In all she delivered six smacks to each cheek until they were as hot and about the same colour, as brown toast. By the time she was done Beauty was sobbing quietly with tears running down her cheeks to drip onto her trembling breasts.
Sam scrambled onto the bed and knelt face to face with Beauty so she could look into her pain-creased face. She kissed her gag-stretched lips, inhaling the girl’s hot, sweet breath. Then she dipped her head and kissed and licked the salty tears from the upper slopes of her breasts. She had never felt such intimacy with a slave girl before. But then she had never owned one before.
‘Did that hurt?’
‘Yes, Mistress,’ Beauty said.
‘Well this will be much worse because I’m going to tan your lovely tits now.’ She looked deep into her big brown eyes. ‘Are you going to beg me not to?’
‘No, Mistress... it’s your right to punish me.’
‘This isn’t punishment, this is a warning so that you won’t need punishment in future. It’s for your own good. You want to be an obedient slave, don’t you?’
‘Yes, Mistress.’
Sam positioned herself with her knees wide as bracing and then began laying down a dozen strokes across Beauty’s breasts. The smacks sounded sharper with smaller masses of flesh to absorb them but they jumped and shivered and wobbled even more fluidly than her buttocks, even swinging and bouncing into each other like bells as she batted them from side to side. Full-on blows drove Beauty’s big chocolate brown nipples deep into them, only to see them pop back up again. And Beauty’s sobs and howls of pain were proportionately louder and more abject.
For a moment Sam felt an unaccustomed pang of sympathy for her suffering, but then common sense prevailed. Girls were not chosen to be both pleasure slaves and ponygirls unless they had a deeper need to be mastered than common working slaves, and mastery required enforcement. They must secretly desire such treatment. Besides, as the wetness in her own pussy testified, it was such a delight to see her suffer. Surely nothing that felt this good could be wrong.
When she was done, Beauty hung sobbing between her straps while her breasts were a shade darker with a film of sweat lining the valley between them. Sam felt the heat from her abused globes which was tremendous. If she ever needed extra warmth when cuddling Beauty to her in bed, which of course she would be doing, then she only had to tan her breasts to create her own living hot water bottles.
‘Now it’s just your pussy left,’ Sam told her.
Beauty snivelled and nodded bravely.
Sam adjusted her stance and swung the paddle up between Beauty’s spread thighs at the sex purse that pouted from the apex. The smack of rubber on flesh that it made was the crispest of all she had elicited from Beauty’s body and the cleft brown peach shivered like the springiest and finest rubber, setting its rings sparkling. Beauty jerked and bit on her gag hooks and then gave a plaintive cry of pain as her eyes sparkled with fresh tears. Sam swung the paddle up between her legs again and again, driving her rings into her flesh and making her pubes tremble and darken.
Beauty writhed in her bonds and shrieked and wailed about her gag while her tears ran in twin cascades down her cheeks. But Sam could tell she was aroused by the blows. The tongue of Beauty’s inner labia, already noticeable, was swelling and pouting, pushing itself masochistically out of its warm vet valley between their larger ringed sisters and into the way of the paddle. The smacks became splats and the paddle blade came away from Beauty’s groin dark and wet while droplets of lubrication splashed across her inner thighs. Sam could smell her excitement streaming off the rubber as she swung it through the air.
Despite her tears Beauty was responding to her ordeal like a true pleasure slave. All Irontown ponygirls were highly sexually responsive and could find pleasure in acts that would have mortified ordinary inhibited and untrained women, but a pleasure slave was in another league. Her body treated pain as another means of sexual stimulation. She could orgasm from pain alone.
And this, before Sam’s eyes and with an animal wail and convulsive shudder that shook the bed frame, was just what Beauty did. Juices sprayed out of her lovemouth over the paddle blade in a fine haze. Then her eyes rolled up as though she had fainted and she hung limp in her bonds, her chest rising and falling raggedly.
For a moment Sam felt cheated. She had planned to ride Beauty to her first orgasm. Then she realized that for the first time ever she had actually beaten a girl to orgasm. How responsive did that make Beauty?
She crouched down over Beauty’s groin and ran her fingers through her hot, slippery cleft that was still oozing juices. She inhaled deeply and shuddered as she realised her own sex was about to boil over. Paddling Beauty had brought her to a high state of arousal. Now it was time to relieve the sweet pressure in her loins.
Hastily she twisted the locking sleeves about the base of the bed frame posts. The upper half of the restraint frame bent over until it was horizontal. With her legs bound and knees braced against the bed end Beauty had to bend from the hips to go with it until her upper body was horizontal and her rear was thrust out invitingly. From her box Sam took out a triple headed dildo.
It had a stubby rear anal plug with a hinged joint connecting it to a bowed shaft that had a perpendicular phallus with clitoral stimulator rising up from its side and a larger and wickedly ribbed rubber dildo head projecting forward. Sam slid the device between her legs and pushed the anal plug into her rear and the perpendicular phallus into her vagina, leaving the now doubly braced main shaft jutting up from between her thighs.
