Even Ponygirls Sometimes Get The Blues

(Bestiality code warning: This chapter contains a brief Dog/f scene)

THE LEATHERBODY

Jessica was awakened by the morning sunlight and the stirring of her as-yet-unseen neighbours in adjacent stalls. A man appeared and she was slightly disappointed it wasn’t Jack. She felt she knew where she was with Jack. This other guy was similar to Jack in age and demeanour. His alternating shift partner, Jessica supposed, as he released her hands from the bed cuffs.

“You need the toilet?” he asked gruffly.

She nodded, feeling strangely ashamed at such an admission. A galvanised steel bucket, with a very worn wooden seat atop, was in the far corner of her cell. She’d noticed it the previous evening, but had no need for it, except for a moment when she was eating and thought she might be about to retch.

The man watched expectantly, his forearms folded, accentuating his biceps, as Jessica shyly took up a position on the low potty. “Three minutes!” he warned as he walked away.

That was the best technique for encouraging ponygirls to finish their business promptly. Jessica evacuated her bowels without difficulty while her left hand continued to hold her labia chain out of habit. Though her mature piercings didn’t cause any pain, she was aware of her stretching labia if she allowed the padlock and chain their full weight.

She noticed a small pail of water on the left side of the primitive commode on which she sat. Having spent a year on Rabbit Island toilet paper had become a distant memory to Jessica. She’d become pretty good at keeping herself clean just with her fingers. Her business was concluded well within three minutes, she stood up and instinctively bowed her head, awaiting the man’s return.

There was something about the very fabric of the building that compelled her to obedience - the place reeked of fear. Until she could find out more about this place she resolved not to put so much as a toe out of line.

The man returned, standing at the faded yellow line on the floor that demarked the boundary of her stall. “Kneel down here with your back to me,” he instructed.

She did so, shins on the flagstone flooring, her butt resting on her heels inches away from the man’s legs. “Hands held together behind your back,” came his further instructions.

“This is how you must wait for me in the mornings. Do you think you can manage that?”

Jessica had a momentary urge to give a sarcastic response to his condescending question, but she held her tongue. In fact she became aware that the metal construction in her mouth literally held her tongue and would have rendered her riposte into a humiliating garble.

“Yehh,” she replied, unable to form the S sound. As a qualified speech therapist Jessica knew exactly what the problem was - her tongue’s lack of mobility.

Suddenly he slapped her on the side of her head. “No talking! Just ‘Um’ for yes, ‘uh-uh’ for no! Understand?” he said harshly.

“Um.” Jessica replied, using the correct form. This new language would not take long to learn.

“Good pony,” he said, softening a little. From under the foot of her bed he pulled out a plastic crate containing pony equipment. Jessica hadn’t realized she’d been sleeping right on top of her tack.

She stayed motionless and upright as he dropped a heavy leather harness over her shoulders and began strapping it around her. As with Rabbit Island’s harness her arms were crossed behind her so her wrists could be secured into padded leather cuffs in the small of her back. As he buckled them Jessica squirmed. She was responding to a familiar feeling; the position of her arms, the embrace of the leather straps banding her torso. Soon she would out in the open, running in harness, but free in spirit. She could hardly wait to feel her thighs pumping, the ground moving rapidly beneath her, her lungs filling with so much air that it felt like she could almost burst out of her straps. She wanted to tell him to hurry up with her dressing.

He still had a lot to do. “Keep your head still,” he instructed as he stretched a black neoprene hood over her shaven skull. It made a distinctive crinkly plasticky sound as he carefully peeled the hood down her face. First she was blinded, then her hearing became dulled as it covered her ears. His hands pushed against her bruised cheekbones until the hood snapped into place under her chin. Some final adjustments were needed. He pulled and pinched the hood until it was lined up correctly: Holes were positioned beneath her nostrils and in front of her eyes. Jessica’s panic eased. She could see two circles of brickwork at the end of her cell, barely overlapping, as if looking through binoculars. The tiny holes in the hood negated for the need for pony blinkers. The man stretched the bottom of the hood until Jessica felt it constricting the middle of her neck.

“Open up!” said the man, “nice and wide.”

Jessica hesitated for a moment, slightly confused. Did he mean her legs? A fingertip brushed her lips, indicating that he meant her mouth, which was fully exposed through an oval hole in the hood. She opened her mouth, gasping at the sharp pain caused by the invasive metalwork fixed within. He pushed a one-inch wooden bit into her mouth, lodging it at the back of her bite. Whilst fitting it, the hole in the centre of the bit was penetrated by the threaded protrusion that skewered Jessica’s tongue. Standing above and behind her kneeling body, the man gripped Jessica under the chin with one hand, and spun a wing nut onto the thread until it tightened against the wooden bit, leaving Jessica profoundly bitted. All but the tip of her tongue was locked down in the bowl of her mouth. Her jaw was locked open at the prescribed angle.

