The Sisterhood of Slaves Pt. 01

Unlike the girl still astride the wooden pony (who was tilting her head as if trying to work out from behind her blindfold, what else was happening), for neither Beth nor Marilyn was this to be a static tableau. From a bench beside the stage, the masked men retrieved whips. These were evil-looking things, each a bundle of braided leather tails. Black Robe stroked Marilyn's bare bottom a few times with his; she flinched and shook her head. Suddenly both men began flogging her. It was a relentless and brutal assault, from above on her back, buttocks and thighs, and from beneath on her breasts and belly and groin. Each blow began with a sinister whish! and terminated with a sickening, slapping, splattering sound, as the multiple straps seared the unprotected flesh. After a dozen or so lashes I stopped counting, as pink ridges began to swell up on the poor woman's body. Through her gag she howled and screamed. Tears darkened the fabric of her blindfold. Bubbles of saliva frothed out from the edges of her gag.

I cringed at the obvious relish with which the two men went about their grisly business. Their victim had stopped shrieking but started yelling something through her gag, and I thought at first her muffled screeches were curses or pleas for mercy; but then I realized that she was mocking and taunting her tormentors.

"Is that all you've got?" she gurgled.

"Cool it, girl," I thought.

But she appeared to be laughing as the men increased the force and tempo of the lashes, until each in turn had to take a breather because he had worked himself into near exhaustion flailing the woman's naked body. Halfway through the battering, her blindfold was removed so she could see the audience taking delight in her suffering and we could witness the anguish in her expression. She was still grinning! But then her knees began to buckle, and she looked in danger of strangling as her throat jammed against the lower board of the stocks. The men solved the problem by lowering the device until she was able to kneel. This reduced the surface area of her skin accessible to the whips, but it did not relieve the intensity of her scourging. By now, all of her from neck to knees was swollen and scored with dozens of flay marks. But as these began to coalesce into a single bright red bloom, leaving no room for new impressions, the men were obliged to stop. They thereupon switched their attention to Beth and began thrashing her. The shaft lodged inside her was an additional torment, because as her torso jerked and twisted, it became another tool of torture. She pushed down with her legs on the straps which anchored them to the pole, in order to lift her weight and so ease the pressure, but this was exhausting, and when she dropped the jolt and thrust of the rod upwards into her sent a spasm through her from shaking head to curling toes. Some in the audience clapped and yelled their approval; but I'm sure every woman in the room gasped and shuddered in sympathy.

It was hard to watch, but I couldn't turn away. I was embarrassed and repelled and fascinated by this horrid spectacle of young nude females writhing in agony for the amusement of the spectators. Their chastisement lasted no more than ten minutes, although it must have seemed like an eternity to these martyrs to the crowd's lustful proclivities.

When Marilyn was freed from the pillory, she walked shakily to the edge of the platform. Beth was then lifted off her seat and released from her bonds. When her feet touched the floor she staggered. One of the men put out a hand to assist her but she brushed it aside. Instead, Marilyn helped her off the stage. Both women's faces, streaked with tears and sweat, were ashen grey in gruesome contrast to the crimson welts and purple bruises which covered their ravaged flesh. But they acknowledged the applause with broad smiles and arms raised in triumph. During the intermission they reappeared at their table, still naked but neither, except for the marks, appearing any the worse for her ordeal. In fact, Marilyn glanced across towards Matthew and me. She grinned and winked.

There was more dancing, and just before the third act commenced the girl on the wooden pony at last finished her ride. She was able to walk off by herself, albeit with a slight wobble.

Three girls were bought up onto the stage this time. One had been chosen apparently at random from the gallery by the man in the mask. She stared aghast at her husband/fiancé/boyfriend, who just nodded. She stepped onto the stage and was ordered to disrobe. The band started playing and I was expecting it to be something cheesy like "The Stripper", but it was the slightly less dreadful "You Can leave Your Hat On". The girl looked embarrassed, but she dutifully shed her clothing. After being gagged and blindfolded, she was hauled up onto the wooden pony.

