Summer School & After School: The Ponygirl Omnibus Edition

by Jurgen von Stuka

  The grooms moved back down the aisle and towards the exit, stopping at a small, cozy office just inside the door. They spoke to the milking assistant, a former student at the school who had taken the job rather than return to a dull and unhappy life with her parents. The 20-year old assistant smiled at the grooms, kissed one on the lips and spoke quietly to them both before they left.

  “This little number is in for a real shock,” groom number one said, giggling as the assistant turned and looked out the dirty glass window and down the line. They all three then looked at the video display that slowly panned the interior of the barn. When the camera passed Ellen’s stall, the assistant stopped the camera with a joy stick control and zoomed in on the tortured weeping face of Ellen Levine.

  “Ah yes, what a little doll,” said the assistant, whose name was Karla.

  “Isn’t she sweet,” said groom number two. “I hope we get a shot at her before she gets too big.”

  “Well, don’t plan on it, Sweetheart. You know how Madeline is about her stock,” said Karla.

  “Yeah, I know. But she could share a few now and then, ya know. It wouldn’t kill her to spread the herd out for fun now and then.”

  “And end up as a dairy cow herself if the Director found out? Not likely.”

  “True. True. But maybe we’ll get a shot anyway. She has really nice, big, firm tits right now and the ass and cunny are perfect for a party some night. And check out the rings. Head did quite a job on those, setting them way back behind the nips, like here,” she said as she reached out and pinched Karla’s, right breast where nipple and rounded breast tissue met.

  “Hey, what the hell? Leave that alone,” screeched Karla, pulling away from the pinching fingers of her girlfriend groom.

  “Well, ask Madeline if she would bring her over to the house…after cleaning her up of course.” The groom giggled again, thinking about how gross the cows got in their stalls, covered in feed, slop and excrement. She was also thinking about the night before when she and Karla had had a fantastic session on the barn floor with two of the newer cows. The cows had not initially responded well to the moves made by both staffers and it had been necessary to “warm them up” as Karla had put it. Warming up was a matter of connecting the cables from the barn tractor’s 12-volt battery directly to the metal nipple tubes on a slim brunette who had been in the dairy for nearly a month, cow #123. As the bound, gagged and impaled cow jumped, farted, jerked and peed from the slowly administered jolts of electricity, the two staff members seduced the second cow, a tiny blond tagged as #145. They did this by removing the crotch strap and mounting the cow from behind while driving a much larger, double-ended probe into the cow’s gaping vagina and ass alternately.

  Karla worked #123 over while watching her buddy do #145 and then they switched. Number 123 snorted and whined as the plugs were cruelly pulled from her ass and cunt. She tried to shy away as the naked groom, with the massive double dildo swinging in a short arc from the belt and harness, threw a leg over the cow’s shuddering form and jammed the probe into the reluctant asshole without any preparation. Number 123 jerked forward in the stall and tried to pull away from the thrusting probe, driven by the grinning, charging groom whom had reached forward and seized the nipple tubes. She pulled on the tubes and breast cups as she thrust forward into the struggling cow, jamming the backend of the dong into her own seeping slit. Karla had fitted the battery cables to the nipple tubes of #145 and reset the timer to administer jolts every five seconds. Then, just for effect, she had taken one extra cable and run it from #145 to #123’s nose. Touching so many body parts of the cow, the groom got the next jolt as well as both cows. She sprung back, pulling out of the shuttering cow and falling over on her own ass while Karla laughed and laughed.