Then the man pulled a leather jacket around the front of Jessica’s torso. It had no sleeves or armholes, and was shaped to fit the contours of a ponygirl with her arms bound behind her.

“It’s called a leatherbody”, he informed Jessica, whilst tugging on the heavy zipper at the back. It reminded Jessica of her biker jacket, a gift from a motorcycle-riding former boyfriend. She loved wearing the jacket more than being on the back of the motorcycle - which frankly scared the life out of her. She particularly enjoyed it when her boyfriend pulled up the heavy zipper for her, causing the tight leather to squeeze her breasts within its corset-like embrace. Even now, in circumstances that could hardly be more different, Jessica felt a strange tingle of pleasure at the resurfaced memory. The leatherbody was zipped all the way up to her neck, fully overlapping the hem of the hood.

“Good pony,” the man muttered as he moved on to the next item. “Chin up.”

The heavy moulded posture collar was easy to fit. Hinged open at the front and snapping together at the back. Its elegant curvy shape fitted her from chin to shoulders, leaving Jessica’s head immobile but for a little upward movement.

“Lean forward, knees apart.”

With one hand leaning on Jessica’s back to steady himself, he knelt down and offered up the tail plug to her ass crack. Jessica felt its cool lubricated tip rubbing up and down over her anus. She responded as she was trained to, relaxing her muscles. ‘Empty and yielding, don’t fight it,’ Ray used to say. She felt the plug slip into her. It could hardly be said that she enjoyed wearing a tail plug all day, though she derived a moment of shameful pleasure from its penetration. Its proximity to her sex was just too apparent. She sensed this tail-plug was slightly longer and thinner than the Rabbit Island one. It was metallic too, she deduced by its coolness.

As with the other stages of her pony dressing she was unable to keep herself from making comparisons at each point. What else did she know these days, but ponygirl bondage, how to trot, and how to respond to whips and reins. In such things she was an expert.

Her regular Rabbit Island butt-plug used an internal inflatable bulb that was pumped up after insertion, so it needed no other means to secure it. Being made of metal, this one didn’t pump.

From the bottom front of the leatherbody a long flat leather leash hung down. The man threaded it firstly through her labial padlock, and then pulled it between her legs and through a slot at the base of the butt-plug. It was drawn tightly up her spine to her neck.

The peremptory click of a padlock at the back of her collar signalled the conclusion of Jessica’s new style of harnessing. This padlock, she noted, was the only lock used on her garment. Nothing, not the hood, not the harness, nor the leather body, the neck-brace, or the tail plug could be removed while that padlock remained shut. Even with the leatherbody between it and her skin, she could feel the padlock’s weight against the top of her spine, teasing and taunting her.

“Sit on the bed,” the handler said, in a tone neither harsh nor kind. Jessica rose easily to her feet, aided by him grabbing the handle sewn into the back of the leatherbody. She’d forgotten her labia padlock was still chained to the wall. It tugged slightly as she made a quarter turn and sat on the bed. It felt funny, her legs and feet naked whilst above her hips she was utterly encased in leather and latex.

With her knees open, Jessica looked downwards and saw the pony tail spilling onto the bed between them. It was her own hair, bound in a thick plait. Meanwhile the handler hung a long blonde plait on a hook on the wall directly in front of her. It was Rachel’s, sheared off just in case Jessica needed a blonde tail. She ached for Rachel, her glorious flowing locks cruelly shorn just so she could have a blonde tail! Jessica knew she would treasure it and keep it safe for her, even though it could never be restored.

“When you make the grade, you’ll get the blonde tail.” The man explained, as if a ponygirl could wish for nothing finer in life.

Jessica’s squawky outburst surprised the handler as he tried to put on the ponyboots. She’d recognised they were her own pair from Rabbit Island. (Nobody appreciates a comfortable pair of boots as much as a ponygirl!) It was as if her quality of life had improved in an instant. The handler smiled as he realized the sound was not distress but was sheer delight and relief. Putting them on her he noticed they fitted her as well as any boots he’d ever seen. Her feet and those boots seemed to belong together, he thought, as he tightly laced to them to mid-calf.

The final item of Jessica’s new outfit was a bright steel chain - a ‘Y chain’ they called it. The carabiner-style clips at each end were snapped to Jessica’s nipple rings and to her labia padlock to create a Y of chain on the front of her leather-clad torso.

“Up!” the handler commanded with a tug on the chain. She rose to her feet. With the added inches of the sole and the hoof angle of the boots, she was now taller than he was. “Nice teeth,” he casually commented. The design of the hood and the bit between her teeth served to accentuate the beauty of a ponygirl’s mouth.

He led Jessica by her Y chain, thereby demonstrating its primary purpose, towards the overhead cableway that ran along the length of the stable block. He positioned her beneath the cableway and stood in front of her. Even with her limited sight Jessica could see he was watching and waiting for something to arrive from behind her. He made a sudden grab and took hold of a dangling leash. In a quick and fluent move he clipped the connector to a large D ring at the front of Jessica’s collar and moved swiftly to the side just as she felt an imperative tug.

