,” the man said in perfect German, staring into her tear-filled eyes, “The
Bishop of Nightmares… ha, hah, ha,” he laughed in a rumbling voice. “You will
remember me long after you have forgotten the others who beat you or fucked
you. You will remember me because of the brand I will put on you tonight. You
will also remember me because I doubt that you have ever seen a dick like this
before...” As he spoke, the Bishop pulled off his single garment, the red
cloak, revealing a grossly fat, hairy body with a leather harness that held a
monster prick and balls at his crotch and encompassed his torso with
criss
-crossed, studded leather straps. Lucy shuddered and
tried to look away, but she was also fascinated by the fact that in the dim
light of the chamber, it appeared that the man’s dick was not, as it first
appeared to be, an artificial strap-on, but a really monstrous flesh and blood
male member.

      
“My
God,” Lucy croaked, trying again to turn away and not stare at the huge, erect
thing that sprouted between the Bishop’s hairy legs.

      
“Yes,
dear. It’s all mine. Took years to develop it. Lots of money and lots of
painful surgery. But then, what else do I have to do, really? Between surgery
and fucking little entertainment items like you in the nearly virgin cunt or
ass, my life is simply one of bleak, although luxurious, religious crap, so I
chose this route to pleasure and it has allowed me to serve God and his slaves
well. With money, you can get almost anything.”

      
The
Bishop walked to the brazier, took up a heavy leather glove hanging on a side
hook and stirred the coals with one of the longer iron pokers. The fire
sputtered and sparkled. Lucy could feel and smell its heat, even though it was
more than ten feet away.

      
“Do
you have any preference for your brand, sweet thing?” the Bishop queried, his
eyes fixed on the glowing hot coals. “Let’s see. I have a nice conventional
cross, a larger Saint Andrews version, a couple of symbols of the Trinity, a
small rendition of a Bishop’s miter…. Any favorites of yours?”

      
“No,”
said Lucy weakly. With a lifetime of wheedling favors and material things from
her parents and friends, she was still capable, when she concentrated on it, to
speak in smooth, cajoling tones and to get men to do her bidding. “But, Your
Grace, why not do that later,” she heard herself say, almost involuntarily.

      
“Oh,
really?” said the Bishop, laughing again, his head turning around to survey
Lucy’s lush and sweat-covered, tightly suspended body in the fire light. “Yes,
you may be right. We can always get to that kind of thing later on. And I do
hate all the howling and struggles that go with it. Besides, you exceed all of
the descriptive illustrations the silent nuns here gave me about you.” He
reached out and poked her left buttock teasingly. “Your body. Ah, yes, our Lord
created your body for extreme pleasure. These alone,” he said as he lightly
stroked her firmly conical breasts with their heavily ringed nipples. “These
alone are worth the high degree of attention I am prepared to devote to them.”

      
The
bishop stood a moment in the smoky chamber as if contemplating his next move,
then walked slowly around Lucy’s tautly suspended form. His eyes surveyed Lucy,
her long hair flung back over her shoulders, her arms, torso and legs covered
with fear sweat, the naked skin glistening in the dim firelight of the brazier.
With an intensity and focus usually devoted to inspecting newly acquired jewels
and rare gold coins, the Red Bishop studied the tight, beautifully rounded ass,
the swelling hips, the smooth stomach and long sculptured thighs, the toes
struggling to touch the floor. “Yes,” he said finally. “We can leave that until
later.”

      
With
that, he stepped away from the brazier and came up behind Lucy, his still
gloved right hand roaming down over her hardened, ringed nipples and stroking
her smooth belly while the fingers of his left hand roughly probed her sex.
Lucy moaned.

      
“First,
I think this harness needs to come off,” he said, bending with surprising ease,
digging into the folds of his dropped cape and coming up with a ring of keys.
Finding the right keys for the harness took a few seconds and he had trouble
focusing on what he was doing because his hands kept drifting to Lucy’s ripe
body. Somewhat distracted by Lucy’s less than obsequious attitude, he
alternately pinched, slapped and squeezed her taut flesh while seeking the
proper keys. Finally, he unlocked each lock and the spreader bar and harness
fell away, taking the double
dildoes
with them.
Inspecting and sniffing his left hand, he noted that Lucy was already wet in
her crotch and that despite the massive size of the double prongs that she had
worn; they just slid out and dropped to the floor, carried by the weight of the
heavy harness.

