'Well, that just about covers lateness,' he said.
Splendid, thought Jenny acidly. That meant they only had rudeness, swearing and a stolen credit card to go. Bring it on.
'It's Dungeon time, my feisty little filly,' Mark said ominously.
Bugger and blast. Jenny decided to scrap that last thought.
The Dungeon
It was a long walk to the next room, or in Jenny's case, an agonising and painful scuffle. The dungeon was located down several flights of stone steps and no quarter was given for the fact that she was on all fours, although thankfully free of rope. Her collar encumbered her further, by preventing her looking down, so there was no way of knowing where the edge of each step was. She had to go down them blind, and while Mark didn't hurry, he certainly didn't slow down for her. There was more than one stumble and the only reason no serious damage befell her, was because Mark yanked her leash painfully upright to steady her at each mistake.
When the steps finished a forbidding cast-iron door loomed in front of Jenny, surrounded by more cold, grey stone. A big circular brass knocker adorned the middle of the entrance and a few smudges of old dried blood were visible on the concrete slabs below it. Even though Jenny assumed this was done for effect, it made quite an impression on her. She was immediately terrorised and they had yet to enter the room. It didn't help that the acrid smell of burning permeated the air.
Finding her legs weak, unresponsive and uncoordinated, she had to breathe deeply several times before a step forward was possible. Thankfully Mark gave her a moment's grace. He was undoubtedly enjoying the show. The rusty creak of hinges, which hadn't seen oil in years, served to unnerve her further. The uncontrollable urge to close her eyes was upon her as soon as she passed under the ornamented black lintel, which was decorated with an upside-down pentagon. They fluttered shut without conscious thought. As usual Mark was ready for her. He gave the plug in her backside a sharp smack with his crop.
Jenny couldn't help but screech in pain. It wasn't the soft tap of before; this time Mark used force behind the crop's swing and it resonated throughout her body. Her teeth bit into the rubber separating them and her face contorted. She supposed the damn man had managed to get what he wanted: her eyes wide open and paying attention to all the delights this room might have to offer. Thankfully the light was now so bad she could barely see a thing anyway.
It didn't take long to work out that the strange burning smell was made by candles. Hundreds upon hundreds of big, thick, church pillar candles. They were all ivory in colour and released a faint smell of vanilla into the cold, damp air. Whilst that was quite pleasant, nothing much else in the room appeared to be. Slowly but surely, Jenny's eyes became accustomed to the gloom.
Where should she start? The most worrying aspect of the room was a bookcase lined with row upon row of coloured jars and bottles. A large book which took pride of place amongst them was named Figging and Salves for Ponies. There were a few more reference topics, none of which Jenny understood, and it didn't look at all promising. In front of the bookcase was a black, cast-iron, padded horse with rails. It came complete with leather cuffs for wrists, upper arms, knees and ankles. Jenny thought she'd had quite enough of horses for one day and even more of restraints. It didn't stop her having a few wayward thoughts, though. She wondered how many other people had had the misfortune to be seated upon that horse, awaiting a spanking or worse. Were there many trainees at the Pony Rides Hotel? Were all the trainees women or were there men, too? These thoughts and several more were stopped abruptly in their tracks as something large and ominous caught her eye.
An iron cage was located in the centre of the room and it was connected to a pulley by which it could be raised to ceiling height. There was also a pit below it, dug down into the dungeon floor, just a little larger than the average grave. For those with claustrophobic tendencies it would be Hell on earth when coupled with the murky light. Even though Jenny suffered from no such phobia, she could safely say that she wouldn't want to spend any time down there.
It was by no means the only piece of dungeon furniture that concerned her. A large red and black padded St. Andrews cross adorned the left side of the back wall and a dark wooden frame with various metal hoops for attaching restraints, rope or chains, filled the right side. There was also a padded red bench by the door, in a cube shape, complete with more restraints and a single hole located at the forward end in a central position. What was the hole for, Jenny puzzled? Unsurprisingly, questions which couldn't be voiced didn't receive an answer.
