Summer School & After School: The Ponygirl Omnibus Edition

by Jurgen von Stuka

  Mother Superior Bolia Sadisi, the VSR’s top official and head of the convent, worked feverishly, year after year, to keep the school up to what she believed to be the highest standards of female education; seeking young women, who were often from troubled homes, to join the student body and eventually merge into the order. The church considered Mother Bolia a bit of an eccentric, but no one challenged her dedication and skill at reforming the bodies and minds of the students. Her methods were somewhat dated, at times cruel, crude and anachronistic, but given the overall direction of the order and its refusal to adopt modern technology in any of its activities, church authorities tended to look the other way.

  Nevertheless, at times the local villagers, who swore they heard horrible screams emanating from behind the high walls, picked up pitchforks, brooms and shovels and marched by torchlight to the main gate, demanding to see the Mother Superior. Although this sort of event might have seemed to strangers as a stereotypical scene from some old horror film, it was real enough to the villagers who lived under shadow of the cloister. They wanted answers and Bolia was the one in charge. Given her talents and former occupation, she was always successful in placating them. Complainants who became too vocal were either paid off or suddenly vanished, leaving notes indicating their spontaneous desire for immediate missionary work in some distant, primitive country. One local politician, asked about the reputedly horrid goings-on at the cloister, replied in typically Bulgarian fashion that he didn’t see any reason for concern and that the nunnery was essential to the economy and one of the historic treasures of the region.

  “It’s like the distillery your grandfather runs up in the mountains,” he said to the local tavern owner whose attractive daughter had quietly vanished one night, leaving behind a scribbled note that said that she was answering God’s call. “All that goes on there may not be legal, but who in their right mind would put a group of dedicated nuns out of business?”

  When Lucy von Holt arrived at the cloister, she was escorted to a small room where she was told to sign several documents, none of which she would understand or read, but which, the sisters assured her, were essential to her forthcoming extended education. Bewildered, Lucy signed page after page, noting words and phrases that implied, and in some cases, clearly indicated that she agreed to the training and supervision that was to come and that she made no claims of virginity, purity or acceptance of any other gods. Then, the sisters provided her with a cold shower in one of the stone washing cubicles and put her into the uniform of the students, who the nuns usually referred to as inmates. Once she was fitted with the once again all too familiar collar, bridle, bit/gag and full body harness, they silently placed Lucy in a holding stall in one of the underground dormitories situated below the old fortress that was the order’s sequestered home. The harness was a cleverly designed combination physical and psychological controller. It was carefully fitted to the figure of the wearer and seldom removed. The waist belt, which was really a short and heavily boned leather corset, was the basic anchor for the rest of the harness. Two additional, thinner belts encircled the torso above and below the breasts and connected to shoulder straps linked to the collar. Two thick leather bands fit at the top of each thigh. This was the core of the system to which additional elements were added or removed for specific functions. The most used and common accessory was the onerous crotch strap that began at the waist just below the navel and passed through the sex, up the anal divide and locked securely to the waist at the base of the spine. All of the straps were adjustable and well padded to permit suspension and other restraints. Lucy’s harness wasn’t new, but it fit her as if it was custom tailored for her. After nearly twenty-four hours of travel, she collapsed on the stone floor of the stall and slept for nearly a day. No one bothered her, but every hour or so, the patrolling duty sister looked in through the barred window of the stall door. She did this just to make sure that the new inmate was not getting into any mischief or trying to remove the tail plug that was well up her ass or the equally onerous black metal dildoe filling her cunt, both held there by the locked body harness. They strapped Lucy’s arms behind her, wrist to elbow and mated to the harness. Her ankles were bound with leather hobbles. Another, larger set of these cuffs held her legs above the knee. Exhausted from the trip, Lucy seemed to disregard these restraints and simply wanted to rest.

  Sister Angel Fabrizzi, herself a relatively new member of the cloister, seemed to immediately identify with Lucy. When it was her shift to patrol the ramshackle stables, she spent more time observing and training Lucy than the other duty sisters did. The first night of Lucy’s stay, Sister Angel, feeling that the new guest wasn’t getting the most from her restrictive, but not especially uncomfortable bondage, unlocked the stall door with her massive set of duty keys and entered the cramped enclosure with its straw-covered floor. Using equipment hanging on the wall, she added a full hog tie to Lucy’s bound configuration.

  “This will help you learn faster,” Sister Angel said as she shortened up on the chains.

  Sister Angel, formerly inclined towards the Goth lifestyle and at one time somewhat radically oriented in her former life, specialized in female bondage. She knew how to wring pain from any woman’s body and was most patient about doing it. Had she lived in an earlier time, there is little doubt that Angel would have been happy and successful as a witch finder or prosecutor during The Inquisition. Adroit at the use of rope, chain and leather straps, she took considerable effort to make sure that her charges were always tightly and uncomfortably bound and kept dangling on the edge of endless, screaming contortions, seeking any release they could obtain from the Sister’s ministrations. When her charges seemed both literally and figuratively at the end of their rope; when they were unable to tolerate another notch in the rack’s winches, or another stroke of the cane, or another centiliter of fluid being pumped into their stomach or rectum, she obliged them by offering at least two options: they could go further up the chain of pain and perhaps fail to survive…or they could channel their pain and suffering towards God. They usually accepted the latter alternative, when offered, at once, but Angel’s victims always failed to realize that this meant finding God through intense and prolonged sexual stimulation ending in mind-rending orgasms. While most survived this ultimatum, some did not. The survivors, Angel often pointed out when giving silent lectures on the subject of inmate training and interrogation, were often addicted to the divine experience and thus very useful to the order. What the outside world would have diagnosed as severe nymphomania was, in the order’s view, a high devotion to serving God….and anyone else who happened to visit the cages and cells where these creatures lived.

  Seeking to carry Lucy along the road to adaptation, compliance and redemption, on this particular night, Sister Angel placed a wide leather strap through Lucy’s ankle hobbles and then ran the end through a steel D ring mounted on the back of her heavy leather collar. Pulling the strap tight, she forced the girl’s head back nearly to the point where it touched her backward stretched feet. The position created a choking pressure on the girl’s collar, so Sister Angel remedied that with another strap attached to a ring on the front of Lucy’s collar. Pulling that strap equally tight, she ran it down between the girl’s jutting breasts, through her already strapped crotch and attached it to her thigh hobbles. Lucy, exhausted and drowsy, did not resist this modification of her restraints until she realized the impossibility of it. If she stretched her head back to relieve the pressure on her throat, she pulled the crotch strap more against the double impalements in her ass and pussy. If she tried to ease that strain, she forced her ankles back even further and put greater stress on her bow-like, backward bent body. Sister Angel watched Lucy’s eyes as she tightened the straps even further, one notch at a time. She listened intently to the girl’s whimpering and gurgling protest as she tried to mumble through the mouth-filling bit and gag.

  The sounds pleased Sister Angel because it was her experience that as long as the vic
tim 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.

  Chapter Three

  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 hea
rd 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.”