The Sisterhood of Slaves Pt. 01

In the end, all but two women took a turn. Some needed encouragement and there was much blushing and balking; but none who came forward changed her mind. In the second group, all took off their panties (including three who declined the joystick) after seeing the effect of the clitoral stimulator pad (the dimpled panel, which lives up to its name). I procrastinated until the sixth group. I guess I was hoping that interest by then would be fading and I would have a small audience. But this was not to be. The enthusiasm never waned. Indeed the mood became more exuberant, with the crowd trying to inspire those who had hung back. (On the other hand, nobody tried to shame any of us into taking part.) And by straggling I had set myself a trap in another way, because by then every girl was taking the full ride with plug in place.

While Desirée and an assistant cleaned the sybians and lubricated the moving parts, I took off my bra and knickers. Unlike some of the women, I didn't see the point of leaving my boobs covered if my bottom half was exposed. I handed my undies to Matthew, who was intrigued and aroused to see me nude surrounded by all these people. He had not yet witnessed any of my dancing performances. I could hear his heavy breathing and felt his trembling hands as he secured the blindfold about my head and bound my wrists behind my back. He guided me the few paces to my allotted machine and tapped my right thigh so I could straddle it and, in a kneeling position and with his assistance, lower my body until I felt the tip of the shaft nudging the lips of my vagina. In a moment of bravado I had chosen the "jumbo" insert, and of course (like most of my predecessors) joked that this was the size I was used to. Matthew beamed with made-up pride. But as it slid inside my body, I had more second thoughts... too late. I felt it pushing against my cervix, which was not unbearable but, as any woman will attest, not very comfortable either. And this was before it started moving.

Each rider's partner was given the honor of operating the control box. Before I was blindfolded, I saw that my neighbor had a girlfriend who had just taken the ride herself and was still flushed. I wondered if her fingers on the dials were as jittery as the rest of her. Instructed by Desirée, Matthew waited until I had seated myself just right, and when he turned the knobs, he slowly increased the rotation and the vibration, which were controlled separately. It was important that my body be in surface contact so the stimulator pad could have its effect, but raised ever so slightly so that the insert could rotate freely inside me and do its work properly. It took a couple of minutes to get my position just right, but that was time well spent.

It was an extraordinary sensation, not as much like "genuine" sex as I had imagined it would be. The urge to pee was stronger than I have felt with a real penis inside me; but with my bladder empty the pleasure of letting go and giving in to those waves of delicious arousal was sublime. While it was frustrating to have my hands bound, it does, as Desirée had explained, intensify the experience. And being blindfolded makes you more sensitive, and also less inhibited, as if the world has been shut out. So by the time my ride was over I didn't give much of a damn about my audience. I only regretted that I had to concede my place to the next girl in line.

A few opted for a second and even a third turn, although I was content with my single experience. But there was one final surprise that night. Located near the kitchen were a number of backrooms, including a reception lounge with large sofas. Now and then a couple would retire there and emerge some time later with that tell-tale sweaty glow. Matthew and I did not take advantage of the facility, although I would guess that seven or eight couples did. But that's not what jarred me. It was Desirée. She would periodically go with one of the men to her office. Unlike most of us who'd put our clothing back on after our ride on the sybian, she remained naked for the rest of the night, and acted completely relaxed being that way. But late in the evening I saw her in a corner with four of the young males, all staff members. Her hands had been once again bound behind her back, and a rope harness tied about her neck. On this tether she was led upstairs by one of the men while the others followed, into her office.

By the time they re-emerged the party was starting to wind down. Desirée appeared flushed and panting. Her hair was dank and disheveled, her skin clammy and legs wobbly, but she still had her slightly askew, inscrutable smile, and the steady, steely radiance in her eyes remained undimmed.

Richard was among those who enjoyed Desirée's delights that night. I was fascinated and troubled, and somewhat shaken by this. Was it one of the perks of his job, or was there some other meaning which I had not yet untangled from the wonderful web of weirdness that entwined the Wooden Pony Club?

"Everything that is new or uncommon raises a pleasure in the imagination, because it fills the soul with an agreeable surprise, gratifies its curiosity, and gives it an idea of which it was not before possessed."

