von Stuka

Synopsis of previous story: Dori Alexander had talked her father into letting her attend an exclusive, Vermont Riding School, unaware that the school trained young women for more than just riding. Forced by Winnie, her "keeper," to don a strange and erotic riding outfit, Dori is taken from her room on a wheeled cart.


The lift descended to the main floor and they rolled down the long, carpeted hallway to the main meeting room, where the other instructors and their new charges had already arrived, waiting for the meeting to begin. Each of the sixteen students was dressed the same. Those with short hair had their heads tied back with straps and thongs from their bridles instead of and those who had longer hair had it braided and tied back that way. All of the students were recent high school grads or college girls over eighteen, but none were over twenty-five, for it was the school’s primary rule that no one outside of this age range would be allowed into the summer classes. It made for an excellent selection of talent for the session, as the school’s Head Mistress was later to note in her welcome address.

The evening was to be enlightening for the entire class, for they would quickly learn that they were there at the option of the school, and that the money they had paid would be put to good use ensuring that their training was effective.

“You will all learn to ride far better than you thought you could before you came here.” said Head Mistress Wright from her seat behind the head table. “When you depart, you will leave with the firm conviction that you have accomplished what few young women ever do, and you will be better people for the experience.” She stopped to survey the sea of strained faces, some tear-stained and all looking confused and worried about their fate.

“This school is obviously not exactly what you thought it would be, as you have already discovered, but, you came here to ride, and ride you will, for hours every day, rain or shine. Your personal sex lives will change as well, for we have an integrated curriculum, and this will bring about some other changes you may or may not like, but they will take place regardless. Adjust to us and we will help you - fight or resist, and you will pay dearly for it. For those of you who may be entertaining fantasies of legal action at some future date, I encourage you to read the terms of the contract you signed before you were accepted. Let me be clear! The best legal minds available have assured us that we are operating well within the bounds of your contracts and so as I said before, adjust! You will be happier people in the long term.

“Now, let us enjoy dinner. We will eat and you students will kneel and watch. There will be milk and cookies for you all before bedtime. There’s always plenty of milk ...” the Head Mistress droned on absentmindedly. “Oh yes,” she suddenly added. “There is one more thing."

She paused dramatically, then turned to one side and waited while curtains behind her parted and three grooms pushed out a large, wheeled metal platform. There was an audible inhalation of breath from the bound and gagged students who could see the platform, for upon it were mounted three upright posts and upon each a youthful female form writhed in discomfort, if not agony. On the first, to the Head’s left, a tall, tanned, well-built girl stood bolt upright on the tip-toes of her black patent leather pumps. These had extremely high heels, but the girl was nevertheless perched on her toes. Her limbs were not bound in any way, but a polished steel post disappeared between her closely-held, trembling legs and she was tightly gagged by a leather strap over what was clearly a well-packed mouth. Her long, light blond hair was in complete disarray; her face above the leather gag tear-streaked and eyes swollen from crying. The young woman’s hands fluttered erratically from front to back while she tried in vain to lift herself off the post that impaled her hairless crotch. This delightful triangle was spread wide by the massive, impaling shaft and anyone who could see, understood the tremendous strain she was under, trying to keep the shaft from penetrating any deeper than it already had.

“Ms. Debbie Randolph, whom you see on my left, made the mistake of deciding to leave this school without permission.” the Head Mistress declared loudly over her shoulder while she surveyed the three suffering young women. “She will stand here for the evening and entertain us with her moans and suffering, as a reminder that no one ... no one, leaves here unless they are given permission.”

As if to emphasize this point, Debbie Randolph let out a horrible groan from deep in her throat; a terrible noise that sounded more like a death rattle, making many of the students close their eyes even more tightly while they imagined having this immense pole driven into their most private orifice, then having to stand as Debbie was, unable to free herself from the Hell she was in. Complimenting her internal invasion were the six-inch heels of her T-strapped shoes, but what wasn’t visible to the watching assembly was that these seemingly innocent shoes we lined with tiny, sharp spikes. The toe area was free of these and so Debbie had to stand on her toes for if she relaxed for even a moment, the soles of her tender feet instantly felt their pricks.

