I absolutely must recommend the deliciously wicked stories written by the sinful and creative author Venom (pen name). His blog VENOMSTORIES contains a myriad of fantastic BDSM stories.
To entice you further, below is part 1 of Pony Boot Camp. To enjoy part 2 of this story, you will need to follow the link at the end of this post...
Enjoy fellow deviants.
Pony Boot Camp — Part One
Prologue (Law and Order)
It was either this, or two years without probation or
parole. Maybe I’d really pushed it too far this time. My latest stunt crowned a
dubious career that had started when I’d been fifteen, and with a true classic:
shoplifting. Breach of the peace, public nuisance and damage to property had
followed; they had even nicked me once for hacking the server of the public
library (don’t ask what reason I’d done that for).
I forgot to introduce myself: My name is Alexia Wert. But
you can call me Alex.
I consider myself intelligent, have never done hard drugs,
never shown violent or otherwise deviant behaviour. I never was rebellious as
such, never wanted to fight the system. I was just bored, wanted to test myself
and my environment alike, wanted to know what I could get away with. And with
what not.
This time they had dragged me out of a stolen car. It had
only been a joyride, nothing more. I may be a troublemaker, but I’m not a liar
– and I stand by my actions. However, the prosecutor not only claimed theft,
but felt free to spice things up with intent to resell. And if that wasn’t
enough, he added abscond from justice for good measure, since my silly self
hadn’t stopped the car immediately when spotted by the coppers (a circumstance
that had earned me a healthy bite of tarmac sandwich, a rib contusion and two
pissed policemen’s knee prints on my back – not to mention the titillating
experience of having a nine-mil pressed against the back of my head). To top it
off, I was over eighteen by now, and considering my mighty criminal record the
judge refused to show lenience by once more applying law related to juvenile
offenders.
It dawned on me that I was running fresh out of luck.
“Salvation” came in form of a one-time offer near the end of
my trial: three months in a special boot camp – that, or the prosecution would
aim for two years in prison. By then I already stood under the impression that
the judge would go for the requested twenty-four months pour encourager les
autres. Which caused me to listen to the offer. They were somewhat thin on the
details, yet “educational techniques also used for the dressage of animals”
didn’t sound too hot. Would I be taught how to fetch and play dead? But three
month to have my spirit broken and reshaped into a form useful to society was
still better than sticking my tongue all the way up a bull dyke’s minge for the
next 730 nights.
So the verdict came to pass that I, after the complete
healing of my rib contusion, was to be transferred to the Deepfall Advanced
Correctional Centre and kept there for a term not shorter than ninety days.
CLICK FOR PART 2 OF PONY BOOT CAMP