  “Very, very funny, Karla,” Janice, the groom, sputtered, picking herself up off the barn’s dirty floor. The massive dong, external end still wet with the juices of the victim cow, swung about in front of her hips, half erect, half limp, ready for another target. Throughout the barn, nearly passive cows gazed and stared and mewed at the spectacle, wondering, hopefully, fearfully, if they would be next. Janice and Karla had carried on for several hours, first with the cows and then with one another. Then they had adjourned to Karla’s office for some vodka and to watch the milking session at 3AM. When the power went on, starting the pumps, the cows had in unison, bleated and moaned, partly in desire for the relief that the milking would bring and partly in fear of yet another tireless yanking of their sore and swollen udders. As the pumps whined and began to get up to speed, valves opened and suction engaged and the hoses and nipple tubes on two hundred cows quivered and shook. The cows stood still as the suction began, first breaking the sticky milk seals that formed on their pierced nipples over the three hours between sessions, and then pulling unpleasantly on the nipples.

  In a few minutes, milk started to flow through the entire system, moving to the chilled holding tanks. The machines worked on a three-second cycle, sucking on the first count and then waiting for two seconds and then sucking again, every three seconds, again and again for the next fifteen minutes. The two girls watched the monitor for a few minutes, enjoying the rhythmic humping of the two hundred young women under the barn’s roof. Then they put on their coats, took each other’s hand and left the barn, forgetting to clean up for the night.

  So now, considering the possibility of yet another indulgent evening with her friends and another new cow, Janice considered that she should have cleaned up the barn before leaving. Sanitation in the dairy left something to be desired and every now and then The Head showed up, had a fit about the conditions there and then left for another six months, leaving Madeline to enjoy her domain as long as the right amounts of milk were flowing into farm tanks. The milk market wasn’t all that good, but the farm’s output was marketed as medically safe goat’s milk and sold in several regional health food stores under the name Vermont Mother’s Milk. Those who tried it came back for more because it was a fine, sweet substance. They thought it was from, as the carton said, “Carefully raised, steroid-free, select dairy goats, fed only the finest of organically grown grains.”

  Had they known it was really human milk, forcibly sucked three times a day from a captive herd of attractive, young women, the reception for the product might have been somewhat different. But no one knew or cared about the girls who were being kept in the farm’s dairy, exclusively for the purpose of producing this milk. These outcasts from the school had long ago been forced to write and call home, asking for more money and saying that they wanted to remain for more training. The parents that objected eventually came to the school themselves or sent an emissary. There followed a carefully prepared and solemn conference with the Head Mistress and Boswick. They learned about their daughters’ wayward ways with some local boy and the disease she contracted. They were told about the terrible drug scene in Vermont and how the school intervened with the law to keep the daughter out of trouble. They showed the astonished parents court papers, the judge’s decrees, and photos of drugs confiscated. They pointed out that the local judge was not pleased but had, with a bit of fiscal assistance for his next reelection, agreed not to make the case public as long as the daughter was kept under the school’s rigid supervision. They talked with selected students who, in order to further their own causes at the school and to ingratiate themselves with The Head, told a well-rehearsed tale of their daughter’s downfall. Taking the girl home, The Head pointed out sadly, would result, unfortunately, in further prosecution and an unpleasant scandal. The shocked parents were shown into the infirmary ward where their daughter, heavily drugged and swollen-faced from the fabricated disease, cried in her bed and begged her parents to let her stay. Grief-stricken, the parents inevitably said yes, especially after hearing, if necessary, the terrible medical prognosis from the school’s physician, Dr. Joan Waters. With but a few weeks to live, the daughter stayed at the farm and then died. Her body was eventually interned in the small hill
side cemetery on the property. The proper ceremonies and certificates were completed and the family went off to grieve while the suddenly recovered daughter went back to the dairy to make more Vermont Mother’s Milk.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A Cow’s Life