There was one other addition to her ensemble that everyone could see was contributing to the girl’s vast discomfort: large gold metal clips were fastened to each of her labia and these were connected to the post by short chains. If she rose to try and relieve the internal pressure of the impaling post, the clips pulled down harshly on her flesh, most painfully discouraging any attempted avoidance. When she sank only a bit, the clips relaxed their grip, but the probe rammed home inside and the spikes on the shoes dug into her soles. These little annoyances kept the girl in a constant up and down dance of pain and fear, her gurgles and groans of helplessness simmering from behind her gag.

“Ms. Ellen Levine, at center stage ...” the Head Mistress now shouted, pointing to the girl in the middle, “is enjoying a slightly different form of entertainment, having refused a lawful order given by an instructor this morning. Normally, she’d undergo this training in one of the cellars below the house or the barn, but she is up here, nice and warm tonight, for your education. You should learn at her expense. Observe the combination breast clamps and the nipple rings, if you will, please.”

Ellen Levine was a dark-haired beauty with large breasts that at this moment were being stretched well beyond their usual outstanding size and extension. Her post was a standard Christian cross, but with a few modifications. Ellen’s wrists were securely bound to the ends of the cross’ horizontal bar with her head just below the junction of the two square wooden beams, but her legs were pulled back on either side of the vertical center post. Four feet below the horizontal bar, behind the vertical post, was a second cross bar with steel rings at the ends to which the girl’s feet had been secured, holding her in a suspended, kneeling posture. A roll of soft leather packing was held deep between her teeth by a wide leather band that went between them and around the post, holding her head back firmly. Her tearful eyes stared up and over the ballroom crowd, and they stared back at her with a mixture of both fear and sympathy. All of the preceding arrangements would have been uncomfortable enough, but the heavy metal clamps surrounding and garroting the base of each breast were a torment all by themselves. These locking metal collars had been closed tightly, after the breasts themselves had been pulled as far away from the chest wall as they could possibly go. She’d shrieked and screamed into her gag when the twin steel bands had been locked, but that was far from the end of the torment, for, from the bottom of each breast clamp hung a long chain and at the end of each, a large weight swung slowly in a wide arc with each tortured movement the girl made to try and alleviate her unimprovable situation.

Additional torments added to her anguish; these specifically intended to enhance the girl’s already painful situation. From the apex of each large breast, a large shiny steel ring extended outward, each one deeply transfixing the flesh behind the nipple, embedded in the actual breast flesh ... a much sturdier foundation for the heavy metal circlets. Connected to these was a steel cable far stronger than necessary, but used to make a statement that was not lost on the audience of horrified and bewildered young women, for the twin cables came forward to another shorter post, passing over two pulleys in a ninety-degree turn toward the floor, and at their ends, these also bore large weights.

“Ms. Levine,” said Mistress Wright, looking into the pained eyes of the poor girl. “How much weight are your breasts carrying tonight, sweetheart? If you can tell me, I’ll remove half.”

Silence filled the ballroom.

Then, there was a distant whimper; a cry, a whine, from the throat of the centre-posted girl. Then another. Then many more. Mistress Wright counted delicately on her fingers, holding them up for the audience to see. When she had held up ten fingers she began again until she had done so twice. The whimpering stopped.

“Excellent, excellent! Twenty. Twenty pounds per breast. Forty pounds total it is.” the Head declared. “Hildie, take off twenty pounds. She’s earned a respite.”

Hildie, one of the senior instructors, sauntered to the platform and replaced the steel weights with smaller ones so that the poor young woman was left with only five pounds straining each nipple and five pounds on each breast clamp instead of the original ten.

“Now, before we enjoy our milk and ice cream, you must all turn your attention to our last guest, Ms. Diane Jonas.” Mistress Wright swung her right arm toward the last of the three figures on the platform of agony.

“Diane has a very, very bad mouth!” Mistress Wright said slowly for emphasis. “She opened it once too often last night and has been in this pose ever since. She will stay here for the rest of tonight, and perhaps tomorrow as well.”

