After School

Chapter Three-2

“It’s quite good,” he said, tilting the cup and taking more than half its contents into his red mouth. “It’s not poisoned. You’ll need it for the next round, my dear. Here, drink.” Lucy drank.

The Bishop finished the wine, dropped the cup and returned to his earlier position behind Lucy, using his hand to massage his somewhat relaxed member and guiding it between Lucy’s firm, rounded buttocks. Lucy knew what was coming and she tensed her body, anticipating the next penetration.

“This time,” the Red Bishop said with a bit of condescension, “I will have your lovely, sweet, white ass…and then, unfortunately, I must be going. You know how it is. Coming and going all the time can be so tiring. I’ll probably sleep all the way back to the cathedral.” At the word “cathedral”, he simultaneously aligned his now rigid prick and jammed it halfway into Lucy’s clenched and waiting asshole. Shocked at this unlubricated penetration, Lucy screamed. And screamed.

The Bishop was unrelenting. He was again very excited, but he was also in a hurry and began pumping even before he was all the way up into Lucy’s large colon, holding onto her t**s with both hands and not allowing her to slide up and down as she had in the first assault. She screamed continuously, realizing that this obviously stimulated him and might just possibly shorten this harrowing rape of her ass. He locked himself tightly against her back, the studs on his harness digging into her flesh, his hips hammering away with incredible enthusiasm and muttering various Latin phrases, which Lucy, in her painful and horrified state, could not, at first, begin to understand. It suddenly dawned on her, knowing more Latin than most people, that he was reciting the words of the Exorcism Mass, driving the demons from her body while he plundered her ass.

The ass f*****g went on longer than the previous rape of her cunt and Lucy almost gratefully found that she was again lubricating the entire area between her spread legs. The tight, agonizing penetration of her ass was now a slippery in and out action. This constant battering began to take its sensual toll as the Bishop gained his second or third wind, shouting the phrases of the ancient exorcism rite loudly as he continued his quest to get his huge d**k all the way up into Lucy’s ass and seemingly driving it until it was in her screaming throat.

In time, it ended. The Bishop finally shuddered in orgasm and Lucy, accommodatingly, came as well, although not for the first time in this session. The ass reaming brought her to a body-wringing climax twice before the last, gargantuan efforts of the fat Bishop subsided and they sang a sort of final operatic duet of orgasm before he pulled out and sat unceremoniously on the stone floor, breathing heavily and swearing to himself.

“God damn, God damn, that was fine. So good in fact that contrary to my custom, I am not going to leave you with my famous miter brand on your belly, just above your luscious cunt.” The Bishop gathered his meager wardrobe while he babbled on. “No cunt that fine should be soiled with fire. You did a superb job, my dear. Superb. Now I must hurry and get the f**k out of here before Mother Bolia comes thundering down here and demands another donation.”

Seeming about to turn away and head for the door, the Bishop ran his hands lightly over her sweat and c*m-stained ass one last time. Suddenly, he impulsively seized the handle of one of the irons in the brazier and brought its hot, glowing end firmly against the skin of Lucy’s left buttock. She screamed a new scream; blood-curdling, ear shattering, filling the chamber with her pain, surprise and horror as the Bishop held the iron in full contact for several seconds, then dropped it on the floor. The hot iron made a hollow, ringing sound as it fell, but that sound was lost in the continuing high warble of Lucy’s screaming. Gathering his cloak around his gross body and not looking back at the smoking impression of a Bishop’s Miter, well centered on the left buttock of his screaming victim, he prepared to leave the chamber.

“You promised,” moaned Lucy, as the Bishop started through the door. “You promised.”

“I promised nothing,” he grunted, stopping and half turning around in the smoky room. “What I said was that contrary to my custom, I was not going to leave you with my famous miter brand over your cunt. The one you now have is much larger than my customary one and it’s on your lovely ass, so enjoy it, my dear. Enjoy it. God bless you and I do hope we get to f**k again. Next time, perhaps on the rack?” The Bishop turned again and exited the chamber, leaving the door open.

Lucy prayed, begging for the pain to stop or for someone to help her. In a few moments, Sister Angel appeared, as if summoned by the girl’s pain racked cries. But Angel only reinserted the gag, jammed the old and cold dildoes back into their original holes and fastened the harness even tighter than before. Then she busied her silent self with a set of chains that she hooked into Lucy’s n****e rings and connected to a wall ring. She drew the chains tight until they pulled the girl’s breasts away from her chest wall, stretching the n*****s mercilessly and forcing Lucy to try unsuccessfully to move closer to the wall to lessen the tension. Lucy moaned into the gag as Sister Angel put the leg spreader bar back in place, adding a few more inches to the length. Lucy’s feet no longer touched the floor. Sister Angel appraised her work, tweaked a tightly stretched n****e and left the chamber. Lucy moaned and prayed for relief, but none came. The fire in the brazier died down and the room grew cold. Lucy hung there, the sweat and semen running down the inside of her legs and drying into crusty ridges, waiting for something to happen and wondering what the Hell she had done in her life to bring her here. Being kidnapped, tortured, raped and endlessly abused for months on three continents and then, as a grand finale, being branded by this psychopath was the ultimate humiliation. None of this was what she had expected. She knew that being naturally, although secretly, submissive and willing to be constantly abused by others, she had never imagined that as a bottom she would undergo such torment. In her mind, she had always thought that doms and subs were on earth to enjoy each other, not to constantly bring pain and anxiety to the subs. These thoughts, coupled with not even being able to have a decent orgasm unless some maniac was reaming her ass while she was helplessly chained to the ceiling just didn’t seem right.

