Wooden Pony Club: Part 3
"New and unfamiliar things awaken delight in the mind, satisfying curiosity and introducing fresh ideas," wrote Joseph Addison in 1712 through The Spectator.
When I discovered the concept of the Wooden Pony Club and its role as a BDSM establishment, I felt a mixture of familiarity and disparity. I had heard and read about such places before. It seemed to embody everything one might expect when it came to this sort of setting, but also held unique elements. The club's "players" appeared to be amateurs, with the exception of a few who worked there as waitresses. Despite their comfort with the situation, even the experienced women appeared stunned by the intensity of the events.
The damage inflicted appeared minor, but was still painful. The whips' numerous tails lessened the force and prevented lasting scarring, yet this failed to ease the temporary agony. The wooden pony itself was not as daunting as it first seemed. However, when combined with the "cat o' nine tails" and electrified baton, the experience was far from easy. I observed yellowish stains trailing down the pony's flanks.
Two individuals, Black Mask and Red Robe, were the sole conductors of these tortures and degradations. The former, a portly man with a beard, was George, who on regular days worked as the janitor. The latter, a muscular, handsome thirty-something year-old, was Jerome, the club's accountant. During the daytime, they both assumed their usual roles. But at night, they were in charge of the tortures. To a degree, men perceived as partners could participate, albeit under the supervision of the professionals.
One evening, a group of six women arrived. It was the same all-girl crew I'd seen my initial night. They sat at the back, quieter this time, and after midnight, almost silent. During an intermission, the girls began poking, daring, and teasing one another until a tall brunette stood up and walked towards the stage. Her friends cheered her on, as did the patrons at other tables. She shed her clothes effortlessly but grew pale once George dragged the wooden pony to center stage and Jerome started using his whip. Still, she didn't back down as she was tied, blindfolded, and hoisted onto the contraption. Shortly after, a petite blonde volunteered and assumed a seat on the sybian. She wasn't blindfolded, and her comical grimace as an enormous dildo penetrated her petite body earned her a round of applause which she reciprocated as the machine got moving and she began moaning. Both women were not exempt from the whip.
Jerome urged the girls' four friends to join them onstage for the floggings, and they willingly did so. Yet they must have known they'd pay a price. Soon after, a curvaceous redhead came alongside the first woman on the pony. Their breasts pressed together, allowing them to kiss. The remaining three women did not go through their ordeal, causing them to look dismal. They resembled wallflowers at a high school dance.
This théâtre de dégradation only took place on Fridays and Saturdays (however, waitresses served topless and danced naked every night). Once, there was a theme and men were involved. These men wore loincloths or leather pants, differences that unnerved me. They not only offered less dignity but were less brutalized by the whips and cattle prod and the wooden pony's effects. These disparities made me uneasy. Having worked as a server in a few establishments, I understood why one gender donned skimpy garments, though I found the S&M aspect questionable. I was left troubled by the contrast.
Richard attempted to clarify these discrepancies... but his response left me less than satisfied. He argued that the male performances weren't as fashionable. This suggested a difference in the clientele and sparked questions about the individuals who chose to frequent the club or if I was even allowed to believe such a statement.
Over the next three weeks, I returned to my normal routine of working night shifts, studying, and teaching a few classes. While this was a welcome change from the previous week's drama, I still felt uneasy and more exposed than before. Nobody seemed to notice my discomfort, except possibly Desiree, who became more attentive towards me than usual.
One Thursday evening, Desiree asked if I'd be able to work the following night and stay until after midnight. With no other commitments, I agreed. The pay was the same, but I expected the tips to be higher since I would be working without a bra. When I mentioned this to my boyfriend, Matt, he was disappointed but understood that Desiree wasn't allowing partners to stay when we were on duty. This had only been allowed during my first few days due to my inexperience.
That afternoon, I managed to get some sleep before heading to work for dinner. I was relieved that Matt wouldn't be there, as it allowed me to focus better. However, I was surprised to find Richard working instead. I started at 8pm, and at midnight, I removed my bra, which was less uncomfortable than I initially expected. However, Richard's prolonged gazes at my chest unsettled me. I had always viewed him as more of a brother figure, so his blatant staring felt disrespectful. He attempted to rationalize this with the suggestion that he could get one of the other girls to give me advice on increasing tips, but I responded sharply without responding.