Diane was chained upright to her sturdy wooden post, with arms pulled back behind it, then bound at wrists, elbows and shoulders with narrow, chromed chain. The harsh metal links dug deeply into her tender flesh and the audience could see the marks clearly. Her feet and legs were bound to the vertical structure with loops of the same kind of chain around her ankles, above and below her knees, and at the tops of her narrow thighs. A heavier chain encircled her neck holding her head firmly to the post, and in her mouth, extending horizontally to both sides like a massive bit, was a thick, three-foot long, wooden post. Her wide open jaws were locked into the side of the wooden post, spread impossibly apart and held there by her teeth sunk deeply into the soft wood. Chains from the ends of the wooden bar extended back on either side of her face, holding it in place. Diane’s face was a contortion of horror. No sound could exit around the soft wooden bit and she could not move her jaws a millimetre up or down; only trying in vain to chew through the three inches of wood that pried her jaws open. Her small feet were enclosed in a highly polished pair of dark brown, Hermes riding boots, with five inch heels and each was equipped with a polished steel spur. At the rear of these, instead of the usual rounded wheel or point, the small drilled hole had been left in the metal frame and a small lock was threaded and closed through both, forcing the girl to keep her heels close together and her toes pointed out in a wide “V”. To ensure this position wasn’t compromised, an adjustable metal spreader bar had been attached to her tanned legs, just above the knee. The chain loops around her legs kept her close to the post so that she was frozen in a strained posture that made her appear to be doing deep knee bends with her knees pointing outward instead of forward.

Diane was crying. Probably from the pain of her stretched jaws, but also from the thin triangle of wood that her crotch rested upon. The insidious little wedge that she was forcibly required to sit on was nearly hidden by her overlapping labia and the flesh of her thighs that the chains pushed aside as they dug into her legs. Most of Diane’s 113 pounds rested in her aching apex where her chained legs joined with her sex and ass and the pressure on the thin, slightly rounded top edge of the wedge was an additional agony which, when matched with what was happening to her jaws and mouth, occupied the girl’s full attention.

“Diane’s snotty little tongue,” Mistress Wright illuminated for her audience, “is unfortunately not visible to you all, but it has been properly engaged for the evening, let me assure you. Inside that log she’s so avidly chewing is a clip that has a secure hold on her tongue and so she’ll need a few days after she’s freed before using that wicked instrument again. Now, my friends, let us enjoy dinner.”

The Head Mistress seated herself and the meal began.

Diane’s poor tongue, drawn into a cavity inside the wooden log, was indeed held in place by a strong metal clip, and this was in turn attached to the log itself. The clip was spring-equipped and seemed to be able to pull steadily on her abused oral appendage, no matter how far out the girl extended it.

Thus, the trio on the platform remained engaged in their own private enterprises. Each girl had no less than three different torments going on at the same time, and they each took private stock of their conditions, even though no one else now seemed interested.

Debbie had her poor feet, her stretched little labia and her assaulted internal organs to keep her occupied while she stood on the platform.

Ellen suffered from the tight breast clamps, the weighted nipple rings, and the constant pressure of the vertical post jammed between her suspended body and spread legs.

Diane, the third course of the meal’s entertainment, endured the huge log between her teeth, the merciless clamp on her tongue and the sharpened little wedge seat. All in all, it was an impressive display and it left a distinct impression on the new girls as well as upon the senior students.

The grooms served their instructors and the Mistress while the girls in the audience knelt and stared at the platform display, the crystal chandeliers and the ceiling until it was nearly midnight. They each tried to find some kind of position in their bondage that wasn’t so constantly painful; moaning and groaning, whining into their gags.

Dori was allowed to remove everything she had worn for the last hours, except her Hermes boots. The bit and harness, the britches and strange shirt all came off, but under close supervision then she was allowed to use the toilet and to brush her hair and teeth. Her hands were once more cuffed securely behind her back and a shiny, wide steel collar fitted around her neck then she was again gagged with the fat, rubber plug, the locking band going around behind her head and under her hair.

Cuffed, booted, gagged and collared, she gave up on objections and just stood in the middle of the cold room while the collar’s leash chain was fastened to a heavy wall ring above the headboard of the twin bed.