Positioning herself between Beauty’s spread legs, Sam stroked and slapped her hot buttocks, rousing the girl from her swoon, and then guided the big dildo between her wet pussy lips. Beauty groaned as it filled her with a fluid gluck! Reaching under Beauty Sam grasped her heavy pendant simmering breasts and began to thrust with her hips. Now she was riding her like a real pony.
The hinge on the anal plug clamped in her sphincter flexed as Sam drove into her slave’s pussy like a stallion, causing the shaft to pitch and making the phallus inside her work up and down, rasping the clitoral stimulator through her sex valley and across her straining nub. Beauty’s warm, silky brown body squirmed under her, instinctively pushing back against her thrusts. Sam thrilled at the strength in Beauty’s body and also the fact that it was bound and confined to serve her pleasure alone. This was as it should be. This was perfect. This was... ahhhh!
Dizzy with delight Sam lay across her lovely new slave, a film of sweat sticking her breasts and stomach to Beauty’s strong back.
‘You’re going to be such a wonderful pony,’ she whispered huskily in her ear.
CHAPTER TWO
Before Sam had named her “Beauty” and before she had been given the part name Rivet 23, she had been Carley Wilcox. Of course Carley was no more now. Rivet, now Beauty, could even pinpoint the exact moment when “Carley” had ceased to be and a new girl; fearful and uncertain but strong with hope, had embarked on the strange path that would lead her to becoming a living birthday present, love slave and ponygirl. It had been almost six months before inside a Shackleswell prison van...
* * *
Confined naked inside a wire mesh cage, Carley swayed with the motion of the van even as she helplessly jerked her hips in quick short forward thrusts at a steadily increasing rate. Her exertions had flushed her cheeks and caused sweat to bead between her bare brown breasts that jiggled and bobbed as she moved. Their upper slopes were already wet with dribble that dripped off her chin as saliva oozed from under the strap that held the rubber plug filling her mouth in place.
She stood upright in her cage facing away from the side of the van. Her hands were cuffed behind her back. These cuffs were riveted to a heavy leather belt that was buckled tightly about her waist. From this belt a long strap ran up Carley’s spine to clip onto a ring on the back of a broad leat
her collar that was buckled about her neck. Hooked onto the same ring was a long heavy coil spring the other end of which was hooked to an eyebolt in the ceiling. There was enough tension to hold her upright, yet the strain was spread between her collar and belt so she did not choke. Her legs were spread and her ankles were cuffed to the sides of the cage and she stood on thick rubber matting that covered its floor.
Her enforced posture was not so uncomfortable in itself, but it was made into a perverse nightmare by the device thrust up between her legs. It was a tubular rod mounted on a sprung swivel base plate and angled upward so that it pressed up into her groin. Its upper end was capped by a curving rubber sheath bristling with finger-like prongs that curled against the cleft of her vulva. They teased the mouth of her vaginal passage and toyed with her clitoris. However she twisted and turned her hips she could not escape its insidious touch.
Holding still was also an option denied her. Two sprung wires curled upward from the top of the rod before it passed between her legs and pressed against the smooth pale hemispheres of her buttocks. They delivered a brief electric shock sharp enough to cause her to twitch her hips forward and so grind the prongs through her labial mouth. The rubber fingers never ceased to saw gently back and forth through her sex, the lips of which were now flushed and swollen.
The sequence of shocks was controlled by a timer box on the outside of her cage and ran in five minutes cycles, gradually increasing in pace and intensity towards the end and then shutting off for two minutes’ rest. At their peak she was being shocked every half second. Carley’s gag muffled both her unwilling moans of pleasure and screams of rage at those who had done this to her, shamefully aware that the matting under her legs was splattered with drips of her own lubrication coaxed out of her traitorously responsive vagina. They were forcing her to masturbate herself to an orgasm for their own sick purposes. So far she had held out but the next sequence might get her.
It was mixed comfort to know she was not alone in enduring this strange torment.
There were ten cages inside the van arranged in two rows of five and divided by a narrow corridor. Eight of the other cages were occupied by naked young woman of about Carley’s own age restrained as she was. Like her they faced inwards so they could see each other as they unwillingly rode their pleasure rods in ever more frenzied spasms. A couple had already been brought to orgasm. They shied away from direct eye contact in shame but in the close confines of the van she could smell their arousal and knew they could smell hers. Perhaps it was better than the smell of fear, or at least it helped mask its scent.
Carley’s hips were moving in a blur by now and a huge pleasure knot was tying itself in her loins waiting to burst. The prongs were tearing through her sex mouth, splattering her juices from their tips. She could feel it coming. The bastards, the bastards...!
The timer cut out.
Carley groaned and hung limp in her bonds, trembling and dripping with sweat, her pussy pulsing with unrequited need. As she rested she began to tug at her cuffs again even though the movement caused the prongs to shift slightly inside her sopping gash. It was probably futile but she had to try to get free and while she was doing so her anger overrode her fear. When she accepted the inevitable and ceased to fight back she knew that it would claim her. Then what would she become? Just another scared, sad and lonely looser for somebody else to use.
Why had she ever listened to Thresher?
