The Sisterhood of Slaves Pt. 01

And as much I was desperately hoping my ordeal would soon be over, I never considered ending it by pushing the ring off my finger. It may seem strange to use the word "pride" in the circumstances, since I had been so thoroughly degraded, but the fact is that I was too proud to throw in the towel so close to the finish. I needed to see how far I could go. I wanted to prove something to myself... even if I did not fully understand what that something was. The acclaim of the spectators meant nothing to me. Taking the stage at the Wooden Pony Club was about facing my fears and testing my limits, not about entertaining or impressing the crowd.

But as a novice I was spared at least part of the final degradation. The pillory had been brought onto the stage, but fitted into the bottom section was a set of stocks, for the arms and feet. Desirée was put into the top half, while I was locked in a kneeling position below her, facing away from the frame so that my haunches were resting on top of the board. I received a few more strokes of the cane on my exposed backside, but then I was ignored as George stood astride my hunched body. Pressing against Desirée's rump (as she was slightly bent forward), he unzipped his trousers and pushed forward. Her gasps and sighs rose through her gag to a climax of loud grunts and guttural moans as he pumped, at first slowly but increasing the cadence and vigor of his lungings until the pillory in which we were locked rattled and creaked. The audience remained, for once, completely silent, in rapt attention.

Jerome took George's place, whipping my hind quarters a few times before turning his attention to the body stooped above me.

When the show was over, I resolved to leave the podium unassisted. Desirée looked in far worse condition; but she smiled as she went backstage. We showered before I returned to Matthew. As I checked myself in the mirror, I was somewhat heartened that the punishments inflicted on my poor body had barely broken the skin. For this I had to admire our tormentors. George and Jerome knew their craft. They were skilled at inflicting maximum pain with a minimum of lasting, physical damage.

I also watched Desirée as she scrubbed off the sweat and saliva. She was as calm and composed as always, once the trembling abated under the stream of hot water. Peering through the fog, I noticed a slightly raised, pink scar on her left buttock, about eight centimeters long. It was not one of her freshly inflicted markings, but still raw and so recently made by a branding iron. The design was two interlocking S-shaped glyphs, composed of a braided rope or chain (it was hard to tell through the steam). It was similar to the section sign, or silcrow, §, used in typography. I was puzzled, indeed rather revolted, but did not inquire.

When I rejoined Matthew at our table, the people around me nodded their appreciation, and those closest to us said encouraging words.

My boyfriend stayed silent until I laughed.

"What's so funny?"

"Oh, nothing really," I replied. Every part of me was still sore, but most especially the tender parts between my legs. "I just hope you're not expecting sex tonight."

"Pleasure is very seldom found where it is sought; our brightest blazes of gladness are commonly kindled by unexpected sparks."

— Samuel Johnson, The Idler, 1759

I rode the wooden pony half a dozen times in the next few months. I also rode the sybian and danced over the electric bar and took my place in both the pillory and the stocks. I felt the lash of the whip, the stroke of the cane, the slap of the paddle, the shock of the cattle prod. There were other tortures and torments, some quite imaginative and even amusing. The shows became more diverse, more creative and flamboyant.

For my second pony ride, two weeks following the first, I was poised high above the beam with my knees pressed together, so that as I tired and began to slip downwards, the angled panels which formed the sides of the pony forced my thighs apart until, after several exhausting, excruciating minutes, my muscles gave way and I slumped and shrieked. The audience cheered.

Another time, my arms were stretched out horizontally behind me, strappado-fashion, and trussed to a cable hanging from the ceiling. That not only put agonizing stress on my shoulders but forced me to bend my torso forward, which then pushed the peak of the horse deep into my crevice. To make matters worse, this was part of an endurance contest. Another girl, Jenna, was seated the same way but nose-to-nose with me. She was beautiful, but her fine features, turning bright crimson, were distorted in pain and dripping with perspiration. She was puffing heavily through her gag, and a mist of saliva and sweat sprayed over my face. A large clock was set up where we could both see it, and the slow, steady ticking away of the seconds and minutes only served to amplify our misery. Finally, the competition was declared a draw. We had borne our suffering for one hour; and despite my huge relief, I found myself just a little peeved that my test of stamina had been halted prematurely.

Ever since then, I have wondered how long I might have lasted; but it was one of the rules of the club that we never went that far. We did, however, have a sybian-riding tournament, and it is only counter-intuitive to those who have not experienced it that the remorseless pleasure of the sybian was more difficult to bear than the unrelenting pain of the wooden pony.

At the time, I was unsure what inspired or impelled me to accept these trials. Some of the girls were masochists, and others called themselves pain and humiliation junkies. I saw with my own eyes how one can get hooked on the adrenaline and the endorphins. Some were in dominant-submissive relationships and performed to please the master or mistress, or to prove their devotion. That made less sense to me. A couple endured for no other reason than the extra tips it brought them from titillated customers. But none of those motivations was mine. While I enjoyed serving topless and dancing naked — I was flattered by the attention as well as gratified by the gratuities — pain and degradation did nothing to turn me on.

But since as far back as I can remember, I've had that penchant for extreme adventures. As a teenage tomboy with a taste for the rough-and-tumble, I was a sucker for a dare and would accept just about any that was put to me. I relished taking on the neighborhood boys and beating them at their own games. I did some wild and crazy things. And I guess that the challenges I faced in the Wooden Pony Club were the definitive test of my limits, the ultimate defiance of my fears and frailties. Was I so much different from the marathon runner or triathlete who pushes her body and spirit to the edge of endurance and then (as often is the case) beyond?

When I endured my ordeals, I felt more, experienced more, lived more intensely than I had in years. Amidst the pain and humiliation were feelings of exhilaration and even liberation.

But there came the day when I left the club, never to return. I had started on a critical phase of my postgraduate studies, which would involve both research and a permanent teaching position. When I informed Desirée that I would have to quit, she was gracious about it, even granting me a generous severance payment. I promised to go back, but I never did. And sometime later, when I asked Richard how his job was going, instead of answering he blandly replied: "Desirée is gone."

Not long after my leaving, she had also resigned... and disappeared. No one knew where she had gone or when she'd be back, or even if she would ever return. And since her departure, the Wooden Pony Club had been turned into a more conventional striptease venue. The tackiness of its façade was beginning to seep into the interior. Staff turnover increased dramatically. Richard worked there for a while, but was not as keen as he had once been. Eventually he was laid off, or quit, during a downsizing.

As for Matthew, by this time we had broken up. He had a new girlfriend and I had to admit that they were a perfect match. She changed him for the better. We remained on good terms but rarely saw each other. In any case, my life was about to take another interesting turn.