She dozed.

The next morning, when the guards entered the cold chamber, they discovered that the Red Bishop was gone. They removed the exhausted Lucy, applied some soothing ointment to the brand and to her damaged wrists, then took her to her cell, with a pit stop for personal hygiene on the way. They locked a collar around her neck, cuffed her hands behind her back and inserted a new gag without a bit. Then they left. Lucy went immediately to sleep.

She dreamed of the night before, waking from time to time to see if it was real and lamenting that this school, (if that’s what it was), was certainly a lot different from the one in Vermont. It was something of an epiphany for her. She realized that the big difference here was that there was no pretense of having inmates experience the psychological nuances of equestrian skills. While offering torment and s****l abuse such as she had just experienced, Lucy already knew that Valania was dedicated to the odd and demented joint objectives of constant torment while bringing each inmate to the pinnacle of pony skills in each of the designated areas of discipline. The twisted curriculum was set for completing training in the key areas of pony skills, enhanced by brutal reinforcement. Until the inmates mastered all of the skills, the abuse continued. The study plan included the following:

§ Equitation - learning, by getting subtle incentives from the whip, the basic strides: walk, trot, canter, gallop

§ Carting - perfecting, through negative reinforcement punctuated by the occasional flogging, impalement or both, one’s skills at pulling two wheeled carts with one occupant

§ Coaching - with spells of hard labor, learning to operate as a member of two, three, four and six pony coach teams.

§ Showing - Demonstrating all required pony skills in the ring with performance with and without a lunge line.

§ Assimilation of “Special Skills” - Which amounted, much to the Sisters’ annoyance, to the ability to satisfy the donors and special visitors, mostly male clergy, who frequented the Cloister for meditation and counseling with various students.

The latter course of instruction was Mother Bolia’s specialty. She joined the order at the age of 23 after five terrible years as a forced prostitute in a Rome brothel supposedly run as a home for wayward girls. The High Roller society in and around the city also knew it as a great place to get anything you wanted in the way of s****l favors.

More than sixty terrible months of enforced s****l activities with anyone who had the money to pay for it convinced Bolia, (not her real name, of course), that the cloistered life of a nun was infinitely preferable to that of the city w***e. Therefore, when one special customer, a young priest who was serving in some minor capacity in the Vatican, asked her if she’d like to move on into something more ecumenical and out of the city, Bolia enthusiastically murmured an affirmative grunt while orally massaging his d**k. The priest moved quickly, getting approval for his plan shortly after he brought his superior to the house and they shared Bolia’s talented body for an entire night. The next morning, she left the house in a large luxury car with tinted windows and a Papal emblem on the registration plates, each of her hands immediately engaged in the crotch of the two priests, gratefully rewarding the men for freeing her from the Roman whorehouse.

Thus, it was with this professional skill set that Bolia moved into the cloister and in due time, became the Mother Superior.

Lucy, the pony girl, was as adaptive as the next inmate was, but she just didn’t seem to accept the mental training provided by Angel, Mother Bolia and other sisters. Part of this was because all training was done by illustration, not by verbal communications, which of course, made learning a bit more difficult, but also compensated for the language barriers among students and Sisters. Since there was no spoken language, they learned by demonstration, reward and punishment. These techniques worked better on some students than on others. Lucy was among those who did not learn well by this method. As a result, she received punishment almost continuously. The whipping posts in the courtyard and cellars became a standard fixture in her life and she visited these almost daily, often dragged to the old wooden posts and bound there for even a minor infraction.

These posts, which dated back for centuries, were cut from massive hardwood trees deep in some European forest and specifically designed for their intended function. Nearly ten feet high, the posts were at least two feet thick and buried immovably deep in the cloister’s rocky ground. At specific intervals from its foot to the top, each post had one inch round holes bored through, some from front to back and others from side to side. In addition, also at useful locations, iron rings attached to deep screw eyes were set into the hard wood. Innocent in appearance, the punishment posts populated the courtyards and interior rooms of the cloister. According to lore of the order, there were exactly one hundred and three of these massive posts on the premises. In addition, according to the same myths, at times in the history of the Cloister, all one hundred and three of them had been populated by offenders of some rule or law of the VSR. The concerted wails and painful cries of this multitude of post-bound sufferers had resulted in the code of silence and restraint that the order adopted. Anyone bound to the post was thus silenced in the extreme.