“In you go,” said Winnie, holding the sheets and covers up while a tired and confused Dori climbed into bed. She lay silent while Winnie pulled something metal from under the bed and bent over Dori’s black-booted feet, then a pair of wide steel cuffs was closed so that they gripped her boots snugly and a single padlock connected the boot cuffs and from this lock, with a chain leading to the foot of the bed. Dori lay on her back, bound wrists uncomfortably under her, but Winnie wasn’t finished yet and told her to roll over onto her side. A new chain was pulled from under the bed and attached to the girl’s wrist cuffs.

“I think that’ll do it nicely for the first night.” she said sweetly. “You look lovely, laying there in your new boots, steel cuffs on your wrists, a shiny new collar around your neck, a nice, fat gag in your mouth and the cuffs on your ankles. The boots add a special touch, don’t you think? We have a big day planned for tomorrow, so get lots of sleep, darling. Nightie-night, Dori. See you at five am.”


The training horse wasn’t a horse at all.

It was a mechanical monster, bought in the late 1980’s from Don Bob’s Western Saloon and Booze Parlor in West Dewdrip, Texas, after the western bar craze dried up. Don Bob’s had charged five dollars to any fool who wanted to mount the critter and get the ride of his or her life, but some riders had fallen hard and broken bones, heads and even one back and so the profitable, but dangerous entertainment device had been shut down and the bar had closed, to be reopened later as a wine bar, then even later as a cigar den. The critter had been sold at auction with the school being the successful bidder and once it had been installed in the main barn, the horse had been cleaned up and equipped with a wide range of improvements; at least that’s how the school’s administration defined what had been added. The entire mechanism weighed nearly 2,000 pounds and Mistress Wright had it mounted on a concrete slab in one of the ten small rooms in the basement of the barn, beneath the horse stalls, then set about the difficult task of duplicating it nine more times. A few months later she had all ten of the monsters available for the school’s training sessions with each of these mechanical horrors housed in their own separate rooms in the large basement. The stone walls that formed each cell lent a forbidding aura to them and in summer, they were cool and in winter cold, but seldom freezing and thus being the perfect places for the training horses. All students came to fear being taken to these cells like nothing else on the farm, and Dori would soon come to have the same feelings. Above, one could hear horses pawing the floor and hear the beams creak and groan when wagons and carts were moved around.

She wore the same odd attire she’d been fitted with the day before and as promised, Winnie had arrived at five to get Dori up and ready for the day’s lessons. Her escort and companion had helped her bathe; shave her legs, under arms and crotch carefully, then Dori had been dressed in the same style of outfit she had first worn only 18 hours ago. Although the boots were the same, the rest of her clothes were fresh and slightly different from the first day’s combination: the britches fawn-colored and the tricky turtleneck shirt off-white. Her arms were bound in the single sleeve and her lower legs again doubled up against her thighs and ass so that she was just as uncomfortable as before, having slept fitfully on her left side all night for the chains from collar, feet and wrists had prohibited any other sleeping position.

“How many sets of this outfit are there?” Dori had asked Winnie when the gag was taken out for oral hygiene and breakfast.

“Enough to make you sick of wearing them.” Winnie answered, opening the closet in the bedroom and displaying a wide assortment of garments, some of which Dori had not seen before.

“Now I know where my tuition went!” she muttered sullenly.

With breakfast completed, the gag went back in and Winnie summoned the cart then they had headed for a nearby barn with Winnie pushing the fat-tired cart and Dori hanging from the overhead support bar.

She now looked at the horse and wondered silently what the thing was while the three instructors lifted her from the cart and placed her on the cold, shiny slate floor. The room was cold! Mistress Wright sat in a leather chair in front of the horse, her tight, black riding britches blending into the dark leather of the chair and smoking an aromatic, Cuban cigar. In the close coldness of the barn’s basement, mixed with the smell of horses, feed and straw, the cigar leant a strangely fearsome effect.

