Summer School & After School: The Ponygirl Omnibus Edition (16 page)

Marcy hummed and
wiggled on her multi-point suspension. Her four limbs were in agony and the
central penetrator didn’t help. The cord from her braid had slacked as she
moved rearward, but Boswick didn’t seem to be pay any attention to that. He was
busy doing something on the post, right above the point where the brass dick
was fastened. She could hear metal being moved and in contact with other metal
part. She wondered once again what this nut Boswick was up to. Recalling too
easily the vicious whiplash of just a few minutes ago, Marcy shuddered to think
about what he was preparing for her now.

It was thus no
surprise, when she felt his rubber gloved forefinger slide slowly down her bent
backbone, enter the smoothness of the cleft between her buttocks and stop at
her rear aperture. The finger poked and probed and entered the passage easily
since Boswick had coated it with some greasy lubricant before making his
approach down her back. With one finger inside, he slowly added a second and
then a third. Marcy tried to pull away, but there was no slack in the chains
and the fingers began routing around. The triple penetration became painful,
but most of Marcy’s discontent was from the embarrassment of having this man
rummage in her rectum in such a callus fashion without her permission.

Boswick probed a
bit longer and then removed his fingers.

“I think you’ll
take a nice fat one up there, my dear,” he said with grave humor. “We have so
many to choose from and unfortunately only a couple of holes to put them in.”
Marcy struggled, flexing her back and lifting her torso up and then down in the
suspension, but the brass impalement limited this exercise dramatically and as
she flexed she realized that the probe was quite stimulating in spite of not
moving itself. The combination of being suspended by her hands and feet while
impaled on the brass prick was, she had to admit, pretty novel…at least she
hadn’t thought of it until now. The idea of having a probe up her ass while
thus pinioned created a certain involuntary excitement factor that she tried
unsuccessfully to suppress. Her vaginal juices were bubbling and the brass
thing inside her almost seemed to be getting smaller as she slowly and
unconsciously rotated her hips and surged forward and back in her hammock-like
posture.

“Oh, good,”
marveled Boswick, “you seem to be adjusting nicely to the impalement of your
cunt. Let’s see how we can enhance that with this…” And without any other
warning, he plunged a greased, massive brass prong into Marcy’s ass. In one
shove, the whole length of the monster dong went in and in and in further until
it was swallowed in full by the twitching ass muscles and Marcy was in the
throes of a near orgasm while she thrashed and twisted in the chains, rotating
her hips and ass around the two penetrators. Boswick had connected the threaded
end of the second probe to a gooseneck arrangement, which he had fastened to
the post a few inches above the base of the first prong. The gooseneck was
flexible, to a point, and held the ass probe deeply in its target. Marcy’s
efforts to expel it had little affect other than to cause the flexible
gooseneck shaft to bend slightly and then return to its original shape, driving
the probe back into its hole like a pile driver that comes up for air and then
slams back into the depths.

“A grand
performance, Neidler,” said a new voice in the basement. With the double dongs
working overtime inside her deranged lower body, the blindfold and gag all
combining to hinder her senses, Marcy barely recognized the voice of The Head
Mistress. Mistress Wright had descended the stairs quietly and was now standing
in front of the hanging girl, her face only a few inches from hers.

“Isn’t Mister
Boswick a clever fellow?” she asked the now drooling and whimpering Marcy
Neidler, who still thrashed about and ramming her pelvis into the sturdy post,
driving the two dildos in and out of their respective sites.

“Mummm, nah, eee
muumuu,” Marcy muttered back as she tried to slow her embarrassing contortions
and prevent her large breasts from swinging so enticingly in front of Wright.
Marcy knew only too well that such a sight often moved the Head Mistress to
extended floggings of the twin globes and she wanted no more of any of this.
What Boswick had done thus far was more than enough. The Head noted the
swinging tits and, without even thinking about it, brought her riding crop
swiftly across the gyrating boobs with a resounding whack that left an instant
red track across the tops of both tits.

“EEEEooooow!”
Marcy howled into the gag. “Oooo mhoooooorrrr!”