All Jessica could do was concentrate on walking and not falling as she was pulled along by the cableway’s leash. The boots were fine of course, but the ponygirl bondage was different to Rabbit Island’s strict yet sensual strapping. The leatherbody, the tight neoprene hood and the neck brace combined to contain and control her utterly. Though she was curious to see who or what was in her neighbouring stalls, she simply couldn’t. The rigid collar and the tunnel-vision eyesight granted by the hood kept her eyes on what was ahead of her.

Ten yards ahead was another ponygirl, leashed to the cableway, and attired like Jessica, right down to the plaited tail swishing between her thighs. This ponygirl walked with a distinctive high-stepping clip. Jessica attempted to do the same, raising her knees higher and increasing the pace while shortening her stride. Whether it was a requirement or not, Jessica knew it would warm her up better than strolling in pace with her leash. It felt good to be moving her legs again. Still with Rabbit Island’s performance enhancing drugs within her system she craved exercise almost as much as, usually more than, sex.

As the mechanised leash continued leading her at a medium trot Jessica sensed that something was very different. It was her boots - they were silent! The bells that had jingled to every step she’d ever taken as a ponygirl had been removed. Only the dull thud of her rubber soles on the concrete floor remained. It wasn’t so much the sound of her own bells she missed but the reassuring sound of the other ponygirls. She could recognize each of them by the unique cadence of the bells alone.

She emerged into the bright outdoors and into a new regime. A man unhooked her leash from the overhead cableway and led her to the training and evaluation ring.

RACING THE CLOCK

Jessica was clipped onto a frame, which felt similar to being harnessed to a ponytrap. It was what they called a rotator - a large revolving frame with braced ten-metre long arms with harness attachments at the ends. Normally it was equipped with four arms to hold four ponygirls for pace training. Today it was set in clock racing mode. That is to say there were just two arms, which could rotate independently around the axis like the hands of a clock. The ten-metre radius of the arm provided the ponygirl with a lap of just over sixty metres.

Another ponygirl was being attached to the other arm on the opposite side of the frame though Jessica with her tunnel vision and unyielding neck brace was not yet aware of her fellow pony. She was however aware of being attached to the frame by multiple attachment points at the back of her leatherbody. Then there were meddling hands around her buttocks and tail. Her handler had connected an electrical wire from the rotator to her butt plug.

Suddenly Jessica felt a sharp pain deep within her rectum.

“When you feel that, you walk,” her handler shouted like a drill sergeant. “Always right hoof first!”

Jessica walked at the steady purposeful pace she knew well - slightly more than three miles an hour.

“Good!” the handler shouted encouragingly as Jessica completed a couple of circuits. She could tell by the fading of his voice that he stood in the same place waiting for her to complete each circuit. Halfway around the circuit another man stood, although he barely acknowledged her. The vocal affirmations of Jessica’s handler did not prevent his application of his whip on her buttocks each time she passed him. Jessica became aware of somebody else, another ponygirl slightly affecting her rhythm, but it was company of sorts and she was glad of it.

“When you feel two jolts you trot!” he explained slowly and loudly after Jessica’s second circuit, making quite certain he would only say it once.

Seconds later, Jessica felt two painful contractions like sharp cramps deep within her. She trotted as required, a formal high stepping trot, but it seemed so lifeless without the jingling of boot bells, and harder to maintain a rhythm. Then Jessica felt something change. Up until then the two hands of the monstrous rotating frame were fixed opposite each other forcing the ponygirls to run at the same pace. Then the occasional jolts transmitted from the ponygirl on the other side of the circle ceased. The two rotating arms had been unlocked and could turn at their own pace like hands on a very large clock.

The whip lashed her buttocks again. “Move it! The race has started!” her handler yelled. A race? Jessica was confused for a moment, but she understood the word race well enough.She shifted her pace up a gear.

Jessica was beginning to adapt to the tightness of the leatherbody and the collar. The rigidity of her posture and the way the leatherbody sheltered her from the breeze seemed to concentrate her mind on the task in hand - pumping her thighs and moving with her unique little jiggle that pony drivers had often commented on. It felt good to be running again, her lungs filling her chest, which pushed against the leather bands encircling it.

The two hands of this bizarre clock had moved from the opposite positions they occupied earlier. The whip hit Jessica’s buttocks yet again. “Faster. She’s gaining on you!” her handler yelled urgently. Why didn’t he say so earlier? Jessica thought to herself as she stepped up another gear, gladly trading grace for pace.

Five more circuits brought five more swipes of the whip, but the handler’s accompanying tone of voice seemed more optimistic, until on one pass the whip was coupled with a shout of “atta girl!” His encouragement helped, but Jessica knew she could have run much faster if only Debbie was at her side and the commanding reassuring presence of Riccardo was behind her.