All of this Jenny could have just about coped with. But the larger items just served to emphasise the amount of other, smaller paraphernalia that decorated the walls of the room, such as paddles, crops, bullwhips and floggers. There were metal clamps, pillories, gags, yokes, wooden rods and other torture devices that Jenny couldn't fathom a use for. There was also a distressed wooden wardrobe that held all manner of PVC and rubber outfits, hoods and harnesses. She found herself feeling lightheaded again and swayed slightly from side to side.
Mark had expected the reaction. This room was one of the cruellest dungeons he'd had the privilege to lay eyes on, and in his time he'd seen more than a few. It had been created within the facility as a warning. Ponies that played nicely and behaved might never see the inside of this room, or indeed its Mistress. Ponies that didn't usually only needed one visit to see the light and change their ways. The initial visit on every trainee's induction was the perfect deterrent to bad behaviour. Whether it would work in Jenny's case remained to be seen, but by the pallor of her skin he suspected she wouldn't want to visit again anytime soon. As her swaying motion became more pronounced he pushed her head towards the floor with the tip of his crop. It was unlikely she'd faint on all fours, but he didn't want to take the risk because he'd be the one carrying her out and back up the killer stone steps. He wasn't ashamed to say he had a bad back. Bending over frequently to administer a good whipping to several different ponies did that to a trainer, but on the plus side, it was a good workout. He rarely had to visit the gym, although he made daily use of the full set of free weights he kept at home.
'Feeling better now?' he asked, having given her a minute or two to catch her breath. There was a tentative nod in response. That the dark room had intimidated her was a given.
Jenny was feeling a little better, blood having finally found its way back to her head, but she was definitely still a little green around the gills.
'Right,' said Mark, 'I'm going to let you speak on two conditions: you can only ask questions about the contents of this room or facility, and you only have two minutes. This is a rare opportunity to use your voice and find out more about the way we work here at the Albrecht Stables. If you abuse it you'll find yourself gagged immediately and silenced for a very long time. Some of the ponies stabled here haven't spoken in such a long time they've almost forgotten how to use their voice. Some have their vocal chords cut depending on the whims of their Master or Mistress.' He watched as her eyes widened in disbelief. Well, some things she'd find out for herself as soon as she was out in the field. If she thought that was unbelievable, then she was in for a few more shocks when her hooves hit the paddock. 'Remember, you have two minutes. Nod if you understand.'
Jenny nodded. She had questions, she wanted answers and she could talk quickly. Besides, there was no point screaming for help down here. Who would hear her? They were also a little too close to items which could inflict pain, should she provoke him, and she had no doubt he could capably use all of the equipment available.
He unbuckled her bridle carefully, taking care not to catch her hair, and attached it to the D-ring on her neck. He had no desire to hold the soggy thing. Reaching into his pocket he took out a carton of apple juice and poking the straw through the slot, held it to her lips. This was perhaps the last time she would drink like a human and he was feeling generous. He was amazed that he'd let her talk at all as he was not usually given to kindness, especially with new slaves
. Normally he would have fed them his cock, in order to lubricate their voice for speech, but he felt a subtle reticence to do so with this one. It was unlike him.
Jenny drank the juice greedily. It didn't even rankle that the annoying man knew her throat was scratchily dry and that she wouldn't have been able to talk without something wet to loosen it. When she'd finished drinking, stopping as soon as the straw made burbling noises, she didn't waste time in posing her first question.
'Do you have many trainees here at the moment?'
'Approximately one hundred and fifty are housed here, whatever the weather and whatever the season. Most have to book a long time in advance in order to achieve a place at our stables.'
'Are they all female?'
'No. The ratio of males to females is one in three, though. Most of our applications are for girls.'
'How many people have been inside this dungeon?'
'Too many to count.'
'What is the hole in the red bench for, the one beside the door?'
