Cruel FemDom Fitness Training Camp

We pulled up and stopped on a twenty by twenty foot concrete area adjacent to the corrugated steel building. Three women emerged from the building through a white, windowless door. They stood side by side on the concrete surface. They didn't have friendly stances: arms crossed, legs in that power position of one leg bent to the side, one straight out. Each wore a skimpy fitness outfit showing off every bit of their muscle strength and perfect physical condition. None of them appeared to have even an ounce of extra fat. My heart raced as much from fear as from the jog from the parking lot.

Without a word, one of the greeting committee opened what I themheavy and secure steel door. Without a word I went inside. I had crossed the point of no return.

CHAPTER 2: The Visual Examination

Although physically a large structure the building interior was compartmentalized while the drop ceiling further added to an appearance of space being used efficiently. Being used efficiently for one specific purpose.

To the right I saw the largest room. Its entire floor was covered with decorative cork, the lines and patterns giving the appearance natural growth. The front wall was pure white drywall. The right and rear walls were covered entirely with mirrored panels. The left wall only protruded about half way into the space from the rear wall and it too was white drywall. The room was extremely bright and I saw no shadows.

In addition to 2' x 4' florescent panels built into the drop ceiling, strategically placed halogen spots and floods enhanced the illumination of most areas, including each piece of exercise equipment. Several white plastic folding chairs were positioned around the room, each facing the center. As my eyes adjusted from leaving daylight I noticed the center of the mirrored room to be especially bright.

I could see various types of stationary bikes, an elliptical and treadmill, an all in one machine, an intimidating free weight section. My eye happened to catch the weighted vest hanging on one of the dumbbell racks. A large multipurpose machine had been placed against the middle of the largest mirrored wall with what appeared to be different types of abs machines on each side. There was a slanted bench, an inversion rack, a regular bench. This place was well equipped; obviously intended for serious workouts.

High up in each corner of the room was a very large flat panel TV. I also noticed at least a dozen video cameras, each with pan/tilt and presumably zoom capabilities. An odd and expensive looking video camera was mounted on a tripod near the right mirrored wall, its lens facing the middle of the room.

If I had continued walking forward I would have entered a short hall covered in white vinyl tile leading to an exit door on the opposite side of the building. The wall to the left of the hall was solid only halfway up. It was clear glass the rest of the way to ceiling. Through the glass I could see a toilet in far corner of the room. To the left of the toilet there was what should have been a shower stall. Instead it was a wall mounted shower head directed over a drain in the white tiled floor.

The room was white. And it was bright. Twelve inch sparkling white tiles covered the entire floor. The walls were completely covered with the brightest, shiniest of white four-inch tiles. The right half of the far wall had a stainless steel work counter with storage cabinets above and below the counter. The counter also housed an industrial looking white ceramic sink.

A table in the middle of the room was the focal point, illuminated by three banks of exam lights. At first I thought the table was a massage table, but my mind finally registered that it was an exam table. Only then did I notice several noticeably full enema bags, two red and four blue, hanging from a pole intended to hold IV bags. Then to my horror I noticed another pole which actually did have IV bags hanging from it. What was I getting myself into?

The trainers must have deliberately given me time to scope out the facility and realize how serious this project was to them. The thin brunette, who I would have had a serious crush on in other circumstances, picked up a remote activating even more halogen spotlights around the room. All focused on a now very bright area in the middle of an already bright exercise room. She didn't need to speak. She pointed to the middle of the room and I somewhat hesitantly walked to the middle then turning to face the thin brunette.

By then the rest of the trainers had entered and each took a seat in one of the chairs encircling the room. The LCD monitors flashed to life and I could see a different angle of my nude body on each one. I wished I couldn't see the monitors. The strong blonde approached me, kicking my ankles with her feet to make it clear my legs were to be spread. "Hands straight out to your sides, palms up," she ordered. I complied.