After another five circuits seeing nothing but the repetition of two handlers coming in and out of her sight, something else entered her field of vision. It was her opponent, clad in a leatherbody, hooded and neck-braced just like she was. The girl was beginning to struggle. Her running was losing form, not helped by the angry ranting of her handler. Jessica’s handler wasn’t even using the whip now. She could even see his smile as she ran past him.

Jessica was gaining rapidly on the girl, like a hunter about to pounce on her prey. When she was four yards behind the girl and closing with each stride, the ponygirl collapsed. Jessica ran into her, unable to stop in time. The beaten ponygirl slumped, but harnessed to the steel arm she could not fall to the ground. Jessica bent forward panting for breath, sensing heat and perspiration building within her leatherbody as she fought to recover. The handlers detached the defeated ponygirl from her harnessing points and let her slump lifelessly to the ground.

“Give her a beating and send her to the mines,” Jessica’s handler instructed the other. He seemed to take a certain pleasure at those words. “I told you this new one was quality but you didn’t believe me!”

At such a triumphant moment on Rabbit Island Jessica would have expected a condescending yet oddly pleasurable petting and sweet-talking session from her driver. Things were very different here. The handler took hold of Jessica’s Y chain and led her from the training circuit.

Fifty yards along the track a team of ponygirls was waiting. There were three of them, two in front and one behind, with space for another beside her. They were all identically attired in their black hoods and leatherbodies. Jessica figured that was exactly how she looked too or she wouldn’t be joining their team.

The three ponygirls were standing between a pair of railway tracks, hitched to a four-seat open wagon with a flatbed area behind. Unable to look downwards, Jessica’s toes kicked then stumbled over the rail. The handler snapped a series of metal fastenings to the D rings of her leatherbody. She felt her head pulled back as the rings at the sides of her built-in bit were connected to unseen reins. Something was happening to her butt tail, Jessica could feel somebody connecting something. ‘Wiring her up’ she heard the handler say. She felt an excruciating pain in her belly, an electrical discharge from the anal insert.

“Working fine,” the handler called out, chuckling to the driver. Their fun wasn’t for sharing with ponygirls.

Then Jessica felt smaller jolt in her belly. Immediately her fellow ponygirls leant forward, gradually hauling the carriage into motion. Jessica instinctively joined in, imitating the ponygirl four feet in front of her. The railway track descended a slope causing the ponygirls to reach full pace almost at once. A ton of wagon rolling behind them was all the incentive the ponygirls needed to keep running.

Suddenly, after five minutes of steady running along a flat route the rails began to slope upward. Jessica strained with effort, feeling her lack of fitness and unsure if she could pull any harder.

THE PONYGIRL EXPRESS
(Riccardo and Jessica)

Witnessing the team of four ponygirls stamping energetically towards them, Riccardo was impressed. The slight incline of the track immediately before the halt was designed to take the speed out of the ponygirls’ gait, yet if their pace dropped too early they would falter halfway and their carriage would roll backwards down the slope, taking four humiliated ponygirls with it. This time the ponygirls came to a halt directly in front of Riccardo and Peter. Two men jumped down from the carriage, exchanging a chummy greeting with Peter and a welcome to Riccardo.

Riccardo looked the ponygirls up and down. Covered in leather and latex, all but their thighs and buttocks, there was little for his eyes to appreciate apart from the sleek and strict bondage they endured. They were impressive without doubt, but he missed the intimate, almost teasing, strapping of a naked body that was such an essential part of the Rabbit Island ponygirls. Hooded in black latex, these ponygirls lacked the appealing individuality which Rabbit Island ponygirls retained even after their thorough training. They look so anonymous, he commented to Peter. That was the whole point, Peter explained, the suppression of individuality so that these females are just faceless parts of a machine.

Peter and Riccardo stepped up into the carriage. They had the four seats to themselves.

“No driver?” Riccardo asked.

“Not required!” Peter answered. “We just give them the signal to start.” He pressed a green button on the simple dashboard control panel. The four ponygirls seemed to judder in unison before leaning forward and pulling the carriage into motion. A few yards along the track they were on a downward slope and building up the speed needed to reach the next destination.

“The green button sends a little shock into the ponygirls’ asses. That’s their signal to go. The one at the front right hand side is the leader, the others keep in step with her. They have to maintain a fast pace so they have enough momentum to make it up the slope at the next station,” said Peter as they glided along. “If they fail to make it up the slope they’ll be punished, but that seldom happens.”

The journey along the tracks was fast and smooth. Riccardo could readily see how efficient this arrangement was. It answered one of his questions - why there was such a high proportion of ponygirls to drivers on the island. The statistic had confused him when it was first mentioned. Now he understood. Here were four ponygirls working the whole day long without the aid of a driver.