'It's called the Objectifier, and it's for your head. Your head is stowed beneath the bench and you are simply an object for the dungeon Mistress to do with as she pleases.'
'What is figging?'
'It dates back to Victorian times. Initially it was used on show horses and it involved a piece of root ginger being peeled and inserted into the anus.' Mark watched Jenny grimace and laughed. 'It was used as encouragement for them to hold their tail high. It was also used in corporal punishment. Place a piece of ginger or pepper into the average miscreant's asshole and you'll find them unable to clench their buttocks, due to the strong burning sensation the spice provides, which meant they had no way of lessening the pain of a severe beating.' Jenny didn't look at all happy with that explanation, but she knew she only had two minutes and ploughed straight on.
'What happens in the pit?'
'Come on now, that would spoil the surprise.' He raised an eyebrow.
'What's the worst thing that can happen in this dungeon?'
'Ditto as per my last answer. Right, question time is up.' He retrieved the bit and slotted it back between Jenny's lips, even though she had been about to voice another question, and the bridle quickly followed.
Mark frowned to himself. Allowing Jenny the use of her voice suggested he was going soft in his old age, which was thirty-three years and two months to be exact. In order to correct this horrifying realisation he decided to be a little nastier than usual before they exited his favourite room. 'Why don't you pop up on the horse in front of the bookcase before we go? We might as well tackle rudeness while we're here.'
Jenny sucked in a breath and felt herself go cold. She had just been annoyingly cut off in mid-sentence, wanting to ask, 'When do we get to eat and go back to the hotel?' In hindsight, that should have been question number one but it was too late to moan about it now. Reluctantly she walked over to the horse and did as she was told. It wasn't as if she had much choice in the matter. After the Red Room, she was painfully aware who was boss. Delicately draping her body over the horse, acutely aware of her smarting backside, she assumed the position of before - bottom in the air, head down. He fastened the restraints securely around each of her ankles and knees, but left her wrists free. Her body crackled with anticipation as she was made to wait. Her mind was a mess of muddled thoughts, desires, needs and wants. Before she had a chance to order any of them sensibly, the crop was pressed against her flesh and she jumped so high she could have touched one of Saturn's frosty rings. She prayed the man wouldn't mete out another spanking. The bite of the thin leather pushing into her was half pain and half a delicious desire for the crop to strike once more. It was crazy. She was crazy, but the unforgettable orgasm in the Red Room was still fresh in her mind. As usual Mark read her effortlessly.
'Is my little filly already yearning for the crop? You know, the most devilish torments are often the result of the most innocent-looking things.' He softly patted each thin red welt and was rewarded with a shudder. 'Take the innocuous feather, for example. It doesn't look in the least bit dangerous, yet it can inflict the sweetest agony. Shall I demonstrate?'
He held a large green and blue peacock feather in his hand and his face held its trademark gleam of amusement. Jenny stared straight ahead, careful not to catch his eyes and decided that a feather couldn't be much of a threat. Let him do his worst.
The first touch of it on her skin was a subtle dusting of its surface. It swirled in little circles that gently tickled each of her toes and made them curl, before moving to feet, calves and thighs. A flick on her instep made her writhe with delight. Then it reached her waist, drew airy pictures all over her back, circled each ridge of her spine and nearly made her laugh out loud when it reached her ribs. When the fluffy plume touched her underarms she burst into laughter and he tickled her ruthlessly, until she could barely breathe through her giggles and tears began streaming down her cheeks.
'Begging becomes more difficult when you're gagged. You'll need to find a way to implore me to stop which doesn't involve speech,' he said as he came alongside her face and tickled her nose and lips. She sneezed heavily and he laughed. 'I'll leave you to ponder that one while I raise the stakes.'
The man was as good as his word. The feather fluttered over her ass next, and each time it caught one of her two stripes she moaned out loud. Her flesh was so tenderised that even the lightest of touches sent a rush of tantalising heat through her body.