Each trainer had a clipboard upon which they were writing some sort of notes. Occasionally I was ordered to turn 90 degrees so each trainer could evaluate me from a different perspective. Each had a chance to position me. One made me squat to take an obvious look at the skin folds above and on my belly. She made a big deal about writing notes, perhaps sketching out what she saw.

Another trainer required me to kneel with my butt resting on my feet. She, too, scribbled what appeared to be detailed notes. One had me jump as high as I could ten times while she examined me from each side. I could feel my belly, chest and thighs bouncing and I knew her written comments were documenting those motions.

Each trainer then had an opportunity to comment and the comments were, well, they were pretty rude. Lines such as "several bounces after he stops," "the flab just keeps on flowing," "gonna have to work him hard to see improvement," even, "he's gonna throw up every now and then from us working him hard but he is going to get his abs in shape before Monday." Even more: "Extra padding means we'll have to use more percussive force for motivation." Fearful: "amazing how a little electricity to the cock and balls can help strengthen an unrelated muscle group."

Other than giving me directions the trainers spoke in the third person, pretty much ignoring me. My outstretched arms ached and it was a struggle to keep them up. Every now and then a trainer would nudge my arms back up to the fully horizontal position. I have never been so scrutinized or felt so vulnerable in my life. After each trainer had a chance to speak one was assigned to take still photos of me in all the positions I was required to demonstrate. Seeing the images appear on the monitors showed me why those were chosen: each accentuated my lack of physical conditioning.

One of the newer trainers got behind that interesting looking camera on the tripod. She ordered me to do a series of jumping jacks followed by jumping up and down as high as I could and finally to jog in place. When they played the video simultaneously on all the large monitors I realized the device was a special high speed camera for making slow motion videos.

There, in super-slow-motion revealing great detail, we saw how my excess fat lagged behind my body as I moved. It was unbelievably humiliating to see a physical weakness so visibly highlighted in front of this group of incredibly fit females. Apparently for fun, they had the camera operator zoom in on my now-hard cock and laughed uproariously at its random but slow-mo movements in high definition. They laughed at the sight until one reassured me, "don't worry, slave, your tiny cock is one part of you that will not be exercised to exhaustion here." More laugher.

They replied the high-definition slow-motion video segments several times. Notes were written and comments were made. At last the blonde announced, "ok let's measure."

CHAPTER 3: Extreme Measurement

The beautiful, skinny, fit, tall trainer appeared with two of those special measuring tapes, accurate to within one-sixteenth of an inch, for measuring body girth. Two trainers began to measure my torso, legs, arms, neck and head in various places. Twice. Next came calipers to measure body fat in far more places than is customary. I hated the BMI (body mass index) measurements at the gym. No matter what, having skinfolds measured is humiliating.

To make it worse, they massaged each skin fold for about a minute before taking the measurement. That was so humiliating there just aren't words for it. As each trainer took the measurements, she would call out the results to a trainer who was assigned to write them down. I hated hearing not only the measurements but sometimes to the trainers' reactions to my measurements.

One particularly humiliating comment jolted me quickly back to the reality of my predicament: "His thigh is bigger than my waist. And my waist certainly doesn't look all flabby like that."

They repeated the body mass index measurements two more times to determine an average of the three readings. By now, each of these gorgeous women was familiar with every extra ounce of fat on my body.

My legs were spread. My arms were outstretched and aching, palms up. The blonde pulled a blue nitrile glove out of a box on a table reaching out from the end of the half wall. She let it snap into place with a noticeably loud percussive sound. She walked around behind my back. I watched her fearfully in the mirror.

She lowered herself to her knees while withdrawing a syringe-like device from a pocket, removed its cap, and proceeded to inject what felt like lube around and in my anal opening. As the probe went deeper and deeper I could feel the cool lube as it prepared me for what was coming. I had a feeling I knew was coming next.

I could see the trainer coat her fingers, mercifully, with a large amount of lube. I then felt a single finger shoved quite forcefully into me, instantly giving me the sensation I was about to have a massive orgasm. She obviously knew how to target my prostate because my cock reacted by springing to to attention. Two of the unnamed trainers kneeled in front of me to measure the length and girth of my erect penis as well as to use calipers to measure the diameter in several places. Another trainer with a camera captured all the measurements from a very close perspective.