      
“
Ahhhh
,” intoned the Bishop, marveling at Lucy’s apparent
readiness to accommodate his massive
impaler
. “Let’s
see if your empty pussy will like this one as much as it seems to have liked
that one…I think we’ll try the cunt first,” he said.

      
He
was behind her and she could feel the head of the heavy prick poking between
her legs, seeking the wet space inside her already slightly open lips. Lucy
lowered her head, bending forward a bit at the waist, affording the Bishop an
even more direct route to her now streaming cunt. As much as she hated herself
for doing this, she in fact was already deep into her submissive role and
anxious for the sexual reward that she knew would follow. The Bishop thrust
upward quickly, running several inches of his massive prong deep inside her,
squeezing her ringed tits hard between the rough fingers of his one gloved
hand, then pulling back and ramming again to send another several inches deeper
into her cunt while his other hand pulled her waist closer to him. Lucy jumped
and shrieked at the impact, bending her elbows and raising herself on the
chains a bit to slide a few inches up on the impalement. Then, unable to
sustain the lifting, releasing herself and coming back down to meet the
vigorous upward ram from the Bishop. That was the extent of the prelude. The
Bishop was not one for foreplay of any kind, so he was quickly up to speed and
fucking Lucy with all his energy, burning calories with all of his strength
while Lucy tugged at her chains, thrashed her legs and alternately tried to
escape or envelope the huge thing drilling deep inside her pussy.

      
It
almost seemed like they were performing a well rehearsed exercise, with him
steam-hammering her cunt while Lucy pulled herself up and down on the massive
shaft, her elbows and knees bending as she gripped the chains to lift herself
off the floor, continuing to take in as much as she could get, while the Bishop
grunted and pounded away, doing this task far more energetically than might be
expected from so obese a man standing behind a chained, hanging girl.

      
The
scene lasted only a few minutes until the Bishop let out a louder series of
grunts, reared back and delivered a final cunt-shattering thrust, then toppled
over onto his side, either dead or totally exhausted.

      
Lucy
shivered and shook from the sudden, untimely withdrawal, cursing in spite of
herself that she had not gotten where she wanted to be and now dangled,
unfulfilled, while the fat Bishop lapsed into a snoring slumber. Her prior
conditioning and experience at Summer School left her expectant of some sort of
post-coital punishment, perhaps a strict flogging or some other pain-inducing
activity that would, as it always did, bring about a more satisfying and
spectacular orgasm and release.

      
“Shit,”
was all Lucy could offer in a tired and unhappy voice. It was a term she
learned in Vermont. Until then, such words were not in her vocabulary, nor was the
concept of having a fat, older clergyman fucking her while she hung helpless in
chains in an underground chamber.

      
She
stayed there for more than an hour, muttering to herself and trying to relieve
the strain on her wrists while the Bishop’s semen ran slowly down the inside of
her thighs. Then the Bishop roused himself, waddled over to a shelf on the wall
and came back with a metal chalice of red wine, which he offered to Lucy. She
shook her head.

      
“It’s
quite good,” he said, tilting the cup and taking more than half its contents
into his red mouth. “It’s not poisoned. You’ll need it for the next round, my
dear. Here, drink.” Lucy drank.

The Bishop
finished the wine, dropped the cup and returned to his earlier position behind
Lucy, using his hand to massage his somewhat relaxed member and guiding it
between Lucy’s firm, rounded buttocks. Lucy knew what was coming and she tensed
her body, anticipating the next penetration.

      
“This
time,” the Red Bishop said with a bit of condescension, “I will have your lovely,
sweet, white ass…and then, unfortunately, I must be going. You know how it is.
Coming and going all the time can be so tiring. I’ll probably sleep all the way
back to the cathedral.” At the word “cathedral”, he simultaneously aligned his
now rigid prick and jammed it halfway into Lucy’s clenched and waiting asshole.
Shocked at this
unlubricated
penetration, Lucy
screamed. And screamed.

      
The
Bishop was unrelenting. He was again very excited, but he was also in a hurry
and began pumping even before he was all the way up into Lucy’s large colon,
holding onto her tits with both hands and not allowing her to slide up and down
as she had in the first assault. She screamed continuously, realizing that this
obviously stimulated him and might just possibly shorten this harrowing rape of
her ass. He locked himself tightly against her back, the studs on his harness
digging into her flesh, his hips hammering away with incredible enthusiasm and
muttering various Latin phrases, which Lucy, in her painful and horrified
state, could not, at first, begin to understand. It suddenly dawned on her,
knowing more Latin than most people, that he was reciting the words of the
Exorcism Mass, driving the demons from her body while he plundered her ass.