'Hands behind your back,' he whispered in her ear. Jenny automatically complied and couldn't help but squirm under his delicate but oh so taunting strokes. Grabbing a fistful of hair he pulled her body upright, and when the feather caught the underside of her breast she groaned heavily. It then caught a nipple, sending delicious frissons of tingling desire shooting through her as she felt it explode into a hard peak. Mark resumed his attentions on the other side and was rewarded with a strangled gasp. Then the feather dipped to her pussy and with the lightest of touches, it whispered against her straining flesh, doing nothing more than antagonising its victim. Then he repeated the entire procedure in agonising slow motion.
Mark was fastidious with the application of his tickling torment. He watched how her body began to prickle at the most delicate touch. His trainee was now in super-sensitive mode and could orgasm with very little in the way of provocation. When he'd finished the second tour of her body he enquired whether she would like a third. He could only smile as she sunk her teeth into the rubber bit of her bridle and shook her head briskly.
He decided it was time for devilish torment number two. Standing in front of her face and tipping the feather upside down, he allowed her to see it was actually a quill, with the end having been fashioned into a sharp point. 'Now, we're really going to play,' was all he said.
Jenny was slowly being driven insane. If the barely-there flutters of the feather had been torment, the sharp drag of the quill across her skin was the worst suffering imaginable. Starting at the back of her thighs he wrote, he drew, he doodled and he sketched. With his barb he slowly limned all manner of things into her already enflamed skin. She tried to be stoic and endured his artwork on her arms, calves, back and feet. When he started on her swollen backside, within thirty seconds he had her thrashing and sobbing. The worst of it was that the sobbing was not because of the pain. The pain only served to fuel the furnace burning brightly through her. She was sobbing because she was yet again desperately aroused and her need for release was overwhelming. When he started over, tracing the red lines he'd already drawn in a leisurely fashion, she screamed in frustration. She couldn't even speak; he had made her so insensible with longing. 'Please,' her eyes begged, 'please,' but he wasn't looking at her face and she knew with certainty that he meant to retrace every single line he'd drawn, before she'd get her chance to plead with him. Jenny didn't think she'd manage to withstand it. When he started to score her ass with the quill for the second time, bubbles of foam escaped from her mouth. Filled with a lust that had no chance of es
cape unless her captor deemed her worthy, Jenny began sniffing and blubbering as her body squirmed, twisted and struggled under the monstrous feather.
When a side door swung open she could only be grateful for the pause in Mark's attentions. The room it revealed was small, but brightly lit and her eyes immediately focused on a rectangular wooden frame. It featured two rollers at either end, a ratchet wheel and a series of levers and pulleys. Jenny had seen one such device before. It was called a rack and it was a medieval torture device, one of which was housed in the Tower Of London. She'd visited on a school trip some years before and had actually listened to the tour guide when he described what it was used for. Victims were chained and stretched, bit by bit, until their joints dislocated and eventually separated. Once the muscle fibres had been stretched to such an excessive degree they lost their ability to contract and were rendered useless. Due to the amount of pain it placed its victim in, it had been recorded as one of the most gruesome torture devices of medieval history. Was this what they did to errant trainees here? The blood in her body flooded downwards, and shaking violently, she fainted.
Seeing Jenny's limp form plastered against the horse, Mark swore. 'Well, there goes your last orgasm for the foreseeable future.' The door which had just opened mysteriously was supposed to be kept locked at all times. The gentleman who owned the Albrecht Stables was a collector in antiquities and the contents of that room were worth a fortune. The origins of the rack dated back to Roman times and it was rather appropriately named Equuleus, or Young Horse. Needless to say it was never actually used. Some trainees might have been terrorised on occasion, but none had ever actually been strapped to the device. It wouldn't have made any difference if they had; the thing was missing several important chains and was so old that any weight upon it would probably send it crashing to the floor.
Learning the Ropes: Discovering life as a pony girl... (Pony Tales Book 2) Page 4
