It was late spring when we arrived at the city of Bilbao. Spain had seen much upheaval in the recent months, and a stern discipline was required to bring the populace back in order. We visited on behalf of the church, but our expertise was requested by the local governor. Eager to help, we met with him in the late afternoon. I recall this clearly, he served a most delightful red wine with cheese and grapes as we discussed his needs.
There were several prisoners held in a jail in the central city, a single stone fortress which had cells buried deep within the ground, in which prisoners could be thrown and left, forgotten until their remains were removed for the next unfortunate occupant. But some of these prisoners needed to be broken, information needed to be obtained and the fear of their King severely impressed on them. The special circumstance was that these prisoners needed to be broken and punished without significant damage to their bodies. They were to be allowed to recover, and then returned to their communities as examples.
My mentor and I discussed the possibilities, and concluded that the simplest and easiest method was the use of the wooden pony. The following day we entered the prison, through heavy ragged wood doors which thumped shut behind us, and a guard guided us down through a dirt-floored passage to a stone stairwell which descended in to darkness.
The cries and sobs of several prisoners echoed in the stairwell during this descent, and I was reminded of my visions of hell. The air stank of despair and pain.
We were led to a room behind a heavy oak door with a small barred opening. The door was unlocked and torches were placed around the room at our direction. We wanted the room as bright as possible, and more torches were brought in until the room was thick with smoke, but almost as bright as day.
In the center of the room stood a simple carpenter’s saw horse. A wooden beam set on two sets of legs which held it sturdy about 4 feet above the ground. A rope was flung over a beam above us and hung down directly above the wooden horse. I tied it in to a noose, and left it hanging. Several weights stood in the corner, which had been brought at our request the evening before. All was in readiness, and we called for the prisoner.
The guards returned with a young woman of perhaps 18 or 19, who once might have been very pretty. Her long dark hair looked like rats had been making nests in it (which for all I know, they might have). Her face was filthy, covered with dirt turned to mud from mixing with tears, though fine features were still obvious. She had piercing dark eyes, which looked at us with a mixture of defiance and fear.
The woman was thrown to the floor in front of us, landing on her hands and then falling forward in to the dirt. Blood seeped from scrapes in her hands where she had stopped her fall. She lay for a moment until we jerked her to her feet, took hold of her bodice firmly, and pulled, tearing quickly. Her upper body, breasts, shoulders, and stomach were exposed. She covered her fine mounds with her arms. A useless gesture, as we then tore her skirt from her, and in moments she stood naked before us, shaking as if with cold, though it was extremely hot in the dungeons.
I directed that the guards lean her over the wooden horse, and as she was held in position, both wrists were pulled back and tied behind her. She stood up, straightened and looked around, wondering what was to happen to her. She found out moments later.
At my command, the guards lifted the victim on to the thin beam of the horse, one leg on each side. As they did so, I slipped the rope over her neck, letting it hang loosely with some slack. Her bound wrists prevented her from removing the noose, and the noose prevented her from sliding off the horse. As the victim felt the wooden beam dig painfully between her legs, her eyes showed that she finally understood what her torture was to be, and she cried out for mercy.
Instead of mercy, my mentor instructed the guards to drag two of the weights under the horse. He and I bent down, securely fastening a rope to each ankle, and then slipping the rope to each of the two weights. Pulling hard, we managed to get each weight off the ground, tied securely to her ankles. Once tied securely, we released the weights, which pulled painfully down on the woman’s legs, adding to the pressure cutting deep against her womanhood.
As the weights dropped, the girl screamed loudly. The sound echoed through the chamber, amplifying the scream. She struggled, and as she slipped to one side, the noose tightened against her neck. She righted herself, and tried lifting her legs - an experiment doomed to failure. The weights were heavy enough that she could raise each leg no more than a few inches before letting them drop back in place.
I took this opportunity to observe the young woman’s body more closely, stretched as it was. Her legs were thin, but muscular. Sitting on the pony enhanced their look, defining the muscles of her legs and curves of her buttocks. Her thin waist was expanding and contracting with her panting, and fine breasts hung before us like fine fruits. She was a remarkable young woman, made more remarkable by the agony she was experiencing.
