Happy Birthday, Tami Smithers!

As she walked up to conference room C, Tami once more felt the cringing shame of someone who must walk naked into a setting of fine clothes and official proceedings and formality. At the polished oak door she stood for a second, looking down at her bare toes, then glanced back at people walking by who were getting a full head to heel view of her nudity. She knocked tentatively. After no response, she knocked again. Finally she turned the doorknob.

Figvee was there, and Burt, and the man who had been working the joystick at that horrible session with the fax to her father. She felt goose-bumps on her breasts and wanted to run. But no, she steeled herself. “Hello, Miss Smithers, so to speak,” the joystick guy said. “My name is Mr. LaFleur, I will be representing the interests of the farm. You’ve met Mr. Figvee, I believe, and Burt.”

She nodded at them both as icily as possible, then her sight was arrested by what was on the left side of the table. It looked like a scaffold of some type, steel bars going up almost to the ceiling, and extending both ways well out from the sides of the table. Before Tami could think of running, Burt and Figvee pulled her over and began tying her to the structure. Mr. LaFleur spoke so that his voice could be heard over their labors. “I apologize for the unusual setup, Miss Smithers, but we have our reasons.” When they were done with her Tami found herself spread-eagled in a bizarre kind of chair, arms tied out to the sides, legs spread and bent out in front of her like she was sitting, though her hips and butt were not touching anything. She was elevated slightly over the table, as if on a perverted throne.

“We will begin in a few minutes,” Mr. LaFleur said and then the three men were gone. Tami closed her eyes and prayed. So she would be forced to give testimony while naked and spread out so that everyone had a view of every inch of her. Evidently they figured that if she could hide nothing physically, she wouldn’t lie either. She had to concede that it made sense. She could half-remember a dream where she was in a courtroom and could do nothing to prevent herself from being sentenced to death because she was strapped into a kind of orgasm chair. Well, this wasn’t nearly as bad as that. And she had been through worse. But it would be cruelly shaming. Please God . . . help me through this . . . I want to help those poor women out there . . .This won’t last long . . .

The door opened and Tami woke from her meditation. She was expecting (and hoping for) Sarah Wickland, but it was Helga, the woman from Figvee’s office who had pulled on her nipples. She was in the same black suit and had the same evil smile. She walked right up to Tami, suspended and stretched out in her mid-air sitting position, her eyes level with Tami’s, and said, “Hello dear.” She smelled like cigarette smoke. Tami had dated a guy in high school once who smoked, and nothing was grosser than kissing him. Now this woman came over to give Tami a little peck on the cheek and the naked girl almost gagged.

And then Helga hopped onto a little flat sheet of metal on the scaffold and positioned her high heels onto the bars below. And closed her mouth around Tami’s right nipple!

“Ugh . . . go away!” the naked girl said, struggling to escape her bonds, but she was tied far too well. Meanwhile the woman began sucking, hands resting on some bars, seated in a perfectly relaxed position for her task. She bit and teased the rapidly stiffening nipple with her teeth as the naked girl winced. “Go AWAY!” Tami’s words had no effect, in fact they just seemed to encourage this sadist.

Now another woman came in, in a short black skirt and white blouse and knee-high boots, hardly more than Tami’s age, with hair dyed green and white. Quickly, efficiently, without saying a word, she took her place at another seat that Tami realized to her horror was just on the other side, and with equal comfort leaned forward just a bit to apply powerful suction to Tami’s other nipple.

Tami gasped and took deep breaths. She was repulsed and wanted to throw up on these horrible women. And then, as if to punish her more, something else began to happen. She hadn’t had an orgasm in several days. For someone with her sexual capacity this was a long drought. With both nipples aggressively sucked, it was impossible for her desire not to be awakened. It was loathsome, it was disgraceful, these women sucking her nipples while she was tied to a scaffold, but she felt the waves of horniness and the flush of her skin and, after a few more moments, the faint smell of her musk from below.

She gritted her teeth and devoted her energies to resisting the rising tide of desire. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine that her nipples were being stung by bees, scraped with sandpaper, pinched and twisted with pliers, unsexy things to someone like Tami Smithers who was not in any way a masochist. It partly worked. Then the click of the door as it opened again. She couldn’t help opening her eyes.

It was another woman, middle-aged, trim, short hair flecked with gray, a wiry, lined face, in a green uniform that looked vaguely military. Tami tried to control her shallow breathing as she waited for what this woman would do. Maybe she was this stenographer person. The naked girl’s eyes opened wide as the woman squatted down and sat right in front of her wide open pussy.

“NOOO!! -- ughh!” The flat tongue, warm and wet, was disgusting against her pussy lips. Tami tried with all her strength to close her legs. The muscles and tendons in her inner thighs stood out like thick cords with the strain. But of course closing her legs was impossible. As if to mock her efforts, the middle-aged woman casually draped one hand over each thigh as she sat comfortably in position and applied her tongue to the naked girl’s pussy. Her tongue was pointed and skilled, poking in between the lower lips into the dark cave, then sweeping up to tickle the bottom of the clit which made the naked girl jolt. Now the tongue flicked the clit up and down, up and down, faster and faster, pressing in with more and more force --

The naked girl looked up in prayer, like Joan of Arc tied to the stake and feeling the fires licking at her. Please God . . . I don’t want to come . . . she breathed deeply to drive away the sensations that were beginning to flood her body. Her concave tummy heaved in and out. Her face was red. Beads of sweat broke out on her forehead, over her breasts, on her shoulders. . . Please God . . .

It was with heavy-lidded eyes, too overwhelmed to react, that she saw the fourth woman walk in and go around to the rear. “Akkkk!” There was a seat back there too. A fourth tongue had just jabbed against her butthole. It noodled around, as skillful as Jen’s, and slithered inside as its owner lazily draped her arms over the naked girl’s thighs to hold hands with the middle-aged woman sitting in front.

Tami’s whole body shook with the strain of holding back. Four tongues were on her and in her now. To have these four disgusting women give her an orgasm would be the ultimate in shame. Yet she felt the heaviness in her pelvis and knew that unless they stopped right away she would crest and go over the waterfall.

She felt the crest begin and with a supreme effort pushed it down. But the wet, slithering tongues were too much. They kept on and on and on --

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.