Ponygirls of Irontown

by Arden, Adriana

  Soon her insides were aching with the strain of holding the dildos clamped within her. She wished she could spit them out of her, but that was impossible. She had to keep them held tight as though she loved the feel of them inside her. If she did not they twisted even more painfully inside her passages. Inevitably her vagina was lubricating profusely, stimulated by the vibration of the trolley wheels as they bumped over the slats which was transmitted up through the towing handle. All right, she told herself, it’s good that I’m wet. It’s natural. It makes having the dildos inside me a bit more comfortable. All girl/machine interfaces needed lubrication. Every Irontowner knew that. Girl machines were well known to be self-lubricating. It aided efficiency.

  The trouble was she was feeling more than simply “efficient”. Try as she might she could not deny that she was getting seriously aroused. Her pussy was actually dripping between her thighs, adding her personal quota to the old stains under her feet. Was that the idea of the slats? To humiliate as captives were being exercised. How did ponygirls manage? Of course, they had no shame. They came if they wanted to. They were expected to. But not her, not a free woman! She would not let herself go like that. She had no choice but to do her laps but she would not give her captors any further satisfaction by humiliating herself.

  And so round and round she went dragging the terrible jiggling trolley behind her by her genitals. Soon her legs were aching and she was dripping with sweat, adding to the stains on the boarding. If only there was a clock in the room so she could tell how long she had to go. Surely it had been half an hour now. Perhaps forty-five minutes. Only another fifteen to go. It had to end soon... because otherwise she was going to cum!

  The vibrating dildos were filling her loins with a liquid heat which would have to be released. Her body did not care about how degrading it might be for her. In fact being bound and helpless was making her more excited. This was just like with the park warden and Cleaver. How large a dark side did she have? Free women in Irontown were more informed and adventurous with sex than the average but it was not done to respond like a slavegirl. At least, so they said...

  By now Sam was clamping her thighs together, fighting exhaustion and trying to hold her orgasm in. Now she was waddling grotesquely, feeling her juices running down the inside of her thighs. Don’t come, don’t come! Ahhh! She yelped like a dog as she slowed down too much and got a sharp jolt through her nipples. Fearfully she broke into a stumbling rush around the board track. The trolley bounced after her, setting the dildos shivering and twisting inside her. The dam inside her loins burst and she came with a gasp and groan of raw delight that was mutated into a canine howl, spraying her juices out past the plug of her dildo.

  Electric pins stabbed into her nipples again and again. She collapsed to her knees, pulling the sprung arm down with her, pulling her collar painfully tight against her chin. Her collapse drove the dildos further up inside her as she bucked and writhed, caught somewhere between agony and ecstasy. It felt like she was bursting. Her nipples were on fire and her juices seemed to be gushing out of her. Her eyes rolled back and she howled. She had had never felt anything like it. Was there any end to it? Was she going to die like this?

  Then a bell on the control box rang and the terrible jolts stopped.

  Her hour was up.

  * * *

  The men freed Sam’s limp, sweat-sodden and girl-juice stained body from the exercise machine. The dildos came out of her hot sticky orifices with slurping sounds. Sam was dimly conscious of being utterly ashamed of that sound and what it said about her, yet paradoxically being too dazed to care.

  The men pulled her up onto her feet, supporting her as her legs felt like rubber, and fed her water out of a plastic bottle. Hatchet slapped her cheeks a few times to get her attention.

  ‘You’re tougher than I thought,’ he said, sounding grudgingly impressed. ‘You’ll have to pull two bags next time.’

  ‘But now you get your reward as promised, Screw,’ Shears said. ‘You don’t have to do anything.’ He went over to one of the objects covered by dust sheets in the corner of the room and pulled the sheet off it. ‘You see we’ll do all the work...’

  * * *

  Sam was bent over with her head and hands locked between the upper boards of a set of shiny metal folding stocks.

  The stocks were the latest design, fashioned to hold a slavegirl securely with the minimum degree of freedom while exposing her to the maximum for the purposes of punishment or penetration. The upper “boards” were in fact a pair of aluminium lattices with rubber-lined semi-circular recesses for neck and wrists cast into them. Its central post which supported the main boards was of a light lattice box construction. It had four folding braces that formed a broad X-shaped supporting base. Clips on the ends of the rear arms of the “X” hooked to Sam’s ankle cuffs, holding her legs well spread. An expanding rod, hinged at the base of the central post, pressed a crossbar into Sam’s stomach and across the front of her hips, forcing her to thrust out her haunches.

  The stocks also had a useful extra set of mini stock boards that unfolded horizontally from the back of the main set. These were clamped about Sam’s breasts, making them bulge like pink balloons. They also carried an integral set of rubber-coated double hooks, like twin claws, set on slender expanding rods and mounted on either side of the head hole in the main set of boards. There was also a stout elastic cord attached to the rear of the main upper board with a large single-tipped rubber hook on its end.

  It was a device Sam would have loved to put Beauty into. It would have seemed such fun to play with her as she struggled and strained within it. Now she knew better...