The track-borne ride was so very different to the twisting undulating trails of Rabbit Island, the jogging of the ponygirls didn’t transmit to the carriage like the two-pony configuration he was used to. Out of pony driver habit he studied the buttocks and thighs of the ponygirl immediately in front of him checking for rhythm and form. Then he realized they were more than just familiar, it was Jessica’s distinctive wiggle that he knew so well! The recently applied brand in the centre of her left buttock left no doubt in his mind. The satisfaction of discovering her whereabouts was tempered by the realization of what day-to-day life would be like for her.

Jessica had recognized Riccardo long before then. He’d been standing next to her, talking to Peter, for a couple of minutes before they set off. To avoid mutual embarrassment she had made no attempt to make her presence known to him. She knew he would figure it out soon enough.

They were approaching a cluster of buildings. It was a much smarter quarter of the Island than Riccardo had seen before. Without any prompting, the ponygirls began to speed up a little in anticipation of the halt’s incline fifty yards ahead of them. Once again their approach speed, their deceleration and gentle stop were faultless, even allowing for one new ponygirl in their quartet.

THE BITCH FRAME
(Kate)

After Riccardo and Peter dismounted from the carriage, Peter leaned over to push the green button. After the pony team had received the customary jolt, the Ponygirl Express trotted off, unattended and unladen, towards its next stop.

Riccardo heard dogs yapping, not just one or two, but a whole pack. On Rabbit Island there were only a couple of hounds in the orchard, friendly mutts that scarcely made a sound.

Peter led him to a sprawling complex of single story units opening onto a large area of lawn with mature trees forming its border.

“Do you have bitch-dog training on Rabbit Island?” Peter asked as they walked.

“No we don’t, just puppy-girl training. Nothing with animals.” Riccardo replied. He knew exactly what Peter meant by bitch-dog training, the incessant yapping of the dogs in the near distance confirmed it.

They turned the corner of a building and came upon the bitches - four of them sitting on padded mats alongside a long wall, about two metres apart. The naked women wore heavy studded leather collars, by which they were chained to the wall. Their hands and feet were leather mitted in the same fashion as Rabbit Island's puppygirl regime. Hands were held in a useless fist shape. Feet were subjected to the pressure pad devices in the soles of the mittens that emitted a painful shock if the bitch attempted to stand. These new ones, said Peter, were dual punishment models utilising sharp needles AND electric shocks.

The four bitches, seeing the two men approach, dutifully assumed their doggy-style hands and knees position, looking up at the men, with their mouths wide open as if awaiting a treat. Their upward curving tails, emanating from their butt plugs, wagged gently to indicate their apparent pleasure at the men’s arrival. Thin black leather crotch belts held the plugs in position.

Peter grabbed the short hair of one of the bitches tilting her head up to Riccardo. She grimaced at the strain on her hair but was otherwise a model of obedience.

“Ever used these gags before?” Peter asked.

Riccardo peered into the gaping mouth and noticed a metallic framework within. Ingenious, he thought.

“It holds the mouth open but they can still eat. Close your mouth!” he commanded the bitch. She did so, but very slowly, and with obvious effort. After a couple of seconds her mouth was wide open again.

“You see? Spring loaded!” Peter delighted in explaining. “They can eat, but speech is very difficult. They can’t close their mouths quick enough.”

Peter let go of the bitch’s hair and moved to the second one. He took another gag from the shelf above her, one unique to the bitches. It was a real animal bone with leather cords tied to each end. He pushed the bone into the bitch’s mouth like a bit gag and fastened the cords at the back of her head. This bitch had copper-red hair, obviously dyed, cut in a short, shaggy style which seemed perfectly suited her status. Closer inspection showed her face was made up - lips a deep red, eyes shadowed in black and brows accentuated. Riccardo was quite taken with a nervous looking russet-haired bitch looking at him. She appeared familiar to him, as well she might. The hair and make up couldn’t disguise that it was Kate.

Riccardo recalled how delicious Kate looked and acted as a puppy girl on Rabbit Island so he wasn’t at all sorry to see her resuming a canine role. He especially liked how her ass was plugged with a curved dog tail and split by a neat crotchbelt - liked in the sense of feeling his penis growing to fill its restrictive tube. The perspex restraint curtailed his erection, making him strangely glad not to be adding another bone to the scene. It was, after all, his first day on the job!

Peter unhooked Kate’s leash from the wall and led her crawling onto the lawn. Riccardo walked on Kate’s other side as they made towards a shady area beneath some large trees.

Kate stopped, digging in her front paws and tensing her limbs until her leash pulled taught. Peter laughed, moved his grip to her collar and dragged her the remaining two metres to the wrought iron bitch-frame.

“Grab her arm and put the shackle on it!” Peter told Riccardo, as he hauled the reluctant Kate onto the frame. He often met with this kind of rebellion. Kate’s struggles were feeble compared to others who, fittingly, fought like dogs to avoid being fixed to the bitch-frame.