— Joseph Addison, The Spectator, 1712

I had been working at the Club for just over four months, including a dozen or so after-midnight shifts, and it was arguably the best job I'd ever had. I began to enjoy prancing around the tables in my lingerie and every so often topless. I even learned a few moves for my nude dancing sessions. I was inspired to begin aerobic exercises to shed some weight (although Desirée told me I was "just fine") and tone my muscles. I even took the advice of one of the girls to shave my pubic hair. "Your fans prefer it, and that increases the tips," she explained. (Fans... I actually had fans.)

Yet fandom has its price, the loss of anonymity. For the club was frequented by university people, mainly staff members (because the prices were too steep for most students), and I recognized a few... and they recognized me, saw me serving topless and dancing naked. But it was never an issue; we would just exchange a nod and a smile, and no one ever brought up it on the outside. In any case, those of us at the lower end of the academic hierarchy knew the value of having a steady, well-paying job. Plus, I was proud of my body, which I'd always kept trim. I didn't mind showing it off.

At this same time, however, I found my relationship with Matthew to be inexplicably cooling. Looking for someone to blame, I chose myself. Between my postgraduate research, my teaching duties and all those hours working at the club, there was not a lot of time left over for focusing the attention on him that he felt he deserved.

So when I told Desirée that I was thinking about cutting back on my roster, she said "Why not work just the midnight shift? Less hours, bigger take."

It made sense; but I could tell from her tone of voice that there was more.

"Some of the girls," she continued, "do especially well with the tips. They build up quite a personal following."

I thought about Marilyn and Beth, and a couple of the others. It took a few more seconds to get the message. I must have frowned.

"No pressure," she said. "Give it some thought, and take as much time as you need." Then she added "It's not just about the money. I think you will find it..." She paused. "...enlightening."

In fact, it didn't take me long to make up my mind. Yet even now I do not really know what enticed me to make the choice when I did. I was intrigued by what I had seen on those late nights; and a voice somewhere deep within me was telling me that, as with the ride on the sybian, I should be more than a mere spectator.

About a third of the Friday and Saturday night players were virgins, as we called them, while the regulars tended to be very regular, as in every weekend. And as someone who had always been almost masochistically willing to test her own limits, I admired and envied them. This was the ultimate trial of courage and endurance... and of something else, something I could not quite put my finger on. So I was curious to know what it was like, to experience for myself what these girls put themselves through, or consented to have done to them, and to understand what motivated them and excited me. Perhaps it was the happy-go-lucky fearlessness of my youth (when I was an unreconstructed tomboy and adventure junkie) reasserting itself. Maybe it was because I had spent so much of my life absorbed in my family, my studies, my boyfriend, that I felt it was time to do something new, daring and dramatic, to put the focus on myself, to break the chains which bound me to an existence I had found increasingly to be less than fulfilling.

For days before my show, I was distracted, fidgety and bitchy. My friends and colleagues started to avoid me. Only Matthew and Richard knew the reason. Both were supportive of my decision, but it did not escape my notice that it was Richard who was gallant enough to tell me, several times, "You don't have to do this." Perhaps it was just that he was feeling more responsible, since it was he had brought me to the club, had introduced me to Desirée and helped get me the job which led to this. Matthew, on the other hand, seemed too helpful, too accommodating, more excited than sympathetic or apprehensive. That bothered me.

I worked the tables for a couple of hours that evening. Mine was to be the second performance. Too jumpy to be out front watching the first, I stayed in the kitchen, while Matthew sat in the audience. When the opening act ended and the young woman came shuffling off-stage, I almost lost my nerve. There were a couple of dancing interludes, one featuring Desirée in a particularly strenuous routine. When she came backstage, her naked body glistening with sweat, she attempted to soothe me with a few comforting words. She promised I could terminate the event at any time with a safe signal, and gave me a loose-fitting ring to wear on my right index finger. I worried about the crowd's response to my stopping the show (since I had never seen this happen), and she was characteristically blunt.

"Screw them. If they don't like it, they can volunteer to take your place."