Unlike her predecessor on the apparatus, she was whipped. Her hands had been shackled not behind her back but over her head, to expose more skin for flogging. However, her punishment was somewhat lighter than that meted out to Marilyn and Beth, presumably because she was a first-timer. And her companions on stage appeared to be "virgins" as well.

These were a lesbian couple. They had been cuddling in a corner of the room and seemed genuinely shocked when they were called to the stage. But they went up willingly and undressed each other. It would have been interesting if one had been assigned the role of tormentor, but a second sybian had been brought on stage and they were seated facing each other. The redhead made a loud whistling noise as the shaft went into her; the brunette hardly reacted. Their hands had been bound behind their backs, and a yoke was placed around their necks and tightened to bring them in close to each other. They were connected by a double gag, two balls fused so that when these went into their mouths the women were locked in a kiss.

They were whipped as well, and then all three victims were tormented with something that looked like a cattle prod. No parts of their bodies were spared, not even the soles of their feet. Before this began, to demonstrate that the electrodes really carried a current, a male volunteer was zapped on the backside, through his trousers, and he jumped. He pointed to his lady friend at their table, and after a brief remonstration she bent over; but the man in the robe pulled her skirt up and her knickers down to poke her unprotected flesh. She yelped and everyone around her laughed, but I trembled at seeing the three helpless women hearing the noise from behind their blindfolds and knowing that something awful was coming.

When their adversity ended, they hobbled over to where their clothes had been thrown in a heap; but one of the men stamped his foot on the pile and waved them away. All three laughed and returned to their tables, the redhead and brunette to resume their snuggling happily in the nude. The other girl fell into her man's arms and gazed into his eyes and said, "I love you." As he wiped a tear from her cheek, he replied "You showed me," and she nodded and smiled. That surprised (and shocked) me more than anything.

It was these postlude scenes gave me some insight into the true nature of the Wooden Pony Club. My suspicions would be confirmed when my turn came... though not this night.

Matthew and I stayed for another hour. There were further exhibitions, progressively more extreme. The last that we witnessed particularly disturbed me. After her pony ride and torture, a frail-looking girl with silky black hair and glossy olive skin was given a standing ovation. The man in black then whispered something to her and she nodded, slowly and fearfully, but with a look of determination in her puffy red eyes. She lowered herself to her knees and then lay prostrate on the floor. With your hands bound behind you that's not an easy thing to do, and she landed with a thud. The girl lay quiet and still for a minute or so before Red Robe nudged her with his foot. She began to crawl on her belly towards the edge of the stage, wriggling like a worm without the use of her arms. The men tormented her with their cattle prods until she had slithered over the edge of the platform. There a man from the audience came to her aid, removing her gag and freeing her wrists. She flung her arms about his neck and they kissed. She unsteadily stood up and managed a curtsy before he lifted her and carried her off, past the backstage curtain and out of sight. The crowd roared its delight.

I was mesmerized by each of these performances, horrified but enthralled at the bizarrely ritualistic pageant of degradation and torture. But as well as being mentally drained I was tired, and told Matthew that it was time to go. His expression betrayed some displeasure, but he nodded and handed me my dress (since I was still in my lingerie). I put it on right there, getting some perplexed looks from nearby customers. ("So this is what unsettles you people?" I thought.)

Meanwhile, Richard had joined us and must have signaled to Desirée because she came to our table, still nude. Through the wisps of manicured pubic hair I could see the golden glint of small rings that pierced her labia and appeared to be joined by a tiny lock. She must have noticed me staring because she smiled. She said a few words to both Richard and Matthew that I did not hear, and then gave instructions to one of the waiters, who took a card out of his pocket and handed it to Matthew. She shook hands with my boyfriend, but when she held out her hand to Richard he ignored it, grabbed hold of her left breast and shook that. I sucked in a breath and held it in trepidation, but she just laughed and told him to behave.

Just as I was fascinated by the toughness and fortitude of the female stage performers, I was captivated by this strong, confident woman, stark naked and yet in total control, so completely at ease in the presence of her fully clothed male staff and clients and with the liberties they took.