Once her wrists were locked into the front shackles Kate’s resistance was reduced to gestures. Her knees and ankles were soon buckled into the frame. Two straps dangling from its underside fastened across her back, leaving her immobile and exposed in the doggy position. A chin holder with a protruding spike was adjusted to keep her head facing forward rather than downwards.

“We’ll take out the butt plug,” Peter said, “just to provide more options. Can you pass me the dog skin from that bag?”

Riccardo pulled out the bristly Alsatian hide and draped it across Kate’s back. The velcro straps at its corners fastened under Kate’s armpits and around the tops of her thighs holding the hide in place like a coat.

“Dog claws can be pretty sharp but the hide should protect her back from the worst of it.” Peter said as the two men looked down at Kate’s trembling body. “Could you get the lube please?”

Riccardo reached into the bag again to retrieve a small, pump-handled oil can, like one he used as a kid for maintaining his pushbike. He squirted it liberally onto Kate’s exposed sex then poked the nozzle between her pussy lips and squeezed again. He rubbed in the light oil with the palm of his hand, a finger slipping between her labia into her moistening folds. His gentle but insistent rubbing was soon rewarded. Kate couldn’t help herself. She rattled the frame in response. The ironwork was designed to clang and rattle a bit, Peter explained, the videos were much more interesting with a little noise and movement from the bitch’s struggles.

“Nice looking bitch. Cute ass.” Peter commented casually as he moved towards the surrounding trees. “One of yours?”

“Not exactly mine,” Riccardo chuckled, with a hint of regret in his voice, “but yes, she’s from Rabbit Island.”

Peter was busily adjusting several small cameras fixed to the surrounding tree trunks whilst speaking to somebody on a walkie-talkie. All the cameras were focussed on Kate, who was about to play a starring role in a long-running video series.

As if Kate wasn’t fixed securely enough, Riccardo had noticed the bottom of the frame was equipped with nipple clamps at the ends of light chains. Each in turn, he pinched the clamps between the finger and thumb of one hand while his other pulled downwards on Kate’s substantial nipples to bring then within reach of the serrated-edge bite of the clamps.

Kate yelped, her eyes widening with shock, as the vicious clamps bit into her nipples. It was no more or less a reaction than Riccardo expected. He must have clamped a thousand nipples in the last couple of years on Rabbit Island. He stroked her short red hair, very taken with how its vibrant copper colour complemented the blue eyes looking up at him.

Peter was done with his camera tweaking. He and Riccardo walked away leaving Kate rattling against the metal restraints of the frame. Riccardo took a last look over his shoulder. Did he feel guilty about her treatment or just regretful that he couldn’t take advantage while she was secured in the position he liked the most?

BURIED
(Mandy)

Two strange lumps were protruding from the lawn in front of Peter and Riccardo. Positioned eight feet apart the black cloth bags looked like improvised goalposts for a casual soccer game, but these bags were moving!

Peter bent over one of them. Riccardo instinctively stationed himself above the other, watching as Peter pulled the bag off the object. It was a woman’s head. She was very much alive, but silent due to the wide strips of tape plastered over her mouth.

Riccardo pulled off the cloth bag between his feet. It was Mandy, shaking her head angrily and managing to complain despite the tape gagging her. He ripped the tape from her mouth. She strained her head back against the manicured lawn around her neck.

“Ouch! That hurt! Riccardo, Sir, look what they’ve done to me!” she cried. “They strapped me up and buried me. I need water, but they won’t give me any.”

Burial had certainly not dulled the edge from Mandy’s notorious complaining. Riccardo saw her mouth within licking distance of the toe of his shoe. It was as low as somebody could get. He felt a degree of sympathy for her, though he knew that her habitual whining was probably the cause of her current predicament

“She refused to drink last night.” Peter said. He was kneeling down feeding bread to his own buried girl.

“Drink?” Mandy responded indignantly. “Those dogs were pissing on me!”

Peter had the measure of Mandy already. He merely laughed.“So are you going to drink this morning, or shall we gag you again?”

“What choice do I have? I don’t want to die of thirst!” Mandy replied with resignation.

As they were walking away Peter clarified. “They’re not actually buried. She’s strapped up inside a tube which slots into a prepared hole on in the ground. Then the turf is carefully rolled around her neck. And the dogs, they’re fed a diuretic. It makes their urine weak and quite palatable enough for a thirsty slave.”

After Mandy and her companion had been watered by the dogs, they would be fitted with red ballgags and dark sunglasses. A miserable day of taunts and teasing awaited them, as that area of the lawn was the open-air extension to the canteen, regularly used for coffee breaks and lunches.

Suddenly a motley pack of dogs raced from an enclosure at the far side of the lawn, barking and yapping as they gambolled over towards Kate and the two buried girls. Peter and Riccardo watched from a short distance. The dogs began marking Mandy and the other girl. Mandy’s head went back, facing towards the sky, and her mouth opened wide as she tried to catch the spray of a large Alsatian.

