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Happy Birthday, Tami Smithers

Sorry, Tami, I forgot! Yesterday was it.


Here, during a harsh interrogation, is when we learn that Tami’s birthday is July 27. This was written in 2001.


As Tami began to crest her eyes opened in anguish, and saw the door open and four formally dressed people walk in: Figvee, Mr. LaFleur, a poker-faced lady with a little typewriter thing on a stand, and Sarah Wickland.

“OH -- OH -- NOOOOO!” the naked teenager wailed. The four people took their seats, Sarah Wickland with a very surprised and infuriated expression on her face. The teenager’s thin, sweaty, naked body spasmed, jolt after jolt shaking the entire scaffold-like apparatus. As papers were taken out and notebooks opened, the youngest person in the room finished her orgasm with one mighty, off-rhythm jolt, then her body sagged in her bonds and she began to sob, well aware that the room was permeated with the smell of her sweat and her female musk.

The four tongues continued sucking and poking and licking. The naked girl tried with all her might to regain her composure in the fact of this continued assault. She labored to keep her breathing regular. “Zhhh -- zhhh -- zhhh -- ”

“The witness will now be sworn in,” Mr. LaFleur said.

The stenographer’s voice was a monotone, though spoken somewhat louder than was its owner’s habit. “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, so help you God?”

Tami blinked and looked in dire anguish at Sarah Wickland, who traded back a look of pity and empathy and yet a tight little nod. She had a laptop out and adjusted it just so. Tami thought of the toiling ponies. This might be torture but not as bad as five years of slavery. She suppressed her shaking and cleared her throat. “Y - yes . . .”

“What is your name?”

“T - tami B - blanche Smithers.”

“Date of birth?”

“J - july twenty seven, nineteen -- ohh! -- ” A tongue had just poked especially far into her rectum and her pelvis jumped forward, pressing her clit into the tongue in front -- “eighty-t - two.”

Sarah Wickland said, “I wish to protest the conditions under which this deposition is being conducted. The witness is being sexually attacked and aside from the cruelty of this situation, she cannot have a clear head to give answers.”

“Counsel’s comments will be stricken from the record,” LaFleur cut in. “We are here to get a statement, not make speeches.”

“Very well,” Sarah Wickland said. “Miss Smithers, can you hear me?”

“Y - yes . . . ohhh . . .”

“Are there two women each sucking on your nipples right now?”

“Yes -- ohh . . .”

“And is there presently a third woman with her mouth on your vulva, and a fourth who appears to be inserting her tongue into your anus?”

“Ohh . . . yes . . .”

“And have you already suffered through one orgasm?”

“Oh God. . . yes . . .” whimpered the witness, on the verge of tears.

“I object to the word ‘suffered’,” La Fleur said.

Sarah Wickland ignored that comment and continued. “Now that we have that on the record, let me ask you: did there come a time when you were found by personnel from the farm?”

Tami thought for a moment, or tried to. She was depressingly aware of a second orgasm starting its career deep within on the tip of a strange tongue. “Y - yes . . . ohh!”

“And how many days ago was that?”

“It was -- ohh - OHH -- ” And as Tami wrenched her way through the cresting and spasming of another orgasm, she completed her answer. “OHH -- about -- OHH -- OHH -- th-three -- OHH -- days -- ohh -- ag - g -go . . . ohhh -- ohhh. . . God. . .” She whimpered, tears dribbling from her eyes, trying to keep her composure. In the part of her frazzled mind that could think clearly, she knew that this videotape would be dynamite. With proof of such abuse Mrs. Wickland could force the needed changes in those poor ponies’ lives.

The questioning was slow, the stone-faced stenographer having to wait for each syllable of the witness’s answer, often having to make the witness repeat it because the words were often unclear. Cries of anguish and sexual excitement and the agony of shame punctuated the answers. The air was humid with sweat and female secretions. The orgasms announced themselves every few minutes.

By the time Sarah Wickland had completed her questioning as to Tami’s indoctrination into pony life, Tami had come five times.

By the time she had finished asking about Tami’s attempts to convince her handlers that it had been a case of mistaken identity, Tami had come nine times.

There followed a series of orgasms during which no questioning could be done at all. The attorneys and the stenographer waited until the spasming and moaning had died down before continuing. The sweating witness was determined to participate. Her answers sometimes started at the crest, then continued in grunting syllables as the orgasm pounded through her and ended while it was spending itself.

What Sarah Wickland had planned to be a fifteen-minute proceeding extended longer and longer, which in turn extended the time during which the suffering naked teenager was subjected to the four tongues. Midway through, four new women appeared, fresh tongues to replace the tired ones of the original team, who yielded their seats so that the replacements could dig in without missing a beat. Not that the naked girl was given a rest, of course. For her the sucking and licking and twisting and biting and poking and noodling went on and on without a second’s surcease until she thought she was losing her mind.

Her answers became less and less comprehensible, though she was clearly straining to give them, making mighty efforts to fight through the thickening curtain of orgasmic storms. Finally her answers were monosyllables. “Nuhhhhh . . . yuhhhhh . . .” Which the unflappable stenographer interpreted as “no” and “yes”, respectively. At that point Sarah Wickland had asked most of her questions anyway. She thanked the witness and once again made a protest on the record.

“You can release her now,” she said tartly, packing up her laptop.

“Whatever do you mean?” LaFleur said sarcastically.

“Oh good grief, let the poor girl go. It’s been almost an hour and she’s had I don’t know how many orgasms!”

“OHH! OHH! Ohh . . God . . .” Tami was not lucid enough to realize it but she had come on cue.

Figvee, who had been monitoring the application of tongues, said, “By my count that is her seventeenth.”

Sarah shook her head in disgust as she left the room, the naked sweating girl still crucified on her scaffold of orgasms, attacked by tongues that would not stop.

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