  Ellen’s dairy duty got started with a cold water enema from the assistant a few hours later. The hose was attached to an overhead water line and inserted into the girl’s most unwilling rectum with an expansion plug that held the hose in place while the cold water slowly made its way up the girl’s colon and into the lower intestine. It was slow and agonizing, but eventually the water was shut off and the plug left in place until the cowgirl thought she would explode, blasting gallons of excrement and water throughout the milking aisles of the dairy. When the time came, the plug was removed and the water expelled as the cow sucked air noisily through distended nostrils and the feed tube in her mouth. Ellen got two of these industrial strength enemas that first day. In the interim, the little donut surrounding her clit was activated and she was made aware of some new levels of sexual stimulation, which she had never before imagined. Later, as she settled into the dairy routine, she began to gain weight in her breasts, as the stimulation series was quickly adapted to her own personal responses. Given the multiple sources of stimuli, it was common for the cows to be fully productive within the first few days. Ellen was no exception. After the requisite enemas, clit spiking, anal and vaginal electrical charges, tit sucking and stretching, it was perfectly normal for the new cows to rapidly become quite docile.

  For those that were recalcitrant, sterner measures were used and the cows found themselves in a constant state of physical and electrical stimulation and manipulation. Various substances could be shot into their anal and vaginal canals with different volumes and temperatures. The clit spike device was insidious in its ability to create unfulfilled sexual frustrations of a more painful and persistent nature. Finally, the constant milking, no small thing, completed the series, leaving the cows exhausted and willing to do almost anything to get some relief. Attention from the grooms and milking crew varied as well, from an occasional fond scratching behind the ears to a firm set of stripes on the raised and helpless rump. Nearly all personnel carried crops or small whips and they were free to use them as they pleased. Ellen found that she did not need to do anything to deserve a whipping. Beatings came from any source and for any reason. Her raised buttocks were constantly being beaten by the staff because she was the FNC, the “Fuckin’ New Cow” on the line. In no time at all, the girl found herself working hard both mentally and physically to adjust and fit into the dairy routine. In her mind, she stumbled about, searching blindly for some logical, rational reason why she should be here in a cold and fetid barn, bound, gagged, harnessed, milked and abused. Only a few months before, she had been a typical spoiled teenager in a small suburban community. Her parents, like so many others, had lived with the multiple parental fears that their lovely daughter would (1) run off with some local misfit, (2) get pregnant by some scurvy knave from the gym, (3) fall into the clutches of some evil and demented cult or (4) take up life on the streets. Ellen, well aware of these daily parent fantasies and quite willing to exploit them for her own purposes, had quietly engineered the “send me away to riding school” scenario over several months before high school ended. By the time May rolled around in the little burg of Morresville, Maryland, USA, Ellen had successfully laid out the entire summer for herself. Her parents were delighted to see the school’s top-notch ratings and endorsements from celebrity types they did not know, but whom they felt MUST know what a good school this place in Vermont was. So off she went, with the blessings of all the adult parties in her life. Here she now knelt, up to her knees in crap and cow feed, doubly impaled, gagged with a plug and feeding tube, her head tightly bound in a steel stocks and her breasts aching along with the rest of her body, waiting for the next feeding and then the next tit-sucking to begin. That was her new routine. That was her new life. It was not exactly what she planned.

  God, she thought. How did this happen? How in the hell did I end up here? Who will come here and get me out of this forsaken hole?

  Ellen started to cry once again as the conveyor started up and the thin stream of mush and seeds moved along directly past her dirty nose. She shoved her gag tube forward a bit and sucked up the mash mixture that held the somewhat sweet, obviously addictive gruel. Bit by sticky sweet bit, the slimy goo slipped through the gag tube and into her dry mouth. She could not chew because of the gag, so she had to move her tongue and push the stuff back and into her throat. Ellen swallowed her meal, dipped her gag tube into the cold water bowl on her right and let her mind wander off again. It would be like this for many days to come. Ellen was a cow. That’s how it was at the dairy.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Five P’s

  “Absolutely unacceptable. This is not going out the door,” said Miss Prudence Pennington as she slammed the lid on the coffin-like steel box. Inside the box, Lucy Van Holt, the recently rejected product of Prudence’s Properly Pierced Personal Products, shuddered anew and whined ineffectually through the foam light bulb-shaped gag filling her mouth. She twisted her hooded head a fraction of an inch to the left and began again to beg in muffled pleas for release. She had been in the box since early morning. That was when the production crew finished their preparations and locked the last metal band around her body and limbs. Attached the shipping labels to the outside, they sent her down the roller ramp for final quality control.