That was reassuring, in its own way.

Then the woman's countenance changed. She glared at me so hard I almost toppled backwards.

"Strip," she snarled.

It was just the tonic I needed. I placed my lingerie and shoes in a box under the counter. And what happened next gave me even more confidence... after the initial shock. Richard had come to join us, which disconcerted me; but he got to the rear of Desirée, seized her wrists and tied them behind her back with nylon cord. Again her face changed, this time to a blissful, wistful expression. The transformation was as marvelous as it was sudden. Her breasts began to heave as she started softly panting, and the pink buds began to rise and stiffen. She bent forward at the waist and lifted one leg as the tickle between her thighs began to swell within her. Richard was still holding her arms and it was extraordinary to see this statuesque, gorgeous woman, normally so tough and totally self-possessed, nude and bound and wilting with arousal in the clutches of this young man, her employee, almost a head shorter and thoroughly unspectacular in every other way.

Meanwhile the two showmen had come for us. The one in black, portly and grizzled, was George, whose daytime job was the club janitor. His comrade in red was Jerome, thirty-something, muscular and good-looking though prematurely balding, and in the daylight hours the club's accountant. George tied my hands behind me, much more strenuously than I was prepared for, and I groaned. Desirée was about to say something but I whispered "It's okay."

George, who looked so menacing in his sinister black mask and studded leather vest, had a thin, reedy voice with a slight lisp.

"Sorry, love; it has to be tight. It makes your boobs stick out. The punters love it."

Desirée was blindfolded, I was not. We were led out onto the stage. With the lights on us, it was difficult to see into the audience, but there was plenty of clapping and cheering. Dazzled, I almost tripped while stepping up onto the platform. And yet my tension had, for some reason, melted away. I was trembling, but with excitement, as I beheld the wooden pony awaiting me.

But Desirée took the attention first. She was to endure what was called the electric bar dance. The torture device was devilishly simple, just a horizontal bar attached to legs like a carpenter's trestle and set above the floor at crotch height. At one end of the bar were wires leading to a battery. The woman was made to straddle the apparatus and stand on tiptoes to keep her tender lower parts off the bar. The first time she lost height and was zapped she squealed, then she screamed, and after half a dozen she just whimpered. Although I had no idea of the strength of the charge, I could hear the faint crackles, and as Desirée became more fatigued raising herself onto her toes, the sounds became more frequent. The crowd laughed and clapped. After about ten minutes she was permitted a momentary respite, but only so Jerome could insert an inflatable gag into her mouth. He pumped it up until her cheeks bulged to cartoonlike proportions. It must have been dreadfully humiliating. It muffled her shrieks as the dance recommenced. The audience cheered.

Then it was my turn to entertain. I was lifted up onto the pony and mounted in the middle, with my ankles strapped to the sides. So I couldn't use my hands to raise myself off it, a rope harness was tied about my neck and shoulders, and my wrists were hitched to the yoke in the middle of my back. The weight of my body pushed the ridge into my groin. It hurt more than I anticipated but less than I had feared, more of a dull ache than a sharp pain. The worst moment was when George pushed me backwards until all the pressure was upon my tailbone. That was distressing enough, but then he put his hand between my thighs and used his fingers to spread my labia. When I was brought back to an upright position I thought it was going to be excruciating; but with the tender flesh no longer pinched between my body and the wood, the sting was actually reduced.

Immediately after that, a penis-gag was shoved into my mouth. It was a phallic-shaped silicone protuberance held in place by a leather strap, a horrid, bulbous, foul-tasting thing which filled my mouth, compressing my tongue. The tip was just clear of my throat so I wouldn't choke, but it had me almost retching.