Over by the trees Riccardo could see a dalmatian had already mounted Kate, while another muzzled dog was trying to lick her face. He was too far away to see or hear Kate’s reaction but there was no doubting his own. His penis swelled until it painfully filled its plastic tube. His hand involuntarily rubbed against his crotch. Oh to be a dog! Knowing that he would be able to watch the video of Kate’s animal rape later that night left Riccardo with mixed feelings. Sympathy for Kate? Yes, but lust and jealousy too. It was the last of these that concerned him the most.

THE BANGKOK AND DISTRICT PRIVATE SANATORIUM
(Alex)

Doctor Alexander Kundera collected his visitor’s badge from the charming Thai receptionist. He clipped the badge to the breast pocket of his linen jacket and walked the corridors of the sanatorium searching for the reason for his visit, and the cause, indirectly, of Rabbit Island’s current demise.

Like many of the doors he passed, the door to room 234 was already wide open so as to allow sunlight to the corridor. Alex had to lean into the room to read the number, confirming he’d found the right one. A young woman was sitting in one of the two chairs, staring serenely out of the window at the lush gardens.

“Good morning,” Alex offered awkwardly, realizing that he didn’t have a name to append to his greeting.

“Jane. They’ve registered me as Jane Doe, but they call me Janie. Are you Doctor Kun... something?” She asked.

“Kundera - but please call me Alex. Pleased to meet you, Janie.”

“They said you were a well known writer, but I haven’t heard of you. I hope you’re not offended. I haven’t heard of anyone else either!”

“Don’t worry. I’m only famous for books on psychology,” Alex said self-deprecatingly, trying to put her at ease. “I’ve written a few. Cases of memory loss like yours are my speciality.”

“Have you ever known one who lost her arms too?” she asked.

Alex hadn’t consciously registered that her elbow-length sleeves were empty, not until she mentioned it in such stark terms. He lived on an island where females so often had the hands tied behind them that the visual absence of Janie’s hands didn’t seem in the least unusual. He had noticed her face, quite pretty but with overly tanned skin, heavily freckled. Her fair hair was short, just covering her ears, and seemed prematurely greying. He’d also noticed her breasts, their full shape evident beneath the loose V-neck tee shirt.

There was an almost full glass of water on the table in front of the girl. Alex breezily took it away, muttering words about fixing a couple of fresh drinks for them. The kitchenette was conveniently behind the girl’s back.

Engaging someone with complete memory loss in idle chit-chat wasn’t easy but Alex managed a faltering conversation as he unzipped the black leather wallet containing Dr. Schmidt’s potions. His fingertips touched each one in turn: Truth, memory and, if necessary, death. First the water, then the potion, poured very gently. Finally, remembering the doctor’s advice he placed the straw in the glass but didn’t stir.

Alex placed their drinks on the table and diligently arranged his notepad and tape recorder between them. “Cheers,” he said with a degree of irony as he took a long drink from his glass. As he expected, the young woman mirrored him, leaning forward and sipping at least an inch of water through her straw.

The interview commenced. Alex knew the truth drug would hit Janie’s system within ten minutes. He could tell by her irritable responses that his line of questioning was the same as she had been subjected to many times in the previous weeks. She knew nothing of her past life.

Dr Schmidt’s truth drug didn’t change matters, except to reveal the depths of her despair.

“I can’t slit my wrists, I can’t take an overdose, but I can jump in front of a truck as well as anybody. Every evening after dark, when nobody can see me, I go for a walk around the hospital perimeter. Heavy trucks pass by just a few yards away, and I often think of stepping in front of one,” said Janie, her eyes piercing his, carrying the conviction of her words.

Alex didn’t react, except to write in his notes: ‘Stage B: Freely admitted to suicidal thoughts.’

“I’m useless aren’t I? I can’t do anything for myself. I don’t even know my own name. I can’t dress myself, feed myself. I even need somebody’s help to go to the god damn bathroom!”

Alex listened impassively while making notes - a psychologist’s regular defence when there are no words for an adequate reply. She sucked the remainder of her water. Doctor Schmidt was right. The first potion had given her a thirst. He got up from his chair and refilled their glasses. After truth came memory, or so Doctor Schmidt planned. Alex wasn’t so sure.

“I feel I can trust you,” said Janie, “like I can tell you anything... except I can’t remember anything to tell you.”

Alex chuckled with her at the irony. Her trust was borne out of a drug, as indeed her memories might soon be.

Meanwhile Alex was in search of a truth he didn’t want to hear, and for once hoped that Doctor Schmidt’s medicine would fail. He showed Janie a series of photographs. A dog, a house, a baby, a mountain, a bicycle, a pizza, a rock band, a canoe, and hundreds more. She knew what things were but not how they might apply to her own existence.

“I need to look at the wounds.” Alex said, breaking the awkward silence as they stared at the photographs scattered across the table. “Do you mind if I touch you?”

“I can’t stop you,” she replied, “but no, I don’t mind at all if you touch. The staff here are very kind to me. Very polite and considerate.”