“Oh,” said The
Head, feigning surprise at the hysterical reaction, and she swung the crop
again hitting the same general area of the tits, only this time getting one
nipple included in the strike. Marcy was in agonized hysteria, flopping about
on her chains, wiggling her hips and ass, sliding up and down on the
impalements in her crotch and screaming without effect into the inflated plug
gag. Mistress Wright took advantage of the distracting performance to grab the
flailing braid of Marcy’s hair. It had come undone from its initial tie-down on
the post, so The Head pulled it and its attached cord back, tying it around the
post next to the base of the brass dong that was cyclically exposed, due to
Marcy’s up and down exercise on the two metal intruders. Marcy’s situation was
at max discomfort, the three people in the cellar each independently concluded.
Boswick went to his chair and lit a cigarette. The Head turned on her heel,
took a cursory swing at Marcy’s still jiggling tits with her crop and went back
up the stairs. Marcy, meanwhile, wiggled and yelled and hummed with her gag,
rotating and pumping her hips until she simply passed out from the stress and
exertion. Boswick checked her breathing and left her there for another ten
minutes, then released her ankles, pulled the probes out and let the blindfolded,
gagged girl remain standing by her abused wrists. He stood in front of her red
face, which dripped with snot, saliva and sweat, and ran both of his small,
soft hands over the whipped and bruised breasts. Afterwards, he followed The
Head back upstairs.

Inside the
coffin-like crate, Dori sweated too. It seemed like the longer she stayed in
the crate the tighter her bondage became. While she thought that some of this
was perhaps her imagination, she also thought, as she twisted and shifted
inside the box, that perhaps some of her limbs were swelling from the long
restraint and that this was tightening the straps that held her. She also
considered, (since she had nothing else to do but twitch her fingers and bite
down on the gag), that the position of the box had something to do with the
tightness of the leather and nylon network of straps holding her in place. The
box remained upright, which meant she was riding, in a sense and quite
uncomfortably, on the small metal saddle and dildo. From the motions of the
crate, she assumed that she was in some sort of vehicle and further
deliberation led her to conclude that it must be a truck of some kind because
the crate would not have fit upright in the Rover. Whatever kind of vehicle it
was, it bounced and rattled for some time over what must have been back roads,
then the ride smoothed out and Dori interpreted this to mean that they were now
on a highway.

Well,
she thought.
If we are on highway, we have got to be headed for a city and the
cities are a long way from the school. Where the hell are they taking me? And
why?

 
The ride continued for several hours, with the
occasional stop and jolt. Dori suffered the saddle and the vicious nipple
clips, tried to keep some circulation in her bound hands and arms and even
dozed off for short periods. She was, by now, more or less accustomed to the
bondage routines of the school and was able, without much trouble, to shut off
the alarms and anxiety she felt when they first bound her for long periods. She
knew that they wouldn’t do her any real harm. She was also intelligent enough
to realize that the school and its staff were quite intent on keeping her safe
and subjecting her to discipline. Not ever having been sent to the dairy or pig
pens, Dori might have changed her views of that subject… if she ever got there.

The vehicle
finally stopped and there was no movement. No sound. Dori strained to hear
something, anything, but the ear pads in the hood, plus the insulating effect
of the crate, blocked all outside noise. She listened instead to her own blood
pulsing though her somewhat constricted arteries and veins and she heard the
amplified sound of her breathing through the tubes. She thought she detected
the sweet smell of diesel, but assumed this was simply from the truck. Her
crate finally was lifted and she felt movement again, then a bit of a shock as
the crate was set down. Dori waited. She dozed, she tried to ease the multiple
hurts in every part of her body. Then, quite suddenly, the panel behind her
opened and she felt and heard someone – more than two people – unstrapping and
easing her out of the crate. A pair hands removed her bonds and the terrible
hood. She lay on a table like a rag doll, moving nothing while all restraints
were removed. Overhead was a bright light and it occurred to Dori that she was
in some sort of medical facility. The smells were a mixture of clean and
antiseptic. The light blinded her and made her close her eyes. The hands going
over her body were gloved in rubber and the speech of those around her was
subdued and professional. Someone pressed a rubber mask to her face and she was
too tired to even care. She heard someone say the word “lovely” and then the
lights went out.