“Dori ...” Mistress Wright said slowly, as she might have spoken to a learning-disabled child. “Dori, I want to make sure this is a very memorable summer for you. Your father spent a great deal of money, fifteen thousand dollars, for you to come here, and I want to see that he gets his money’s worth. This is your first experience with Samson, but it will not be your last. You’ll discover that Samson is a bit schizophrenic. Sometimes he’s easy, sometimes he’s difficult. He seems able to read the rider’s thoughts, so think positive things, Dori, and you will learn to ride. Proceed!” she said, turning to the instructors who were standing near Dori.

They picked her up and carried her to the English saddle fitted to the mechanical beast with a third instructor following. Dori’s head was held still in the usual “attention” posture, her braid pulled tight down her back and she wore blinders on both sides of her head-snaring bridle, and thus was unable to see the twin dildos sticking up from the central spine of the saddle. These exaggerated phalli were made of soft, ebony-coloured rubber around a hard, flexible rubber core and the front one was massively thick and quite long, while the rear one was only a bit smaller and shorter. They were mounted close together and it was clear to any observer that anyone who sat on Samson was going to have to accommodate both before they managed to get fully seated.

Two instructors lifted Dori and carried her to the mount, then, with one on each side, moved slowly together up the three steps on one side of the horse, carrying Dori with them. When they reached the top, the third one climbed similar steps from the other side of the horse then the two holding her lifted Dori higher so that her britches-enclosed knees straddled the saddle and her bound arms embraced the strut behind the saddle. She had not yet seen the dildos and so was unaware of what awaited. The two instructors held her poised in the air above the saddle while the third plunged one of her rubber-gloved hands into a small bucket at the side of the mechanical beast and brought her hand out dripping with a shiny, gelatinous substance. She quickly lathered the dildos, with the slippery goo and next, without any warning, reached up and carefully smeared the cold, slimy substance onto and into Dori’s entire groin. Dori started and shook with shocked surprise in the grasp of the instructors but they just as suddenly, began slowly lowering her onto the saddle while the third instructor guided the two greasy dildos. Dori felt her labia parted gently then slowly, the front dildo entered her body, followed almost immediately by the rear one.

Dori was not a virgin, but this sudden and unannounced dual penetration of her most private orifices came as a huge surprise! It was unwelcome and painful but ever so slowly, the two pongs slid into the girl’s clenching holes. Her tensed muscles pushed and contracted in a vain attempt to prohibit or prevent the double penetration, but it was, of course, inevitable and gravity overcame her unwillingness. There was only one way she could go and that was down ... onto the twin impaling statues that were destined to spend the next several hours exploring her internal construction. Dori jumped in the grip of the three instructors, lifting her hips and tilting her pelvis forward and back so as to try and disengage the greasy poles, all the while sputtering and hissing into her gagging bit; head jerking up and down and bound arms swinging sideways.

Inside the tight shirt and the tighter inner bra, her full breasts jiggled and swung as well, nipples already hard and thrusting through the two layers of stretch fabric. She tired everything she could think of, most of it involuntary, to get off and stay off the inevitable impalements, but the three instructors held her firmly, lowering her carefully and making sure that the dildos didn’t disengage. Dori’s own weight took her slowly down the slippery poles, even while she continued to struggle and jerk, attempting to escape her sudden impalement. Even when her buttocks finally bottomed out on the saddle, Dori tried to surged upward in the grasp of the instructors, feeling the slippery dongs sliding in and out of both lower orifices. No matter how she struggled, each came out only a few millimetres, sampling the cold air of the cellar before quickly being re-inserted into their new homes of the twin warm, moist, caverns when Dori settled again on the saddle. Up and down she went, seeking freedom from the impalement and some sort of release from her terrible bondage. Her bound hands gripped the strut behind her and she used this as additional leverage to try and lift her trembling body, but the massive double dildos only slithered partially in and out, up and down, their smoothly serrated surfaces, far bigger than she had even imagined,, stretching her flesh. Dori’s juices flowed involuntarily while she jerked and slipped on the high set saddle, double fucking herself over and over again, trying to get free.

Drool flew from her bitted mouth and her bridled head shook and nodded, while from behind the rubber plug and steel bit, shocked, outraged and terrified gurgles and screams bubbled endlessly. Eventually Dori settled onto the saddle with the two intruders socketed uncomfortably into her widely stretched orifices. Her pitiful, muffled cries continued while the brawny instructors held onto her single sleeve and doubled-up legs.