She couldn’t help adjusting her posture as Alex stood up and stepped behind her. He bent over her, breathing on her neck as his hands lifted the tee shirt clear of her head. Without arms to impede its progress the garment seemed disturbingly easy to lift clear. These were full bone amputations. Usually a surgeon will endeavour to save something below the shoulder to facilitate prosthetics, but not in Janie’s case.

“Did they inform you that I would touch you in intimate places?” Alex asked.

Janie swallowed and nodded. “Yes, they told me that. I trust you.”

He moved his hands towards her shorts. Unbuckling the belt, unbuttoning and unzipping, he eased her shorts down over her hips until they fell to her ankles. The tattoo near her labia was indeed a rabbit motif - a poor imitation of a design formerly used on Rabbit Island.

“What’s the significance of the rabbit?” Janie asked.

“I really don’t know.” Alex answered thoughtfully. It was true, he didn’t know the significance of this particular rabbit.

He placed a folded towel on the wooden seat and sat the girl down on it. Then he blindfolded her with a sleep mask - the type commonly used on airlines. This one was marked Qantas, and came from a complimentary pack from his most recent journey.

“Comfortable?” Alex asked, taking up a position behind her chair.

“Fine, thank you,” Janie replied with a Mona Lisa smile. This was the most stimulating thing that had happened to her since she could remember.

He kissed her on the head, then on her shoulders. His hands moved to her breasts and her nipples. They hardened in response to his touch. “Tell me if you want me to stop. Tell me what you are thinking.”

“Nothing, except it feels nice to be touched. Alex, do you think I’ve made love before?”

“I’m sure you have,” Alex said with confidence. “Does this bring back good memories? If you don’t know, take a guess.”

“It feels good, but I don’t sense any memories. I feel relaxed and happy. A little excited too.” Janie giggled.

As she was still under the influence of the truth drug, Alex had no reason to doubt her. He pulled on her nipples, (fit for a ponygirl, he thought to himself), stretching and squeezing them. They’d been pierced in the recent past, he could tell by the marks. He took his hands away.

“No. Please don’t stop. Can’t you keep doing that? Perhaps I might think of something if you keep going,” Janie suggested.

Alex resumed his ministrations, his fingers moving lightly on her ribs and belly.

“Hey, that tickles!” Janie protested feebly. Soon Alex had her laughing and then begging as she squirmed in her seat, unable and unwilling to prevent the delicious assault.

“Lower please, go lower,” she said, her breathing rapid and trembling.

“What would you like me to do?” Alex asked. It was a cruel thing to ask somebody under the influence of a truth drug.

“Fuck me!” she blurted out, before realizing what she had said. “Oh god, you’re a doctor! I’m sorry. Why would anyone want to have sex with a freak anyway?”

“You’ve a very fuckable body,” Alex said, entering into the spirit of truthfulness for a moment.

His fingers had reached her short, formerly shaved, pubic hair. Stroking its silkiness, teasing her. He dipped lower, touching her labia pressing lightly on her clitoral hood. He would not go further until she revealed something, anything, to him.

Fifteen minutes of on-and-off teasing torment elapsed. Janie, sitting naked and blindfolded, was in despair, knowing that the relief and pleasure she craved was so close. Yet her memory was as dark as the blindfold itself. She sensed Alex was about to call a halt to his examination. They had another appointment for the same time tomorrow.

She wanted nothing more than to feel Alex’s fingers between her legs, even just for a few seconds. Suddenly, something came into her mind.

“Two lines!” she said fervently. “Two lines in the darkness.”

“What kind of lines?” Alex asked, his fingers brushing her clitoris and moist labia as a reward.

“They’re shiny. Parallel lines. Curving.” She was becoming agitated, excited at the thought of giving birth to a memory as much as she was by Alex’s long-awaited physical reward.

“Like railway tracks?” Alex probed. Janie sighed as he continued to lightly stroke her; helping her to what she hoped was an inevitable outcome.

“Two lines, yes, like railway tracks... Oh God. Don’t stop... tracks. Does that mean something?”

It wasn’t the question to ask a psychologist, to whom everything means something. Even if Alex was unsure, he knew it meant something. However vague, however distant, he sensed it was a significant memory. Janie waited for her reward, unable to concentrate on anything else by then.

Alex bent down to kiss her neck, his nose nuzzling her ear as his fingers continued to rub and probe her sex. His cock was twitching, demanding to be nested in the warm and moist flesh where his fingers were.

“Oh Jesus!” Janie proclaimed with a burst of hot breath. “Yes, yes, don’t stop just yet.”

He didn’t stop. Completing the girl’s pleasure was the least he could do in the circumstances.

Alex recalled Doctor Schmidt’s instructions. They were explicit: ‘Don’t hesitate to use the third vial if the second shows any sign of releasing memories.’

“Can I have another drink of water?” Janie asked, sighing with contentment.

Alex obliged.