"Leila, bring me a pony, will you? I'm off to class."

"Yassuh, but she a fresh 'un. Not broke in yet." The brown stabler laid aside her broom and came to the edge of the barn's yard-high platform, carressing her broad rump with her pink palms. "Tendah, you know. She in for surprises heah."

"Well, it'll be the worse for her then, won't it? Bring her on anyway. This heat forbids walking. What gives her over to your good care so soon, Leila? Our students don't usually visit the disciplinarian on their first day."

"Slapped a handler, sah, right off the train from town yestiddy. Sumpun 'bout imput 'nance." She big menial spat out the word in a chirpy falsetto and narrowed her nostrils, affecting disdain.

"Oh, wonderful. Rebellious, eh? I really haven't time to do your work for you, Leila, but if she's all you have, she'll have to do. I'll need a seat belt, I suppose, and let's use the punishment reins on this little filly, but don't produce them until she's comfy. She might pee all over your immaculate porch at the sight of them. And I think a two-foot whalebone."

"Yassuh. What size saddle?"

"Has she been, ah, evacuated?"

"Yassuh. She clear as a bell. And," she added slyly, "she woman-sahzed for her age."

"Then I'll leave it to your discretion, Leila, depending on how much correction you think she needs. And spice it up. We'll give the brat a vivid memory of her first day at Spurwood."

"An' how," smiled Leila. She disappeared in her bright print dress through the black aperture of the rambling structure after her freshman charge, barely creaking the dry boards of the old platform. For her not inconsiderable size Leila moved deftly. As disciplinarian of last resort in a girls' school housing only the worst of miscreants, clumsiness or indecision would have ill become her.

Going to the tangled nest of bikes clustered at platform's end, I kicked one free from the others, rolling it to the dock so our pony could mount easily, though probably not modestly. A tricycle really, of lightweight construction and ingeniously geared to allow a scared and strong young girl to tow all but the heaviest of riders, the device was a common form of transport on Spurwood's flat and secluded grounds. Definitely not a popular conveyance among those students chosen -- rather arbitrarily, I might add -- to serve in the pony pool.

I stepped round one of the large rear wheels and brushed dust from the low-slung wicker seat astride the rear axle, settling comfortable into position behind the elevated driver's seat tubing, unadorned for now and at eye level. Releasing the sprocket and pedals -- metal shoes, really -- I swung them out to the horizontal, where self-locking hinges held them rigid until we -- or rather I -- was ready to depart. For midmorning it was already hot; my girl had a rather steamy journey ahead of her, though not as steamy as mine promised to be.

And reluctant she was to begin it. She emerged slowly from the stable's deep recesses, her face straight ahead, large terror-suffused eyes blinking madly against our Southern sun. Leila's standard hobbler was no great impediment. I had seen veteran troublemakers run in it, though awkwardly.

The youngster now restrained -- perhaps 16, but as Leila had hinted, well into womanhood -- appeared impeded less by the device than a natural fear of the unknown, and by the prospect of splinters in what seemed to be, at a distance of some yards, well-turned and graceful bare feet. She would soon learn to ignore such minor forms of pain.

The ends of the heavy steel bar nestled behind the naked girl's bent knees were tightly fastened above and below the joints with adjustable loops of riveted leather, holding her legs open in a lewd squat. Further encouraging her servile posture was a simple figure-eight cinch strap, knotted around her distended and bulbous breasts at the chest wall and strung from between them to the bar's middle. It looked tight enough to play a Bach cello suite on. If I knew Leila, and I did, the cinch was thin and cutting, watered daily by her reprobates' urine, and baked to acidic rawhide in the sun. A sweating and struggling girl who cut herself on such a strap only struggled the more, in vain. The Spurwood girl who learned nothing else in four years learned composure.

Each of her small wrists were secured by loops to the bar, behind it and palms in, some inches inside her spread knees. Leila was gentle with the new girls; she hovered behind the pony inching its way across the platform, whistling absently and encouraging the youngster's progress.

This she did with rhythmic arcs of a springy yard-long wooden paddle, whose last foot was stitched with very grainy sandpaper. She uppercutted the girl's generous and jiggling buttocks with powerful and solid-sounding thwockkss, dragging the pebbly paddletip up and off the quivering nates after each smarting spank.

The girl fisted her hands and squeezed tears from her eyes at each swat, clumsily swinging her pale and obviously pampered body forward in the humiliating crabwalk. The hobbler in itself wasn't a painful getup but inconvenient, serving to remind the wearer, usually confined here for willful impulse, that hasty impulse had brought her here.