As we walked to the car I shivered, not just from the bite of the crisp, early morning air. The series of grotesque displays we'd witnessed, and the disgust and embarrassment I felt to see fellow females being tortured and sexually humiliated for entertainment, were troubling; but what really made me feel uneasy was that I also found it so tantalizing and titillating... and even more so when Matthew and I got home. He made love to me with such vigor that it hurt. I did not get to sleep until almost dawn.

"If we could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover over this great city, gently remove the roofs and peep in at the queer things which are going on... it would make all fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale and unprofitable."

— Arthur Conan Doyle, A Case Of Identity

So the Wooden Pony was a BDSM club. At least, that was what it became after midnight. I had heard about such places and seen similar stuff on the internet. In some ways it was exactly as I pictured one would be, in other ways profoundly different. So far as I could tell, none of the "players" was a professional, except insofar as several worked there. From their surprised reactions, I could tell that some were first-timers and had not been fully prepared for the ordeal. But even the experienced women seemed dazed by its severity.

Nevertheless, the damage inflicted was mostly superficial. The whips' multiple tails reduced the impact and left no permanent scarring, even if this did not mitigate the immediate pain. And as for the wooden pony, Richard had already pointed out that it was less grueling than it first appeared. All the same, combined with the "cat o' nine tails" and electrified baton, it was not an easy ride. With some revulsion, I had observed yellowish stains running down the sides.

Although the waitresses served topless and danced in the nude after twelve every night, the théâtre de dégradation was scheduled only for Friday and Saturday. Sometimes there was a theme, and once males featured. Unlike the women, who were naked, the men wore loincloths or leather pants, which as well as affording more dignity reduced the impact of the whip and cattle prod and the imprint of the wooden pony. These disparities worried me. Having been a waitress in several establishments, I could understand why only one sex wore the scanty uniforms, and I could even accept (if not quite understand) the sado-masochism of the shows; but I was unnerved by this difference. However, Richard offered an explanation... of sorts. The male performances were not as popular. As a result, revenue from tips in particular was substantially reduced. I was not quite sure what to make of that, what it said about the types of people who frequented the club, or even if I believed it.

But for me things went back to normal, for the next three weeks. I worked my regular shifts in the evening and attended my classes during the day. Still, in my lingerie I felt very exposed and more vulnerable than I had before that Friday night. No one else appeared to notice my discomfort, though Desirée seemed more solicitous towards me than usual. And at the end of one Thursday shift, she asked if I'd be willing to come in the next evening and work past midnight.

She saw my expression and smiled. "Just to wait on tables, honey."

With that waiver I readily agreed. The pay was the same but I expected the tips to be bigger (and so they were). Of course, I would be serving topless. And when I informed Matthew he was disappointed, because Desirée did not want partners hanging around while we were on duty; and that was a reasonable policy. (Marilyn and Beth had been off the clock when they performed that night.) His presence had only been tolerated the first couple of times, while I was still settling in.

I managed to get some sleep during the afternoon, and then I went to work. Gratified to not have my boyfriend's presence distracting me, I was thrown a little off balance to find Richard on duty.

I started at eight, and at the stroke of midnight off came my bra. This bothered me less than I thought it would, except when Richard paused in his duties to enjoy a good long stare at my bare chest. I felt a bit queasy having him ogle my boobs, because I had always felt like a big sister to him. But I was certain he was doing it just to discomfort me, so I tried to ignore him. Yet more disconcerting (albeit useful) was the handy hint he offered for increasing my tips — the old trick of using an ice cube to stimulate the nipples. Now I felt really squeamish. His response, however, was disquietingly rational.

"Would it be better advice coming from someone else? Shall I get one of the girls?"

"Damn your good sense," I said without speaking.

