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.
Karen had other ideas. She consulted with her pals and used the intervening minutes to elicit suggestions from her friends, some of whom had apparently suffered the cat on other occasions. She took some slow practice swings, using one or more of her instructor buddies, who were fully clothed, as test targets to improve her swing, get a better aim at the targets, improve the impact and alter her stance.
The buzzer sounded and Karen took up a new position on Marcy’s left, delivering a sweeping backhand stroke with the cat. The impact was heard and it was not like the first one. All nine of the knotted tails sailed in unison through the warm air and into the twin mound targets. The knotted ends reached around to strike brutally at the outside of the right breast. The center of the tails struck across the right nipple, marking it above, across the very center of the stiffened nipple and below. The narrow, more compacted end of the tails, the part nearer to the base where they met the attached handle, struck across the left nipple in unison. Marcy jerked away from the blow, a second later giving a low howl from behind the gag plug. As the cat pulled away from her seared flesh, a few bits of skin actually came away with it and a second later the whipped girl began a horrified twitching and shaking, her body whipping between its pinioned wrists and feet, the beaten tits swinging up and down, from side to side, the head jammed back with ponytail fluttering in the air. Whines and suppressed screams came through the gag plug and flooded the room. Her chained tongue twitched, her fingers fluttered, her head nodded frantically back and forth, swinging her ponytail around her harnessed head. This display continued until the buzzer sounded again and a happy Karen struck once again, this time stranding slightly more in front of the victim, striking with a short, downward blow that equally covered the tops and front of both targets. Marcy’s swinging action and muffled shouts of pain continued as her breasts exhibited a delayed blossom of welts and streaks of blood. While the cat’s blows caused more or less superficial wounds, the impact carried the effect much deeper. Small streams of blood were soon running down the hanging girl’s nude body, intermingled with sweat, saliva and tears.
By the sixth blow, Marcy was no longer yelling. Only soft moans came from behind the gag and harness. She hung limp in the chains, her feet dragging on the floor. Her chest was a mess of welts and shallow, seeping wounds. At this point, Karen, after getting permission from the supervising instructor, (The Head had left after delivery of the first two strikes), took a long, thin, braided leather tie and fastened it to the base of Marcy’s ponytail. She then pulled the girl’s limp head back, stretching the long thin leather strand down her back, through her buttocks, between her bound legs, through her vaginal slit and up her belly, then, holding it tight, wrapping it twice around Marcy’s tiny waist and tying it off slightly below the navel. As she pulled the leather tight, she whispered into Marcy’s right ear. “You haven’t felt a thing yet, Honey. Later, as I get tired, I may get off target a bit, so prepare yourself for the next six!”
Then next six were worse than anything Marcy had imagined or witnessed in the past.
When Karen whispered about being “a bit off target” she understated what followed. As the clock buzzer sounded for the seventh blow, Karen took a running charge towards the hanging girl and swung the cat wildly with all of her strength as she stopped short at Marcy’s side. The nine tails literally whistled through the air and impacted not on Marcy’s chest, but across her tightly clenched buttocks. The tails came away leaving long red streaks from hip to hip. “Oops,” said Karen as she caught her breath and the number seven card went up on the wall. “I got carried away. Sorry,” said Karen to her gathered audience of students and staff. She sat down and drank from her water bottle as the clock ticked off the minutes until the next stroke of the cat.
Marcy hung limply from her chain. She made only tiny sounds behind the rubber plug gaga and bit. Her tears had dried and her eyes were closed as she realized that she faced another five strokes and more than an hour remaining in this position.
The next blow was more or less on target, but Karen calculated her swing enough to assure that three or four of the tails landed well below the beaten breast of her target, nicely marking Marcy’s flat stomach with broad horizontal welts and even crossing the lower apex where her bound thighs met her sex. Marcy’s response was again nominal. She was now at the point in the beating where the victim becomes more or less passive and just waits for it to end, enduring each blow without much reaction, too exhausted to complain or resist. But Karen was still plotting and following her original strategy that she had not confided in anyone. The eighth stroke was carried out with a fine charade of Karen apparently stumbling as she delivered the wide, powerful swing. The tails seem to falter and landed mostly on Marcy’s stomach and hips.
The ninth stroke was clearly calculated and impacted the hanging girl’s bare back, with strong impressions being made by most of the tails on the area from shoulder to shoulder.
Stroke number ten was a surprise hit again on the breast and elicited a shudder and jerking motion from the bound girl, then silence.
Number eleven came slightly before the clock buzzer sounded, so that Marcy had not anticipated the blow and went spasmodically wild for a moment after the impact on the back of her bound thighs.