Meanwhile. Desirée was struggling to hold herself above the bar. From the spasms in her feet and calves, I could tell she was suffering cramps, from standing so long on her toes; and as a result she was bobbing up and down, on and off the bar to the tune of the crackles. It would have been funny if it didn't look so appalling. Then her predicament worsened. While still fighting the intensifying pain in her legs, she received a whipping, on her belly and breasts. It was not very heavy, but it did not need to be. Each lash made her totter, and there would be another series of sizzles as the little sparks leapt from the metal to her thighs and pubes. Her face, or that part not covered by the blindfold, was flushed bright crimson. Her head shook wildly, and a foam of saliva which had been spuming out from the sides of her gag and dribbling down her chin now sprayed in all directions. But she kept the rest of her body as rigid as she could to minimize contact with the electric current. That took a lot of strength and self-discipline; but it made very little difference.

Desirée's predicament took my mind off my own troubles for only a short while. Around five minutes into my ride, I discovered that however light or heavy you are, with all your weight bearing down on one spot the stress is going to build relentlessly. Though my legs were strapped to the sides of the pony, I had just enough flexibility to be able to shift the pressure back onto my perineum (in front of the tailbone). My flesh directly in contact with the beam was numbed, but the throbbing soreness in my pubes grew quickly to a searing pain. When I tried to relax, I leaned forward slightly, transferring the compression directly into my vagina and squeezing my clitoris. Whichever way I swayed, the rush of returning blood was like a dagger stabbing into my body, caused me to scream through my gag.

I could get only fleeting relief by pressing my knees against the wooden side panels and pushing upwards with my ankles in their fastenings. Because of the angle at which they were fixed, this caused me to pitch slightly to the front, and as soon as fatigue caused me to ease the tension the top edge of the wood gouged into me. If I attempted to rotate my hips to displace the pressure, this only increased the grinding. Any squirming or wriggling did the same thing. It was a harrowing dilemma, made all the more degrading because my audience was following my every movement, thoroughly engrossed. But my torment got worse when I started to get a twinge in my left leg. Not really expecting any assistance, I whispered through my gag to Jerome, who massaged out the kink before it became a full-blown cramp. Of course, he wasn't just being humane. My ordeal was thus prolonged.

Some women I'd seen would hump the pony, actually riding it, so to speak, until they were moaning in both ecstasy and agony. I decided to forego that dubious pleasure. But to my horror and shame, I felt a warm trickle down my thighs. Other fluids were coming out of me as well. Perspiration was pouring down my cheeks, along with a few tears, and mixing with the saliva oozing from the corners of my mouth past the edges of my gag, and twin rivulets trickled over my chin and onto my breasts.

If I had tried to estimate how long I spent astride the wooden pony, I would probably guessed two hours. In fact it was no longer than twenty minutes. As I was lifted off my perch by tender hands, I received my applause and sank to my knees, knowing full well that my tribulation was not yet over.

Desirée was released as well, even more gaunt and ghastly than I'm sure I looked. Her gorgeous body was lathered and her hair plastered with sweat, and she was shaking, almost convulsing. Our hands remained bound behind us as we were made to stand back to back, and held together with leather belts wrapped tightly around our arms and legs. The fact that I was not yet blindfolded made the anticipation worse, because George was fondling a whip and a cane. Meanwhile, Jerome was fiddling with metal clips and wooden pegs, and these went onto our nipples. Desirée received the metal ones and flinched and gasped and groaned as they were applied. I got off lightly with the less robust pegs, but they still hurt like hell. In spite of my state, I was actually embarrassed that Jerome did not need to massage my nipples to make them erect and easier to clamp. They were already stiff and distended.

Once George had blindfolded me, I knew what was coming. Nevertheless, the first sting of the cane on my breasts came as a nasty shock. The strokes continued and moved lower, down my belly, over my bruised and battered pubes, all the way along my thighs to my knees before reversing course. Each whack was like a red-hot claw pinching my flesh. And as I was being thrashed, Desirée was being flogged with the whip. Recoiling from the beating, we leaned back against each other, and behind our backs our fingers interlocked.

When Jerome started on me with the whip, it did not bite into my skin like the cane. But by now the dignity in the face of adversity I had tried to maintain had withered away. My resolve to resist the urge to twist and squirm, to cry out and beg for mercy through my gag, quickly dissolved. Of course, my cries went unheeded because I did not use my safe signal, but they served to amuse the onlookers and motivate my torturers. Every time I pleaded, the next blow came down harder than its precursor.