The BDSM show started on schedule, and continued until four in the morning, with a performance about every half-hour. As this was the Wooden Pony Club, the most popular prop was the eponymous beast; but the sybian and the pillory also featured along with those extra appliances, the whip and the cattle prod. In between sessions, as usual, one of the waitresses danced. When my turn came, Desirée patted me gently on the shoulder and told me my panties and stockings would have to come off. Her tone was sensitive but firm and I understood her point. Since we all shared the gratuities, we should all be prepared to do our bit. And we did very well on them. (That included the male staff, who didn't seem to have an equal share in the duties. Supposedly they provided security, as the club did not employ bouncers. But I never saw them in that role, because the customers were always well-behaved.)

I am by no means a graceful or even a competent danseuse, and the boss's reassurance that "They won't be judging your moves, sweetie," was of small comfort, because some of the girls were very good. I was allowed to dance barefoot, while they whirled and twirled elevated above the floor on stilettos. But the audience whistled and clapped when I performed, and not in irony or derision. They appreciated a "gal who gives it a go," as Richard put it. And as I flung my body au naturel inelegantly around the stage, I looked about fretfully to see if he was watching. I never saw him, and was told later that he was in the cloakroom "bonking" one of my fellow waitresses. But someone may have been pulling my leg. For although I am hardly neutral on the subject, I have never thought of Richard as particularly attractive to the opposite sex. He was, as well, the youngest member of the staff. Some of the girls called him Little Dick, and not always behind his back.

However, the Wooden Pony Club was a funny workplace. We girls' attitude towards our male colleagues was free and easy, almost devil-may-care. I guess that when you're working almost naked alongside guys who are fully clothed, there will inevitably be a degree of sexual tension that would only have been heightened by the nude dancing and the Friday and Saturday shows. So we did not take things too seriously. That was obvious from the times Richard fondled his boss, without provoking any adverse reaction.

And I saw another facet of this rather unique environment when the place was closed one night for a staff get-together. Partners were invited and Matthew came along. It started off as a regular party, actually quite sedate, except that it was promoted it as ladies' lingerie night, and almost all the women including consorts dressed down accordingly. But after an hour or so Desirée opened up the curtains which had been draping the stage area. Half a dozen sybians were lined up on the platform. They were the familiar models but sat directly on the floor instead of being perched on a pole. When Desirée announced that every woman in the room was invited to "enjoy the ride", some shook their heads vigorously; but to my surprise most shrugged their shoulders and nodded their heads. A few looked eager. It was less of a surprise that all the decliners were partners rather than staff members. So it was as I suspected. Working in this place really did seduce you into doing things that would have once have been beyond your most fervid imaginings.

This is an apt explanation of how the Wooden Pony Club messed with your mind. You began to wonder if what you had always considered to be normal was merely a false perception brought about by your isolation from a reality to which you could be completely oblivious. You started to think that perhaps we all played through our fantasies, including the "dark" ones, out of sight of each other and thus unaware that there actually was no such thing as "normal". But upon reflection, I think that was the most appealing and appalling, most seductive and most insidious thing about the Club. Like the topless waitressing and nude dancing, we were drawn in by both peer pressure and a safety-in-numbers mentality which, of course, reinforced itself. "If all those other girls can do it, why can't I?" was the unconscious refrain. And the circuit could have been broken if just one or two of us demurred; but Desirée, with her relentless enthusiasm and her glamorous charisma, kept the current flowing.

Nonetheless, my first second thoughts came soon afterwards, when Desirée casually advised us that anyone who had not done so for a while should use the toilet. This created an awkward few minutes. Then, as the first brave volunteers stepped up, a couple of them blanched when their hands were tied behind their backs.

"You can still push yourself up off the seat if you need to," Desirée reassured them as her own hands were being bound; but she did not explain why the ropes were necessary, except to say "It makes the experience more intense." Then they were blindfolded as well.

Desirée alone had stripped naked for what she called the "joystick" (that got a laugh), while another, a waitress named Jennifer, took off her knickers. They were the only ones at first to embrace the full experience which included the phallic prosthesis. The ride lasted ten minutes, and all six women seemed disappointed when it ended. Where there had been nervous giggles were now grins of self-satisfaction, as they made way for the next half-dozen; and their smug condescension towards those of us anxiously awaiting our turn was a wonder to behold... even if from the rosy-red faces I could see that most of it was a veneer.