I had time to inspect my trussed pony, who took perhaps two dozen swats -- more, probably, then she'd accepted in her life -- as she and Leila inched towards me. Reclined in the carriage, my view was ankle-height; she would have been arresting from any angle, but was the more so for the expansive display of her charms afforded me. Tall, full-figured and a little plump for her age, bullet-breasted and heavy-hipped, she would have been statuesque drawn to full height, as she had no doubt carried herself in the world.

Leila broght her to a halt at the platform's verge, the girl's toes bunching at the air beneath them. Her leonine, ringleted brunette mane had been roughly twirled and yanked into a topknot to expose a tender, freckled nape and a broad jawline which had probbaly been pointed to the horizon most of her life.

So it was now, but by mechanical, not attitudinal, means: her full lips moved fishlike along the flared base of a large butt plug that forced her mouth open in an astonished and silent oval, below equally incredulous green eyes. Buckled by straps to the rear of a leather collar, the plug drew her head back in an attentive stare. The girl squatted quivering, breathing stertorously through her snubby nose, leaking tears and sweat onto the platform.

"She tastin' the lass dinnah she et in de free worl'," said Leila. "From the sahz o' de stool she slid out dis mawnin', it uz a good 'n, too. It neah broke de saddle strap holdin' dat plug in all night."

Leila dropped a chunky burlap bag on the platform by the girl's feet and knelt over it, rummaging through its clanking contents. The girl's flattened ears twitched at the ominous atonal chorus at her feet, and her head strained to swivel around and assess the awful surprises being readied for her.

Leila saw this, raised her paddle high, and brought it down almost vertically with a sssssSWAPP on the blubbery shelf of the pony's outthrust buttocks. "Ahs front, peeg," she drawled. The girl jerked at the blow, stomping and yanking her tightly bound wrists at the heavy transverse bar between her legs.

Out came a broad leather belt, which Leila quickly spun around the uncomprehending girl's soft waist and hauled closed from the back, leveraging a coffee-colored knee into her spine as she forced wet gasps from the pony's stoppered lips. From the belt's sides depended single sturdy straps that swung free, their buckles tinkling against the weathered wood.

Leila next reached between the girl's spread knees and thumbed open a catch stringing the girl's teats to the bar. The cinch leapt skyward with a THRUNNGG, snaking and hopping. Its victim showed what small measure of relief she could, shaking her heavy tits from side to side. Still throttled at their base by the excruciating figure-eight strap, they only joggled tightly, white globes full to bursting with tender musculature and springy fat, skin drawn back and stretched smooth and thin as a soap bubble. The aureoles were large and smooth, pinkish for a brunette's, delicately veined; the nipples smoothly sculpted and erect, vulcanized now by outrage rather than eros. They looked a powdered, pampered pair that had been secretly and solitarily admired, cupped by the best lace New Orleans sold.

A single crop-stroke across these beauties now, I thought, would welt this girl to her very soul.

Leila's big hands blurred at the girl's wrists and tossed their fetters aside. The slave's arms hung, still deadened, as her mistress braced and gripped her armpits, hefting her. "Slahd yer toes inna pedals. monkey," she commanded, "and hol' the hannelbars. You goin' fo' the ride of yo' life."

Leila didn't even grunt as she swung the girl over my head and eased her slowly down, levitating her in front of my perch. The girl's protruding ass -- big, firm, violently pinkened by Leila's preparatory paddle-swats -- rolled and dimpled no more than 18 inches from my nose as she seesawed her still-pinioned knees, searching for purchase with her feet and slowly-awakening hands.

She found both, sliding her hands into the curiously-gloved sculpted handlegrips and arching her pretty toes downward into the shoelike bike pedals. When Leila saw the girl was about to take her own weight on her feet and hands, she nodded at me and let go.

We had done this before, of course, and were ready. The girl couldn't have known. Her whole body tautened and strained upward, and I heard a flatulent spluttering whine thorugh her butt-plug gag. I kicked closed the hinged heel-restraints on the bike pedals and heard them ratchet home over the naked coolie's insteps, while Leila yanked tight her wrist-restraints, fettering the girl's hands in the closed grips. Our little miscreant wanted to jump into the next county, but she had nowhere to go.

The miniscule needles carpeting the grips and pedals would have been minor irritations to a washerwoman or country girl, but they were shocking insults to leisured young city girls given to hand cream and pedicures.

While too short to cause deep punctures or severe bleeding, they were sharp enough to stab and harry at tender skin, like a burr chestnut rolled between the palms. They were barely tolerable if the sufferer constantly shifted her weight between all four stinging fulcrums, as our pony was now doing, but several minutes of this defensive squirming was normally the limit before an escape was necessary.