  Quality Assurance, (QA), was the last stop before the truck was to pick her up. It was no coincidence that Ms. Prudence herself, attired as usual in one of her hundreds of stretch leather catsuits, boots, gloves and mask, walked into the QA room and personally inspected the product that was about to be shipped.

  Ms. Prudence was not happy about what she found. On the clipboard handed to her by the terrified shipping clone she checked off the errors with a broad red lipstick she quickly removed from the tiny leather packet on her belt. Also on the belt was the source of the clone’s fear – the dreaded and sometimes lethal Q-stick. But for now the Q-stick rested comfortably in its black leather sheath, retracted and inactive, while the Mistress, Prudence, ranted about the mess she found inside the steel container. The clone groaned as each defect was checked off on the clipboard, knowing that for every error, bodies would roll for the next few days. Heads would be locked in branks and necks in stocks; limbs would be chained and butts beaten soundly. When Ms. Prudence was unhappy, her entire organization felt her wrath. And Ms. Prudence was about to come unglued.

  “You stupid, stupid, idiotic, worthless, simpering trash. How the hell can you ship something that’s in this condition? Just look at this. Look at this, you moron!” she screamed as she shoved the clone’s hooded face into the lipstick smeared clipboard and rubbed the clone’s stubby little nose in the crimson make-up. The clone saw the check marks faintly as her nose was rubbed around on the board, the speed of the movement generating unpleasant heat to her little ringed nose. Behind her leather-encased head1, the mistress’ gloved left hand pushed and shoved while the right hand jammed the board into the small masked face. The clone worked under some disadvantages. Not only was she hooded and gagged, but her feet were hobbled with a bar between her five-inch high heeled boots and her left arm was strapped behind her with the wrist tightly bound high up on the shoulder blade. Only her right hand was usable and this was chained to her collar with a two-foot length of glittering silver chain. The collar, in turn, was chained to a mobile overhead boom and allowed her to move about the room, tethered nevertheless to the boom.

  The clone was one Arlene Archer and she had been in the service of Mistress Prudence for nearly a year, having first been processed, pierced, prepared and prodded in the proven Prudence fashion. The Mistress had taken a liking to Arlene and decided not to sell her as a product, but to keep her as a processor clone, slowly modifying her body and mind as it suited Prudenc
e, while using her for whatever Prudence wanted to use her for.

  Arlene had not taken well at first to this treatment, since she was in the middle of her final year at Baker University when The Mistress came calling and took her away one cold night, never to see the hallowed halls of Baker U. again.

  Arlene, better known as clone 23B, was most distressed to see Ms. Prudence so angry. Yes, she had to admit that the recently processed product 1276-34C-23-35-1199 was not as it should be. After all, the nipple rings did seem slightly misaligned and the nose ring was a bit tarnished, not to mention the rings in the lower areas. These latter pieces of stainless steel hardware had looked to the clone as though they were badly mis-sized. She would have thought they should be much bigger. Indeed the rings in the product’s lower lips seemed too small for the chains that had been locked to them, pulling the girl’s lower forward orifice open wide and allowing for the total exposure of the deeply sunken Prudence Perpetual Probe’s power provider and its 12 Volt DC adapter. The clone noticed, even before Prudence checked off the “rejected” box on the clipboard, that the product seemed a bit frenzied in her struggles. She did not know that this particular product had, only three days ago, been in another country, riding peacefully west on an ICE, a German Intercity Express train, intent on the forthcoming visit with Fabian, her rich, new male friend that her parents knew nothing about. Now she was about to be shipped out, a mere three days after her capture and initial induction.