While they were measuring my genitalia I felt movement down below and realized there were at least two, maybe three fingers inside me skillfully massaging my prostate. Then the fingers went still as a trainer approached with the measuring tape.

"Inhale slowly as deeply as you can," she said. I complied. Now exhale rapidly and let your belly relax. I did what she said and her reply was, simply, "repeat." I did.

A trainer put the tape measure around my waist and the coolness of it must have imperceptibly startled me because the blonde with her fingers inside me said, "he tensed."

So that was it. She could feel my sphincter tighten if I ever so slightly tensed my abdominal muscles. How sneaky, I thought. There was no way I could cheat on a follow up exam. I had to repeat the whole breathing and exhaling process again, several times, until I kept my belly relaxed at its largest circumference where they got a precise measurement of my girth.

Another trainer produced a ruler that had the measurement numerals covered with labels showing a series of random letters, one at each inch and half inch mark. I could feel her press one end of the ruler to my pubis, right above my penis. I could feel my penis press against the ruler as she placed the ruler straight out, ninety degrees from my body.

"Repeat the breathing exercise. We will confirm that you are fully relaxed before proceeding." I knew what that meant. Once I had my belly relaxed to their satisfaction I was surprised to hear the next step.

"Look down at the ruler. Tell me the last letter you can see before the others are blocked by your belly. If you bring in your abs even a small amount you will start must perform 100 reverse crunches as punishment. " Oh sheesh, that was it. This is it. I can't get more humiliating than this! What an amazingly practical way to measure the effect of flab while humiliating the subject beyond belief.

I wished I had paid attention to the other letters when she put the ruler in place. The letter M was the last one I could see, yet I knew there were several blocked from view by my abdomen. I told her the letter.

"M?" "Is that what you said, "M? As in moron?"

"Yes, mistress," I replied quietly.

"What did you say, exercise slave?"

"Mistress, I said the last letter I could see what the letter M, as in Mary," I blurted out, louder this time.

"I don't think I'm clear on the letter. The last one you saw. Here, take the ruler with your left hand and put your thumb across the line where you could read the last letter. Tell us the letter loud enough that we can hear it this time.

Awkward. Very awkward. The letter M was more than three inches from the end of the ruler, meaning that over half of my penis was obscured by my belly. And that's with several fingers up my ass making sure I'm at maximum length. When I put my thumb on the M the room erupted in laughter.

"Pretty pathetic. He can't even see his own cock."

"I wonder if he has visitation rights."

"No way he could please a woman. That belly would get in the way."

"Let's take him to a nude resort to let him show it off. It's gotta be one of a kind." Finally the comments and laughter died down.

"Don't worry. You'll get a chance to redeem yourself," said the incredibly beautiful skinny brunette, the one I was developing a serious crush on. "We'll repeat the test -- with a new set of letters, of course, as part of your final examination. Strive to tighten those abs to prove you can see your whole cock. Gotta be embarrassing that most of it you can't see."

Relieved the measurement was over I relaxed and was surprised to feel considerable pressure from the blonde's hands and fingers. I don't know how many fingers she had in me but she absolutely knew how to target my prostate. "Lean forward. Hands behind your head. Arch your back," she commanded. "Arch it more." "Even more." Naked, ass in the air, chest down, legs spread, fingers deep inside me. That situation took humiliation to a whole new level.

I felt like I was going to explode with the orgasm of a lifetime and thought it was great that they would introduce some pleasure into the process. Pain and pleasure; makes sense. Perhaps a taste of a reward I'll receive for completing a perfect set! I felt a cool object barely touching beneath the tip of my about-to-explode penis. A vibrator, perhaps? That's when I realized another trainer had kneeled to my side and was somehow involved in the forthcoming pleasure.