  Hatchet and Shears stood in front and behind her. The flies of their coveralls were open exposing their swollen cocks which were, respectively, buried in Sam’s mouth and vagina. She had not been able to resist the penetration of either of the men. The front set of hooks were dug into the sides of Sam’s mouth, pulling her head back and mouth wide and wedging her jaws open so she could not bite Hatchet’s shaft as it plunged down her throat, either by intent or helpless reflex. As he ravaged her gullet she gulped and gasped and struggled to suck in air past his plunging shaft.

  She hardly had time to care about what Shears was doing to her vagina, except that he knew he was also enjoying perfect access to her. The hook on the end of the cord that was attached to the back of the board behind her head, which ran tautly back along her spine and between her buttocks, was buried in her rectum. The tension pulled her bottom up, exposing her sex pouch to whatever use he chose to put it to.

  In a delirium, half insensible, Sam was pounded between the faceless men as they drove their cocks into her without any concern for her comfort. Despite the bracing of the base frame the stocks rocked with their thrusts, setting the bulging globes of her clamped breasts shivering and bobbing, her nipple rings swaying like bell clappers. They were using her as though she was a piece of meat on a skewer between them, put there exclusively to satisfy their desires, which was effectively what she had become.

  Through her misery she thought how she hated and feared them! But they had gone too far. She could take no more. If they let her speak she would tell them they had broken her. She had nothing left in her. She was nothing...

  And then a pleasure bomb exploded in her brain as her pussy soaked Shears’ cock with her juices.

  The next thing Sam knew Hatchet was slapping her cheeks. She could taste his sperm in her mouth. She focussed on him blearily.

  ‘You’re living up to your name. You’re a good screw. Better get used to this kind of thing, though. You’ll be getting plenty more where that came from.’

  * * *

  Afterwards they cleaned her up in a small white-tiled washroom which also opened off the main corridor. It was fitted out with the usual squat toilet pans and hoses for flushing out slavegirls’ sperm-filled orifices. Naturally
she had to perform all her functions under their watchful eyes with her legs spread wide, hiding nothing of the intimate process of evacuating her wastes, mingled with their sperm. Normally she would have been acutely embarrassed to be observed like that but at that moment she was too sick and tired and numbed by what she had already undergone to have much room left in her thoughts for modesty. At least she felt clean again. The men even, with curiously practised roughness, washed and combed her hair. In their strange way they were taking good care of her. But then she must be worth quite a bit of money.

  Another door led to an office cum rest room, where Hatchet and Shears evidently monitored the other cells via a bank of screens set on a desk. Its windows were curtained. The fear began to grow in her mind that she would never glimpse the light of day in this place, or have any idea of its surroundings. If she ever got free again there was no way she could identify her kidnappers or their lair.

  While Hatchet and Shears relaxed in a pair of shabby armchairs, Sam ate on her knees in front of them out of a large dog bowl. On its side was stencilled: FOR A GOOD BITCH. And like a dog she ate with her mouth alone. Her hands were cuffed behind her. By spreading her knees wide and thrusting out her bottom for balance and dipping her back she was able to gobble up the food relatively neatly, even if her nipple rings did trail across the floor. It was a humiliating posture to be forced to adopt since it emphasised her helplessness and blatantly exposed the naked cleft pouch of her sex and her anal mouth to her captors’ gaze.

  But by that time Sam was too hungry to care.

  The food was standard slave rations which was sold in Shackleswell in the same casual way bags of pet food were in other cities. It was specially formulated to provide all the nourishment a slave needed and, because it was pressed into meatball-sized lumps, it was ingestible without the use of cutlery or fingers.

  Again, in its odd way, this meal reassured her. However else she suffered she knew at least that she would be well fed. But then they were training her up for some purpose that required both strength and stamina. What was it? Who were they selling her on to? And would they ever let her go again?

  Once she was fed Hatchet and Shears put Sam back in her own cell. The darkness beyond the high window suggested it was now night outside. In truth she did not care. She was so utterly exhausted that the thin mattress felt like a bed of thistledown and she fell asleep in moments.

  * * *

  For Sam the days that followed became a simple alternation between periods of deep exhausted sleep in her cage and intense activity in the training rooms that combined gruelling exercise with pain and sex. She no longer struggled to preserve her dignity or reserve. It was pointless and foolish. If she felt like coming she did so and was grateful for the brief release it gave her. The rest she tried not to dwell on. It was the best strategy she had to survive this living nightmare without going mad. She was sure that a non-Irontown woman would have done, but she was familiar with such things, if only from watching slaves suffering similar ordeals. And anything a slave could endure she could, she told herself. All she had to do was put herself in the mindset of a slave.

  Beauty could have done it... but she dare not think of Beauty. Yet of course she did. And how she missed the soft, scented warmth of her body at night!

  Fortunately only the highlights of the many cruelties they concocted for her lingered in her mind...

  * * *

  The device resembled a standard powered running machine of the kind seen in numerous health clubs, but it had been modified to suit Irontown requirements. Extra tubular rods and bars had been clamped to the side rails, extending across the front and back of the machine. Between them Sam pounded along the endless belt with a sandbag strapped to her back.