After observing her for some time, we told the guards to keep watch on her, but to leave her to her suffering. We left, and sought a good inn in which to dine for our lunch.
Our lunch lasted quite some time and I spent the afternoon in the company of a young lady that provided much comfort to me. Late that evening, when the air became cooler and I was refreshed, I ventured out to check on our prisoner. Entering the prison was like moving to another world, out of cool quiet and in to heat and dirt and stench and raucous noise from the cries of prisoners. I descended the stairs, again listening to the echos of various unfortunate souls begging for release either from prison, or in some cases, from life itself.
Entering the chamber in which our young lady rode her steed, I observed that the hours had worn on her. The torches had burned down and the lighting was poor, though there was enough smoke in the room to choke a horse. In fact, the smoke had caused the girl problems and her breathing was now raspy and strained. The noose was tight around her neck, her face bright red. She had apparently slipped and righted herself, tightening the noose.
I examined her closely. I loosened the noose (I did not want her to have a scar around the neck if I could help it), and examined her legs. The weights were digging in to her ankles, causing some bleeding, but this was normal and expected in any prison. I also checked between her legs, where her private parts ground down upon the narrow wooden board. She was turning various shades of red and purple in this area, and I knew that she was experiencing an interesting combination of numbness and penetrating, deep pain.
She was crying to me, begging me, in her raspy and almost inaudible voice. It was a delight, and I reached out and let my fingers touch her skin, stroking flesh from her breasts, stomach, and down to where she rested on the wooden pony. She continued to beg, asking for mercy.
I spoke to her for the first time, and explained that mercy was simply not an option at this point. She was being punished for her crimes against the king, and there was nothing that could be done. I promised to return the next day, and check on her again. As I turned to leave her sobs increased and she called out, almost screamed for mercy, not to leave her there. The door shut behind me and her voice slowly diminished as I climbed the stairs out of the dungeon.
The evening was spent with my mentor, sampling and discussing wines from the area. I slept well in my bed chamber, glad for the comfort of the bed and rest after a hard day of work.
One of the effects of the pony is that it robs the rider of sleep. I have seen victims ride the pony for three days, and one actually died on the pony. Such a long period of treatment is not normally required, for the combination of pain and exhaustion will break most within a day or so. Such would be the case with our dear young lady, I knew, for in addition to her weaker constitution the heat of the dungeon would suck the fluids from her body, increasing the strain on her body and mind.
This proved the case, for on my return to the dungeon the next morning, I observed the prisoner was just barely able to keep herself upright. There were no more tears or cries, just her rasping breathing, laboring for each lungful of air.
I reviewed the details of her body, the red and purple marks on her neck where she had been strangled by the noose when she lost strength; there was significant bruising and blood seeping from wounds in her womanhood and upper thighs. Her hips showed signs of strain, as if the muscles were beginning to separate from the bone from having weights distending them for so long.
I stroked her hair gently, pulling it away from her sweaty face, and then held her face in my hands. Pain showed plainly in her eyes as she looked at me.
She uttered just one word. “Please.”
I called a scribe to write down the information she would give me. She begged to be removed from the pony, that should would confess anything, tell me anything… I told her that she would remain on the pony until I was satisfied that she had told me all.
It took several hours, but the unfortunate girl provided much information about her seditious activities and those that were acting with her. I caused water to be brought, and gave some to her as she continued to ride. She drank deeply, regained some strength and began begging me for mercy again.
When she was done telling us all we wished to know, I told her she would ride the pony a little longer, as a reminder of her duty to her King. At this she began babbling wildly, and showed evidence that her mind had left her.
My mentor and I returned that afternoon, and personally removed her from her wooden steed. It was impossible for her to walk, as all muscled from her waist down had been stretched horribly by the weights. In addition, it would be several days before the bruising and pain from the wooden pony would heal in her private place between her legs. We took time to examine this area closely to assure that proper healing would take place.
Our last view of this lovely prisoner was as she was dragged down the stone hallway to her cell.
I returned to my young lady of the afternoon before, and spent some time in the exploration of her anatomy, and as I penetrated and rode her, I wondered how she would look riding the wooden pony.
Perhaps one day.