As scheduled, the BDSM show began and continued until 4am every half-hour. With the Wooden Pony Club being the most popular, the iconic horse's dildo was the main attraction, but the sybian, pillory, whip, and cattle prod were used as well. In between performances, the waitresses were expected to dance. So when it was my turn, Desiree gently patted my shoulder and informed me that I would need to remove my panties, garter belt, stockings, and shoes for a full nude performance. Despite her gentle tone, I understood the seriousness of the situation. Since we all shared the gratuity, we should all contribute equally. And as it turned out, we made decent money from it. Even the male staff, who were not required to dance, received tips. Their role was supposed to be security, but the club didn't employ bouncers, and the customers were always well-behaved.
Although I'm not a graceful or capable dancer, I tried my best. Desiree reassured me that the audience wouldn't be paying attention to my performance, but I knew some of the girls were rather good. I danced barefoot, while the others danced on high heels. Surprisingly, I received applause and did not perceive any irony or sarcasm from the audience. They appreciated my attempt to dance naked, which seemed to please them. And as I flailed around the stage, I looked for signs of Richard's approval, but he was suspiciously absent. Later, I was told that he had gone to the cloakroom to have sex with another waitress. It could have been a practical joke, because I've never viewed Richard as particularly attractive to women. He was also the youngest staff member. Many of the girls nicknamed him Little Dick.
Athena's Playhouse, a humorous workplace where the female staff members' attitude towards the male staff was relaxed and not overly serious. The constant naked dancing and Friday and Saturday shows added to the existing sexual tension. So we didn’t take things too seriously. This became evident through Richard's occasional fondling of his boss without repercussions.
Regardless of my opinion on the matter, I have no intention of downplaying Richard's attractiveness.
One night, I witnessed a different aspect of the intriguing atmosphere at the Wooden Pony Club during a staff gathering. Partners were invited, and Matthew attended, as well as George and Jerome. Notably, neither George nor Jerome brought a partner, and neither did Desirée.
The event started off as a typical party, but with a hint of carefree silliness due to being called a "ladies' lingerie night." Of course, I followed suit and dressed in a similar manner to my work uniform, but without the stockings or garter belt.
A makeshift curtain draped the stage area. Out of curiosity, I parked myself away from the action. After an hour or so, Desirée revealed that a handful of sybians was lined up on the platform. Despite the state of some of them, everyone in the room comprehensively understood their purpose. Eyeing these well-endowed machines, I had an idea of what was next.
When Desirée spread the word that all women were welcome to "enjoy the ride," some people firmly rejected the idea. However, to my astonishment, most women shrugged and nodded in agreement. Several looked enthusiastic. It was no revelation that all the refusers were partners rather than the staff.
In a nutshell, the Wooden Pony Club had a fascinating way of drawing you into unfamiliar territory. It triggered you to question whether your idea of normalcy was true or simply an effect of isolation from this vibrant reality. Doubt set in, as the possibility occurred to me that we all played out our fantasies, even the "darker" ones, behind closed doors, completely unaware of each other. However, it occurred to me later that the most intriguing aspect of the club was this collective enticement. It labelled the distorted outlook as "normal" through peer pressure in a cylinder of unspoken, self-reinforcing belief. "If all the other girls can do it, why can't I?" soon became the unspoken question. And it's possible that if just one or two individuals had said no, the system could have crumbled. But Desirée, the vivacious hostess, maintained the momentum.
Desirée suggested that the women tended to the bathroom if they hadn't done so in a while. This prompted an awkward few minutes of silent women scurrying off, giggling uncomfortably at the anticipated activities.
Volunteers gathered, ready to hop on. However, they were taken aback when Desirée stripped down in front of them, commanding their attention. George tightened her restraints, resulting in gasps and cries from the crowd. Desirée endured this, seemingly unaffected, as the needles on the control panel adjusted. After the women were blindfolded, Desirée explained the situation: "Since you can't see each other, the variety will enrich the sensory experience."
Near each sybian stood a small case containing an array of different-sized and shaped prosthetic add-ons for the seat. There was also a handheld console attached to the machine with buttons and dials allowing for vibration and rotation control. The women consulted their partners about their preferences, and Desirée picked a purple rod, which Jerome attached to the seat, shaping it like a large phallus. Others chose inserts and the clitoral stimulator pad. Jennifer, a waitress, along with another woman, got rid of their brassieres before hopping on.
Desirée mounted the device with ease, guiding herself down onto the "joystick," despite her bound hands. Leaning forward to apply pressure against the stimulator pad, she let out a soft gasp of pleasure, her nipples standing at attention. The others obeyed their partners and found comfort as they followed in her footsteps.
As it turns out, the Wooden Pony Club had a fascinating way of blurring the lines between normalcy and distorted fantasy. The impression it creates of being entirely unquestionable, leading to an inevitable blur of fantasies among the staff and patrons, is what makes it so alluring. If you just replace the word "normal" with your own perception of a wholly distorted and darkened reality, it becomes clearer that the Wooden Pony Club was enthralling in its appeal and insidiousness.