Behind, between Dori’s back and her arms, the padded steel strut bolted securely to the horse’s frame was shaped into a slight C curve, rising from the back of the saddle and curving away toward the back wall. The instructors, satisfied that Dori was properly in place in the saddle, pushed her gently back against the strut so that it passed between her bound elbows and back then strapped her to the strut, bending her back and pulling her single gloved arms up and over it. They were pulled further back and tensioned with a stout leather strap to the base of Samson’s thick tail. Her knees were next and were quickly strapped to the saddle’s sides with an additional strap between them, passing under the Samson’s belly.

Satisfied with the work thus far, Mistress Wright rose from her chair and glided to Dori’s side then looked at her new student with a curiosity that perhaps a mountain lion would have for a small naked animal impaled on a spit. Dori tried to turn her head away, knowing that yet another horror was to come, but could not move her head at all. Her entire body was bent to a degree that most gymnasts might even question, then Mistress Wright’s right hand reached out to Dori’s nearly horizontal, abundant chest and slowly traced the outline of her twin hardened nipples under the shirt and bra. She reached over and easily pulled open the nylon zippers running vertically across each painfully-confined bounteous breast and like sea lions bobbing to the surface, Dori’s Lycra-confined flesh popped upward into full prominence. The open zippers framed the bound globes with their steel-hard pink caps struggling to emerge from the spandex bondage of the bra.

“A blade!” said Mistress Wright quietly.

Dori struggled again, pulling her bound arms and trying to see what was coming and her confined breasts jiggled in terror when Mistress Wright took the exacto knife from one of the instructors and squeezed the encapsulated left breast with her other hand.

“Be still!” she hissed. “If you twitch and I miss, you will bleed and make a mess. Stay quiet and I promise, my sweet little rabbit, that I will not hurt you.”

Dori froze and Mistress Wright made her first cut, slicing open the left bra cup. Dori’s ripe, reddened breast literally sprang out of the confinement of the tight elastic bra cup; her trembling breast bouncing outward to project erectly in the cold cellar air. Her large, erect, pink-brown nipple seemingly sampled the cigar smoke and horse smells.

“Fine!” the Head Mistress soothed. “Now for the right one.”

With that, she made another incision in the bra and once again was rewarded with a full, globular, mammary popping out of the shirt and bra. Dori gurgled into her bit and gag, but did not move while with a few more slow, but decisive strokes of the knife, Mistress Wright cut around her breasts, freeing them from the bra and the shirt. Dori’s breath hissed slowly in and out of her distended nostrils and the heavy metal bit chinked between her teeth and all the while the saddle leather and her bridle creaked and groaned. Dori realized that for the last few moments, she had forgotten entirely about the two rubber invaders that violated her, but then, as if to remind her, the Mistress’ hands moved down to her belly and lower back, fingers reaching between the splayed thighs to make sure that the two monsters were well up inside the sweating, shuddering figure on the saddle. Mistress Wright’s index fingers began to simultaneously massage the girl’s clit and the area around her stretched anal opening and Dori jumped, startled at this new and unexpected attack. Sweat streamed anew from over her entire body while she swayed within the limits of the bonds holding her to the strut.

“Ahh, ahh, ahh, oohh, oohh, ahh!” she moaned from behind her bit, at one hand wanting it to stop and on the other needing more of the same.

“Ah yes, you little darling,” murmured the Mistress, “you are such a lover.”

Mistress Wright sighed, continuing to finger the girl’s intimate parts a bit harder with her left hand, jamming her right index finger into the girl’s rear, along with the probe that was already inside the orifice.