“Really, Walker,” the Supervisory Mistress called loudly from her observation chair. “That’s quite enough. Make sure your last strike is where it is supposed to be or I’ll recommend that you and Marcy switch places for another twelve.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Karen contritely and she sat down to await the last buzzer. She sweated heavily and her shirt and breeches were darkly stained with her own salty perspiration as well as randomly marked with blood and sweat from her victim. When the buzzer sounded, Karen arose, the cat hanging loosely at her side, and walked to Marcy, who of course, could not see her because of the forced position with her face turned towards the ceiling and her ponytail bindings keeping her that way.
“You will remember this one, bitch,” Karen said, loud enough for all to hear. And then, standing within inches of the target and without hesitation, she brought the cat up in a full overhead roundhouse swing and lashed the hanging breasts violently. The full spread of the tails landed squarely across both nipples and along the rib cage on Marcy’s left side. Behind the gag harness, Marcy screamed a final scream and then collapsed in her chains, hanging limp from her bandaged wrists. Karen dropped the cat and walked out of the chamber. Grooms and instructors stepped forward and set about releasing Marcy from her bondage. The entourage of students and staff wandered off for evening tea, exchanging estimates of how long it would take Marcy to recover from the thorough beating she had just received and debating Walker’s technique.
Now, in the basement below the Head’s office, Marcy waited for the inevitable. She didn’t know what she had done, but assumed
that Boswick or Wright’s spy network had spilled the beans, so to speak, about the little fiefdom she was running at the hog farm. Well, she thought. It had to end sometime.
Suddenly, she heard a soft noise. Someone was coming down the stairs, slowly, carefully. Marcy held her breath.
Chapter Nineteen
A Different Kind of Ride
Dori was bored. Summer was passing too quickly and she had hoped that sooner or later all of this training would at least result in some real horseback riding, but thus far it had not happened. The semester was almost half over and she was still getting beaten, screwed by mechanical horses and machines and treated like a criminal prisoner. Yes, she had to admit that she had learned a great deal about herself, about sex and about other women and men, but that was not why she had come to summer school and the present routine was getting a bit monotonous. So, it was with this complaint in mind that she was surprised when Roger the handsome young groom sat next to her at the lunch table one day and asked her if she was interested is going for a ride that afternoon.
“Riding?” Dori asked, wrinkling up her forehead and gulping down a mouthful of milk. “You’re kidding, right? I’ve had enough of Samson, thanks.”
“No. I have some time this afternoon and thought you’d like to join me.”
“Yeah, sure,” Dori said sarcastically. “Which mechanical monster is free today?”
“If you want to go, be outside the dorm at the front entrance at three,” Roger said. “If you’re not there, I’ll leave without you. Oh, and it’s a C uniform. “C” for Casual.”
“Okay,” Dori responded without much enthusiasm. She had a ballet class that she’d have to skip, but if Roger was telling the truth, it would be worth it, just to get out and really ride for a change.
Three o’clock found her at the dorm entrance in the prescribed “casual” uniform, which was simply basic boots, jeans, a turtleneck sweater and down vest, hard hat and gloves. She was a bit surprised when Roger drove up in one of the long bed Range Rovers and motioned her to get in. At first she thought he was alone in the vehicle, but as she climbed into the shotgun seat, she noticed that there were three others in the back. There was no back seat, but the three, (whom Dori knew were students), were lying on the floor on their stomachs, hog tied, hooded with heavy harness gags and blindfolds. All three girls wore only a one piece black Lycra body suit, a single glove over their arms and hands and a wide leather belt. It was clear that under the suits they wore no underwear. Dori studied the three wiggling bound bodies for a moment and looked questioningly at Roger, who had already put the Rover in gear and was driving towards the forest.
“What’s with them?” Dori asked, moving her eyes towards the three in the back.
“Part of my job,” Roger answered with a grin. “You get to take a ride. They get…well, they get the usual at barn number four.”
“Barn four?” Dori asked. “Never heard of it.”
“You have now. We’ll be there in a few minutes. Sit tight and enjoy the tour. Wright says you are entitled to, as she put it, “a change of venue”, so you must be doing something right.”
Dori relaxed slightly. If The Head authorized this trip, she would be less likely to get hell for skipping ballet class. Maybe, just maybe, this would work out okay.
Barn Four was a really old, weathered structure in a part of the school grounds that Dori had never seen. Two cylindrical silos, one half the height of the other, painted with a silvery coating, were the only distinguishing characteristics. The buildings were surrounded by the usual three rails and wire fence and Roger stopped the truck and asked Dori to open a gate, then they drove up to one door in the barn, shut off the ignition and got out of the truck.
“What about them?” Dori asked, wondering about the three bound figures grunting and groaning in the back. The trio had their heads pulled strictly back by thin leather cords connected from the “D” ring at the top of their gag harness to their bound, bootless ankles. More cords held their legs together at above and below the knee and their elbows were secured with wide straps held in place with a shoulder harness. Despite a great deal of humming and whining from the gagged mouths and a lot of jiggling and shaking, the three were not going anywhere, Dori thought.