“Okay folks;
let’s get to this quickly,” said Dr. Willis B. Graham, noted surgeon and expert
in performing various kinds of physical “adjustments” and “enhancements.” He
was dressed in full surgical garb and surrounded by four other people similarly
clothed. Dori lay naked on the operating table, a small mask over her mouth and
nose, breathing deeply. At the head of the table, a nurse monitored her vital
signs and gave Graham a nod, signifying that Dori was suitably anesthetized.
Graham took a scalpel from the nurse next to him and made the first cut.

Much, much
later, Dori felt the pain. It was universal and she tried to focus on exactly
where it came from but the slightest movement caused it to increase, so she lay
still, opening her eyes to a gray fog with a few small pinpoints of light in
it. She realized that she was not able to move her limbs at all and that the
pain she felt seemed more like a blanket than a series of individual sources.
She felt as if she were floating in space. She closed her eyes and went back to
sleep.

Down the hallway
from the room where Dori slept, Doctor Graham conferred with Boswick. They sat
in office armchairs in Graham’s plush office and nursed cups of hot coffee
while Graham browsed an open file on his desk.

“Everything went
perfectly,” the doctor said, not looking up at Boswick, but instead turning in
his chair and gazing out the large windows in his corner office. “All of the
accessories are in place and there is no indication of problems. I think you
can take her back to Vermont by the end of the week.”

“Excellent,”
said Boswick, following Graham’s gaze out over the Boston skyline. “Did you
video the procedures and finished product?”

“Of course. We
always do that for record…” Graham hesitated, then added, “not to mention the
retail value,” he said with a smile.

“I’d like copies
to take back with me so that my partners and I can review and then perhaps
disseminate these. Once the process is complete, we’ll offer a package to
potential buyers as well as to those who can’t afford the transaction but will
enjoy the pictures.”

“Of course,”
said Graham, sounding a bit bored. “Anything else?”

“No, that will
do. I’m, staying at the Ritz and will check back with you tomorrow before I
head back north. Let me know when she’s ready for transport.”

“Sure. And, oh
Boswick,” Graham said, finally turning around in his chair and looking keenly
at the riding school Head Master.

“Yes?” said
Boswick, almost to the office door.

“We have a
potential resource in the clinic. Grade eight, I would say. Maybe even a nine.
Are you interested?”

“Always,”
Boswick quickly replied. “The market gets bigger every month. We’re up about
two hundred thirty percent so far this year. Can I see it?”

Graham pushed
the intercom button on his desk speaker and said “Perkins.”

“Yes, Doctor
Graham,” came the slightly tinny female voice from the speaker.

“Please show
Master Boswick item two-o-six. He is not to enter the room.”

“Yes doctor.”

“Thanks, Doctor
Graham,” said Boswick as he picked up his coat and hat from the standing coat
tree and went out the door. “The usual finder’s fee will apply if we accept the
product,” he added over his shoulder.

“Right,”
muttered Graham as he closed Dori’s file.

A few minutes
later, accompanied by Perkins the secretary, Boswick went down the hall and
took the waiting elevator to the second floor of the Boston Reconstruction
Surgical Clinic. He visited the secluded second floor room where he viewed
through a one-way mirror a young woman hanging in a sort of frame. Her back was
turned towards Boswick, but the attendants in the door rotated the frame slowly
while the woman wiggled and struggled with the multiple bindings holding her
vertically. Boswick admired the body. It was, indeed, as Graham had said, a
near perfect nine or even a ten. The proportions were right, the hair was a
deep dark brown, bound up into a single braid, and the face and skin matched
the rest of the perfection. Perkins, watching with interest, handed Boswick a
file, although Boswick found it hard to take his eyes off the suspended figure
behind the glass long enough to scan the file’s contents.
Perfect for next semester
, Boswick thought. “She’ll do,” he said
aloud to Perkins. “Please set up the transport when you are finished with her.
Charge our account.”