“Aahhh, aaaha!” Dori howled, lurching upward, trying to free her split behind from the insistent finger. She managed to rise a few millimetres, remained frozen there and finally, giving in to the strain and the still twitching finger on her clit, slid back down the fat, greasy, double dildos. Her well muscled buttocks made a slight slapping sound when they came resumed contact with the leather saddle, breathing now irregular and chest heaving while her breasts shook from side to side, still partly encircled by their Lycra confinement. Dori moaned and wept, even while feeling orgasms slowly beginning to build higher and higher, rising from below. Her entire lower torso was being pitilessly stimulated and Mistress Wright was making sure an orgasm was going to happen. Dori had never felt anything like it before and her limited sexual experiences with boys had been interesting, but not very fulfilling. The occasional encounter with another girl had usually been awkward and short-lived, and so, not being a sexual expert, Dori was now struggling with the psychological aspects of what was happening to her, as well as with the obvious physical stimuli. Tightly confined in a strange riding outfit, immovably bound, gagged and bridled, she had no chance to avoid what was happening to her. Her breasts had been teasingly manipulated and thrust out into the open air like two, ripe pears, their bases constricted by the remains of her bra and Lycra shirt. Her nearly virginal body had been jointly and simultaneously violated by prongs bigger than she had ever imagined possible, and now the Head Mistress of the riding academy was tweaking her clit and jamming at least one sharp-nailed forefinger into her rectum.

As if reading Dori’s confused mind, Mistress Wright slowly inserted the middle finger of her left hand into Dori’s already crowded vagina, continuing to message the girl’s clitoris with thumb and forefinger while slowly thrusting with the extended middle finger, stretching the passage even further than the sturdy, ridged prong. No boy or girl had ever done this to Dori and she was panicked by thoughts of what such overt and continuous stimulation would do. Past any real resistance, Dori at last gave in, panting like a steam engine at idle while her muscles twitched and spasmed uncontrollably. She sweated and drooled profusely and her eyes clenched shut making her see flashes of light with a constant buzz in her head. Dori let the sensations take over and as the waves began to wash over her mind, she was sure the first major eruption was about to take place in her bubbling internal volcano. But then .... it all stopped.

Mistress Wright ceased her manipulations and spoke in tutorial tones to the writhing, sweating young woman. Dori was literally foaming at the mouth like a bitted horse that had cantered or galloped for several miles.

“Samson is going to give you a real ride now.” said the Head Mistress. “I can’t stay for this one, but maybe the next time. Have a wonderful time, Dori.”

Removing her hands from the twitching, struggling body, the Head wiped her fingers on a small towel tied to Samson’s quarter, then turned and left the cold cellar room; a puff of acrid cigar smoke hanging in the cold cellar air after she’d exited. A moment later the instructors also left, but not before setting Samson’s controls to give the girl the ride of her life. Dori remained fastened securely fastened to her saddle and they filed from the room, locked the door and went to the upper floor where they’d watch the show on video from the six cameras mounted throughout the basement room. A plaintive whine for release hissed from behind Dori’s steel bit, only to be lost in the confines of the stark little cell.

Dori had no idea what she was going to do now. The room was brightly lit, but there was no sound and nothing for her to see as she stared at the overhead beams in the old barn and if she tried to move, it only resulted in waves of discomfort and other feelings from the impaling shafts filling her lower body. She couldn’t lean back because of the steel strut and there was no way to move forward because of the straps holding her to it, as well as the tensioned single sleeve keeping her hands pulled back toward Samson’s tail. Up until now, she had not even considered the possibility that the horse could move and could not have anticipated the extent of movement that such as device could and would produce once activated.

Dori focussed on her multiple discomforts one at a time. Over the last few days, she’d adjusted slowly to the constant strain on her arms for they were held always behind with her forearms together and elbows touching most of the time. Her bridle was an annoyance, and not being able to see beyond the blinkers, kept always looking upwards, became more and more distressing as time went on. The guards released her head and arm bondage periodically to allow for some exercise, but the positions were a terrible trial and her legs had gone numb during the long periods inside the britches’ single leggings. Until she had been mounted on the horse, she had stoically endured the torments of the strange apparel and bondage, but this “riding lesson,” like dinner the first night and her odd sleeping arrangements, was yet another twist. The personal attention of the head mistress had been an unnerving assault and she had been confounded when the training crew had exited the downstairs room and left her mounted on the horse and on dildos utterly alone in a locked and sound proof cell.

Dori felt a brief shudder through the heavy leather saddle and the probes then the entire machine called Samson seemed to vibrate and another mild ripple shook the mechanical breast. The ride was starting!