“You’ll see. Pretty much the usual discipline for late night infractions. One of the seniors caught them having a three way in one bed up in the dorm. Punishment is no big deal. Nothing you haven’t already experienced yourself, I think,” said Roger, as he unlocked the steel door and reached inside to turn on the lights. “In you go,” he added.
Dori knew from the smell that the barn contained real horses. Once the lights came on and she was inside, she felt as if she were in a whole new world. The barn was modern in every way, clean enough to eat off the floor and climate controlled for temperature and humidity. She was still thinking about the girls in the Rover.
“Were the three in the dorm?” she asked out of curiosity, since as far as she knew, being unbound while in bed was a thing she seldom experienced.
“Yeah, well they are in a different program, I think,” was Roger’s intentionally vague answer. They both stood just inside the barn door.
“Well, what do you think?” Roger asked, leaning against the nearest stall door.
“Beautiful,” Dori said, obviously impressed. The barn was magnificent by any standards. Everything shone. Varnished wood, polished chrome and brass hardware, immaculate floors and ceilings and beautiful wood fixtures. No cobwebs, no stray straw or hay. Not even a barn cat in evidence.
“Wow,” added Dori.
“Okay. Here’s the deal,” said Roger. “I have to get our three little misbehaving passengers set up in silo comfort for the next twenty four hours or so. You, my dear, will get the mounts organized and I’ll be back in about 30 minutes, maybe longer.”
“I, I don’t know enough about this place to do that,” said Dori. “Where are the horses? What do you want me to do?”
“You’ll figure it out, Dori. Our mounts are in stalls four and six. The tack room is down and on the left. Full bridles for both. My saddle is on stand number six. I’ll help you pick one out for you when I get back,” he said, smiling his infectious smile. “Put the horses on cross ties down there and if you get done, a little grooming won’t hurt…the horses, not you. You look peachy. See you in less than an hour.”
“Peachy,” Dori asked, squinting a bit in the bright overhead lights. “Peachy?”
“Yeah,” said Roger, patting her gently on the ass. “Your butt looks like a fresh peach…if you know what I mean.”
“Okay, I get it. But these are school jeans, not mine and they do sort of slice the butt in half, if that’s what you’re talking about. I could stand them less tight, that’s for sure.”
“They fit fine, Love. No worries.” Roger was on his way out the door. He stopped for a second and said: “After all, you won’t be wearing them all that long,” and he walked out the door.
“Where are you going?” Dori shouted after him, ignoring the last comment.
“I have to take our little black clad friends over to the silo for a visit. They have some things to do over there and I think they’ll be busy all night.” Roger, laughed again, turned, unlocked the door and left. Dori heard the truck door slam and the engine start, and then the Rover was gone and she was left in this marvelous barn with, well, at least a few real horses, she thought.
Chapter Twenty
Silo Duty
Only a hundred yards away, inside the taller metal silo, in total darkness, the three black clad figures struggled vainly to gain some understanding of what was happening to them. They had been off-loaded from the Rover and carried, one at a time, into the barn and placed on a cold cement floor of a small room outside the silo. Once all three were squirming on the floor, seeking to loosen the hog ties, Roger removed their individual rope bondage, replacing it with a chain harness arrangement that left them more helpless than the hogtie.
The
ir ankles were shackled together with only an inch between them. Twin chains led from the ankle cuffs to thick steel bands locked around the very top of their thighs, fitting snugly into the small region at the top of the leg that was somewhat thinner than the rest of the thigh. The chains were very short and forced their bound ankles into close contact with the back of the thighs, fully bending the knees and putting the prisoner into a required kneeling posture. Attached to the thigh bands were thick, locking steel cuffs that secured the prisoner’s hands at the inside of their thighs. The cuffs were connected by a single chain link, binding thighs and hands into a tight configuration and permitting little contact with anything except the black Lycra cat suit as it smoothly encapsulated the body. From the handcuffs, a single chain rose to the heavy steel collar that locked the Lycra hood in place.
The position enforced by this harness of steel was not necessarily painful, at least not in the short term. Bent at the waist with their head chained forward and down to the knees, ankles closely linked together and fastened up behind their buttocks and their hands locked into their crotch, the three girls found that they could do little more than wiggle and possibly roll over onto their sides. They could not sit, stand or kneel. To finish the bondage, Roger snapped wide steel cuffs around their arms, just above the bent elbow. These cuffs were joined by a chain across the bent backs of the girls. Once attached, Roger turned the turnbuckle in the center of the chain, reducing the chain length and dragging back the arms until there was no slack movement possible. The wrist cuffs held the arms tightly into the crotch and the elbow shackles pulled arms back and snug against the ribs. Only toes and fingers continued to flutter helplessly.
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