* * *
Two days earlier he had stepped calmly into Carley’s cell in Beddington police station. He was an upright wiry man in his mid forties dressed in a neat grey suit and carrying a small briefcase and a furled umbrella. The custody sergeant followed him in with a chair. He set it down opposite Carley’s bed then left without a word of explanation, locking the door behind him. The stranger sat down and smiled at Carley.
‘Who are you?’ Carley demanded. She had been expecting to see the duty solicitor to discuss her remand hearing but there had been some sort of delay. Despite the suit her visitor did not look like a solicitor but more like an ex-military man.
‘My name is Sebastian Thresher,’ he said. ‘And you are Carley Wilcox, aged eighteen and a half. Following the breakdown of your family you were first put into care when you were seven. Over the following years you have experienced discipline problems and suspensions at three different schools, though your teachers said you are actually quite intelligent. Recently you have been subject to arrests for shoplifting, minor vandalism and assorted petty crimes for which you have received police cautions and spells in young offenders’ institutions. Until six months ago you were in a local council home. Now you are living “independently”, shall we say.’
‘So you’ve read my record, who the fuck are you?’
‘I might be your saviour.’
‘What?’
Thresher continued unperturbed: ‘You are currently facing a charge involving actual bodily harm against the landlord of the flat you were occupying.’
‘You know what he wanted me to do? He deserved it!’
‘Perhaps he did, however he will deny it and he can hire a good lawyer to prove it while maintaining his reputation intact. You on the other hand cannot. Considering your past record you are certain to get a custodial sentence. That means serving time in a real prison. You haven’t been in one of those before, have you?’
Carley shrugged indifferently. It was true and the prospect was tearing her guts out but she would never admit it. If you showed you cared about anything they threatened you with it made you seem vulnerable, and she had learned that to survive in this world you could not let anyone think that of you.
‘So what? What’s it to you?’
‘I work for the Shackleswell project.’
‘That’s supposed to mean something to me?’
‘We run a rehabilitation and educational programme for younger female offenders. You fit our eligibility profile. I can make a payment for damages to your victim and convince him he should withdraw his accusations. The police will then drop the charges and you will not go to prison.’
‘Just like that?’ Carley said contemptuously, even as her heart gave a little leap of hope.
‘Of course not, but there are influential people in the justice system who support our work. They don’t want to see young lives wasted any more than we do. They will ensure the process goes smoothly. The details need not concern you.’
‘And then?’
‘In return you will participate in a regime of special courses and exercise at Shackleswell’s retraining school. There’ll be outdoor activities and the opportunity to learn new skills so you can contribute positively to society. In the process you will repay our outlay on you. It won’t be easy and there will be rules to follow but it will be better than the alternative. You will be safe from external harm and live in surroundings of total security with other girls your own age, many of whom will have been through similar experiences. It will be a chance for you to form very real bonds with them as you work closely together. Once you learn what’s expected of you and how to fulfil those expectations to the full you will know peace of mind and will have found your place at last. That must be better than living each day in fear and uncertainty as you do now.’
‘I’m not afraid of anything!’ Carley said sharply.
‘If you say so,’ Thresher conceded. ‘I’m merely pointing out that what I am offering is your last chance to do something useful with your life instead of throwing it away for good.’ He smiled gently. ‘Of course, that’s just my opinion based upon years of experience. You’re an adult now and the choice is yours. However, don’t take too long to decide. I have other girls in similar situations to you to visit today and a limited number of places on our scheme. If you don’t take up our offer now the wheels of justice will start turning again.’
Carley did not care about contributing positively
to society, nor did she believe in the value of special courses and outdoor activities. She had heard that sort of thing too many times before connected to different community service initiatives. They thought they could unscrew people’s lives by making them live on a farm mucking out animals or going fell-walking or learning some dead-end job nobody else wanted to do. Yet at the same time she did not want to go to prison and this sounded like an easier option than spending twenty-three hours a day locked in a cell.
‘How long is this course?’
‘You must serve a minimum of three months. Then you can leave if you declare you want to go home, it’s a simple as that.’
Three months was not too bad, Carley thought, compared to the sentence she was probably facing. The people running this sort of rehab programme were always ready to believe they could work miracles on people like her and she could play along with that. This lot were apparently ready to pay out good money on her behalf first, so they must be more naive than most. It might work. She could act tough at first, then put on a show of gradually softening up, and even get a bit weepy at the end. Three months and one day and she’d be out of there.
However she must not seem too eager. Thresher must not think she owed him any gratitude or she was coming along too easily. She shrugged as though it meant nothing to her one way or the other. ‘Maybe I’ll give it a go. What’ll I have to do?’
Thresher took out a form from his briefcase. ‘You simply sign this agreement to participate in the Shackleswell course and I’ll take care of the rest. I’ll collect you from here the day after tomorrow.’
Despite herself Carley was impressed. ‘You can fix it that quickly?
‘We believe in getting things done quickly and efficiently at Shackleswell, as you will find out when you join us. Moreover, the local authorities are eager to cooperate if it means saving the time and expense of mounting a court case and having one more inmate to feed and care for in some overcrowded prison. To be honest they will be pleased to see the back of you, though I also suspect they think we’re wasting our time with cases such as yours.’
Ponygirls of Irontown Page 3