To my dismay I heard sudden chatter from several of the trainers and I could see cum was oozing from my very erect cock. Yet I wasn't having an orgasm. I endured a preparation week of no sex, no masturbating, and no orgasms milked from me without even a hint of pleasure. For over ten minutes I stayed in that uncomfortable and humiliating position while the blonde drained me dry. Cum flowed slowly out in a steady trickle, depriving me of even a hint of sensual pleasure

When there wasn't a drop more to milk a voice ordered me to stand up. The trainer with the brown curly hair stood up from beside me. Displaying an award-winning smile she held a test tube in front of me. It contained my cum. I have never been required to taste cum before and I feared I would vomit if required to do so.

"Well, well," said the curly hair trainer, "This would have been quite a pleasurable load. You would really have enjoyed it as a massive orgasm." She paused. Tightening her lips into an inquisitive pucker while poking a playful finger into her cheek the asked, rhetorically, "what do you suppose we should do with it?" I was worried. She held the test tubes up to my lips, pressing it against my lower lip. She knew exactly what I was fearing.

With a girlish swirl and an exaggerated bounce she headed over to the work counter where she opened a small refrigerator to place the test tube in a special rack. She skipped back to me and with her face inches from me, still smiling, she said, "let's see how much we can collect while you're here. Then maybe you can choose to drink a nice cool semen milkshake to buy your way out of some serious punishment exercises." She just stared into my eyes. Then the fake smile vanished as she quipped, "we'll see."

By now my already small cock was completely flaccid, and about as small as it ever gets. I was correct in my analysis of why I needed to be milked: my penis had to be measured and documented in its most flaccid state. I certainly did not want even one woman to see my cock at its tiniest. Certainly not seven incredibly beautiful and fit women.

All the trainers had a good laugh while measurements of my flaccid penis were taken and photos were repeated. I'm certain their goal was my emotional discomfort. I was a very well documented sub by now.

All of these measurements continued to be recorded under the watchful eyes of the cameras and I hoped upon hope that I would never be subject to viewing the playback. I turned out to be quite wrong about that.

CHAPTER 4: Initiation, Instructions and Rules: How did I get myself into this?

This time it was brunette who had greeted me at her house who walked up to me very closely, almost in my face, and ordered me to put my hands behind my neck with my elbows ninety degrees from my body. I had kept my legs spread uncomfortably wide.

"That is your relaxed position. You are to be in that position when any of us address you or if by some wild chance you experience a moment of inactivity. Learn it. Know it. Do it. You will be punished if you forget."

There was a pause while she just stood there. I was shaking visibly and I think that was the reaction they all hoped for. At last I was doing something right.

Finally, she said, "I am Mistress Kayla. Mistress Blake was driving. She is your abs specialist and you'll get to know her very well." She had a very satisfied smile on her face as she made that comment. Mistress Chloe sat next to you in the car and watched your flab bounce around when we drove. Disgusting."

"You don't need to know everyone's name. Each of us is to be addressed as Mistress. I think you know how to follow the rules about addressing a Mistress. Mistress V trained you well. Do you think I need to review rules about addressing us, slave?"

"No, Mistress. You do not need to review the rules about addressing you," I replied.

"Good." "Now pay attention. We will speak directly you in the course of training only for the purpose of giving directions. You are an object. You will listen to us and you will obey directions. Now is the only opportunity for us to have a conversation before training begins.

"First. Over the next 72 hours you are going to work harder than you ever have in your life. Harder than you ever thought you possibly could. You are going to push yourself to such limits you will want nothing more than to escape from the program.

You have passed the point of no return. Quitting is not an option. Giving up is certainly not an option. You do what we say and only what we say." Long pause.

"We now own you." She paused.

"We own you." An even longer pause.

The room was filled with silence as I felt my heart pounding against my chest. Finally, she continued.

"We have rules and structures. You must follow our instructions one hundred percent correctly, one hundred percent of the time."

"One hundred percent," she emphasized. "During Gutbusters training doing your best doesn't count. Almost finishing doesn't count. Zero, zip, nada. You do what we say, when we say, and for how long we say. Period. No negotiation."