But escape to where? I knew from many previous trips on Spurwood's devilish rickshaws that sooner or later, depending on the driver's pain threshhold, she simply had to distribute her weight elsewhere. This girl was already circling and squatting her magnificently rotund heart-shaped ass, frantically searching for a seat that should be, must be, somewhere under her. Still collared to her shitty muzzle, she couldn't see below or behind her, and she strained down against the bar still pinioning her knees, creaking the leather straps.

What a difference, I thought appreciatively, 24 hours and a little legal leverage can make. Only yesterday at this time the little bitch before me would have disdained my admiring so much as her earrings, and she was now begging me to inspect every velvety millimeter of her exposed underside.

Leila had shaved bare her soft pink pussy-cleft and convex baby-fat mons, both of which were raised up and forced rearwards, doggiestyle, by her desperate attempts to arch off her needly perches. Her labia were fat and close-set, pillows of dewy denuded flesh that audibly snicked open and closed now as she struggled. The redder vaginal cusp flared reluctantly between the lips' moist aperture, narrow and velveteen, topped by a puffy hooded clitoris.

Her anal valey stretched wide with every backward thrust, brazenly displaying a pink and primly-puckered rectum, its entire corona dime-sized at the most. Had she ever had anything larger than a childhood suppository up there? I doubted it. In all it looked an innocent little crotch, one that had selfishly spurned penile attention... though I imagine the girl had coquettishly courted the same, sending many an esquire's son home to relieve himself with but a memory of her perfume.

Would that her young admirers could be here to witness a bit of Spurwood justice, I thought. It didn't take quite minutes for Leila to draw the girl's bicycle seat from the bag, though its exaggerated size made it seem so. Spurwood's freshman-sized plug worn all night and now sucked on by our pleb was a comic miniature of this phallus, normally reserved for senior girls with some arse-exercise... well, behind them. Occasionally, as now, it was used to punish especially refractory students. Despite its frightening size, I had seen needle-harangued drivers eventually settle on it as gratefully as on a toilet seat after a four-quart enema.

It looked large even in Leila's expansive hands as she experly masturbated it, wearing a rubber glove, with a colorless slick sap produced by trees native to our grounds that even the ants seemed to avoid. What use Nature had for the caustic lotion, discovered accidentally by a science techer here, we had never determined; but Nature can be, as we all know, unspeakably unkind.

She can also be inhumanly ingenious: the mysterious unguent caused no damage to human tissue, though it burned like lye -- but only after, conveniently enough, giving a preliminary and misleading sensation of comforting warmth. Spurwood girls caught in lesbian acts were made to publicly ply each other with dildoes greased with this venal liquid. It was entertaining indeed when their initial sighs of arousal suddenly became anguished groans, prolonged at the pleasure of whip-bearing monitors.

"No man o' mahn," whispered Leila forlornly, "wuz evah hung lahk dis."

Still out of the girl's sight, she polished the hand-carved dildo to a wet sheen with a snicketasnicketa up and down its imposing length, her curled thumb and forefinger bumping over its sharply-beveled, circumcised foreskin. The monster's mushroom-like head looked two inches wide, rearing from a nine-inch shaft that gradually widened to a two-and-a-half-inch wide knobby base. Oaken and stained jet-black, a sinuous network of engorged veins criscrossed its length. This particular godmiche seemed to have a dark history; absent was the slight hook that would have conformed it to a vagina, and faint whitish speckles on its tip suggested bacterial contact from previous wearers.

Leila dropped the phallus, fixed to a sturdy pipe, into its seat tubing with her gloved hand. I tightened it down, bringing my nose within inches of our driver's still-gyrating bottom. Fully fleshed as her buttocks were, they appeared smaller once the huge dildo was affixed, stern and implacable, under them. It stood waiting, inexhaustible, its knob perhaps a foot from my jaw as I sat forward, the girl's abundant globes eddying and kissing at eyebrow level.

Leila undid the bar at the pony's right knee while I unbuckled the left, and the black overseer slid the girl's fetter away, allowing her to squat even more lewdly. This she immediately did, scissoring her cramped thighs wide and splaying her asscheeks and delectable cunt down, toward the unknown.

Off-center a bit, she poked the giant cock into her right buttock at first, and I watched it sink into the unresisting globe before she jerked back up, startled by the unexpected object. She experimented again, this time more slowly, and this time the cockhead bumped the perineum and slid slickly forward, nosing apart the shaven cuntlips. Again she shot up and hovered, trembling, thinking, fearing the worst. She knew suddenly what it was under her.

"Phobos and Deimos," I said to Leila languidly, drinking in the impudent fatness of the 16-year-old's hesitant buttocks. "The two moons of Mars.