  She could not get off the machine until she had run her allotted distance. She could not rest her feet on the panels on either side of the belt because the sides had been filled in with Perspex panels. Climbing off the front or rear was also not an option.

  Her nipple rings were hooked to elastic cords fastened to a bar in front of her. Any slowing of her steady jogging pace gradually drew them painfully taut. Not that she dared let herself move far back down the moving track, even if she could endure the pain it would cause her breasts. Mounted on a bar behind her was a board with six inch nails hammered through it that was set at bottom height.

  She had no choice but to pound on and on, sweating under her load, until her captors were satisfied she had done enough. As she did so and exhaustion crept over her, her mind began to wander. She tried not to think of Beauty’s poor bottom the last time she had seen it. Maybe she should let her nipples be stretched until her bottom was stabbed by the nails. Then she would know what she had felt... uhhh!

  Sam blinked. Unconsciously she had slowed down. Her breasts were drawn into cherry-topped pink cones in front of her while the nail points were jabbing into her rolling, sweat-filmed buttocks.

  Sobbing she quickened her pace again.

  * * *

  It was an elevated frame a little like an upright skeletal chair, but one built from scaffolding poles and couplings.

  Sam was seated on it with her legs spread wide. Her arms were pulled out straight on either side of her and strapped at the elbows and wrists to a crossbar that passed behind her back. Her spread legs were strapped about the thighs, knees and ankles to bars that formed a wide “V”, which left her naked exposed groin hanging over nothing. No, not quite nothing. That would have been too kind.

  They had opened her vulva further than was natural by strapping rubber garters to her thighs, from the inside of which hung sprung hooks. These were hooked to her labial rings. The tension peeled back her thick outer lips, exposing the ridge of her delicate inner flesh petals and the mouth of her vagina they enfolded. Her posture forced this dark pit to gape wide as though in a shameless invitation to enter, which was not ignored.

  There was a motorized impaling device underneath her groin that drove a pair of large, black ribbed, rubber dildos alternately up into her vagina and then anus. First her stomach bulged as the intruder filled her front passage and then her bottom as her rectum was plugged. The dildos squelched and sucked as they pumped into her and she dripped onto the floor.

  Hatchet and Shears stood on either side of Sam, lashing her breasts and belly with spanking paddles while she was jerking against her straps, snivelling and yipping in pain as she bit on the gag bar between her teeth. They did not hit her hard enough to break her skin but it was sufficient to smack and sting and burn terribly. By now her front from sternum to groin was a solid mottled mess of blushing pink and scarlet, except for the undercurves of her breasts just below the nipples where her rings hung down and caused pale hoop-like shadows to form.

  ‘We want to see you come again, Screw,’ Hatchet said.

  ‘Yeah, it’s been a good twenty minutes since your last spray,’ Shears observed.

  In between batches of lashes they fed her water, pinching her nose and pushing a squeeze bottle and tube into her mouth so she had to swallow. It was not simply out of concern for her dehydrating, but another aspect of her training.

  She felt the need growing inside her once again. It was perverse that she could come so many times but it was her only release, however brief. Of course they had made sure it was not without its price.

  Sam moaned as she surrendered to the inevitable once more. The frame rattled as she bucked and clenched her sheath and sphincter tight about the dildos pumping into her. Squeezed tight by her orgasmic contractions, pounded from within by the dildos and assailed from without by the pain of her beating, she lost control of her bursting bladder.

  Once again she pissed as she came and her hot pee splattered onto the rubber mat beneath the impaler device, while for a few seconds she knew perfect delight.

  This torment had no exercise value. Pain, pleasure and shame were the only t
ools they employed. Perhaps it was simply to crush her will further by humiliating her. Or else it might be they were getting her used to repeated orgasms until it was mindlessly easy for her to respond. She did not try to fight it and tried to enjoy each pleasure rush for itself and not think of how it was being forced upon her. That was her little victory. Or was that what they wanted her to believe?

  When she was utterly drained and exhausted and could give no more, briefly they switched her voice back on.

  ‘What do you say?’ Shears demanded.

  By now she knew what was expected of her. ‘Thank you, Master...’ Sam sobbed wretchedly. ‘Thank you, thank you....’

  Disturbingly for a moment she actually thought she meant it. Wasn’t the complete attention of her master all that a slave truly craved? Could you love people even when they beat you?

  * * *

  It was a standard rowing machine but again one that had been adapted for the use of slavegirls.

  The sliding padded seat Sam sat upon had an anal dildo fitted to it on which she was impaled, ensuring she could not slip off. Her wrist and ankle cuffs were clipped to the oar handles and footrests. She maintained a steady stroke rate because of the motorised arm in front of her that was extending and then withdrawing a pair of large vertical wire rings. Her standard nipple rings had been replaced by a set of slender but oversized copper wire ones, fifteen centimetres across which had springy braces that held them perpendicular to her breasts so that they jutted forward improbably. The powered rings were interlocked with those on her nipples.

  Sam was desperate not to let the sets of rings touch. It was like the dexterity game where you held a metal hoop and had to move it along a twisting wire track without touching it and completing a circuit. The consequences, however, were far more serious than making a buzzer sound, as her tingling nipples could testify.