As the machine buzzed, Desirée began a casual commentary, explaining that while the Sybian can give pleasure without the joystick, it amplifies the experience. Abruptly, in mid-sentence, she gasped; her toes curled; her face turned bright red. From the machine between her thighs emitted a gentle humming, which slowly grew louder and faster as Jerome fiddled with the controls. She shut her eyes and pouted her lips, and her head lolled as droplets of sweat rolled down her brow and moistened her blindfold. And just as her first climax started to ebb away, she let out a loud moan and violently shook her head. Every time her breathing regained control and her tremors lessened, Jerome cranked up the intensity to the next level. After about ten minutes, her composure had vanished. She needed assistance to stand up, her body trembling, her skin sticky and bumpy, her face dripping with sweat, her legs unsteady, her speech incoherent; yet she maintained her enigmatic smile. When her blindfold was removed, the fierce glow in her eyes remained intact. She remained undressed, her hands restrained, in her whoopiness.
Many women let out noises and grunts, and seemed frustrated when their time on the pony concluded. They stayed wobbly for a while, but their expressions turned smug proudly. Despite them acting aloof and haughty, redness colored their faces.
Finally, only two women didn't go. Some of them needed gentle persuasion, and there was plenty of blushing and hesitation, thy wavering back and forth. But there were no demands, and no one who stepped forward ended up changing their mind at the last second. In the final group, all used the joystick after viewing its effect. I delayed going until the end. I assumed people's enthusiasm would subside and I'd have a smaller audience. But this was not the case; the boisterous feeling only grew. In fact, the gathering tried to push those who were reluctant to take part. (On the other side, no one tried to shove anyone into taking part.) And by standing around and waiting, I had inadvertently set a trap for myself because everyone else took the full ride with insert removed.
While Desirée, George, and Jerome cleaned and maintained the Sybians, I removed my shirt and underwear. I planned to go all-in — joystick, rope, blindfold; and in my mind, there was no point in concealing my chest if the lower half was visible. I passed my underwear to Matthew, who was fascinated and aroused to see me nude while surrounded by so many people. He had not yet watched any of my dancing acts. I could detect his stifled breathing and feel his trembling hands as he secured the blindfold around my head and tied my wrists behind my back — not very tightly, but enough to restrain my arms.
In the dimness before shadows took over, I noticed that the girl next to me had a girlfriend who had recently gone for a ride. I wondered if her hand on the console's dials was as jittery as the rest of her.
Matthew assisted me in positioning myself on my prearranged machine and tapped my thigh to remind me to mount it. Once I was straddling it, he, in a crouching position, guided me downwards, eventually placing the phallic gadget into me. I dallied a bit, rubbing against it, and then urged "Ready." Matthew helped me lower my body onto the saddle. Its supple texture made it easy on my skin and a breeze to clean.
The dildo did not enter me effortlessly. In a moment of braggadocio, I had selected the "jumbo" size, and teasingly mentioned that I was accustomed to something substantial. Matthew beamed with smug male pride. It imitated phallus shape, but featured a wider and rounder form, essentially like a bulging egg on a brief stem, and with a bumpy surface. It required me to push down to Force its passage through my tight opening, but once it got moving, the nodes massaged my G-spot delightfully. [Again, this text is not ideal, but it does the job and maintains the given format.]
Matthew waited until I had gotten myself into the perfect position before he started messing with the control box. Based on what he's seen others do, he changed up the rotation and vibration of the joystick, increasing and decreasing the intensity in a random fashion so I couldn't predict what was coming next. His skills were impressive, delicate, and perceptive. He deftly played with the dials together and separately, gradually heightening my pleasure before suddenly intense or toning it back so I could catch my breath. The plug didn't rotate inside me but instead oscillated on its base, moving in a tiny circle and massaging the walls of my vagina. I tilted forward just a bit, so my clitoris was touching the stimulator pad. This was a distinctly vibrating, bumpy panel on the front of the joystick. It hummed against my clit.
I started wriggling at first. My body began to sway, making it difficult to maintain my equilibrium, especially with my hands tied. My head was bobbing as the pleasure spread through me, not in a single sweeping crescendo but as a series of crashing waves of ecstasy growing in intensity as Matthew fiddled with his knobs. I let out a series of sighs, gasps, grunts, and moans. Thankfully, I managed to avoid squealing or shouting out of respect for my own dignity. I found myself gripping the seat with my knees, moving my pelvis over the stimulator pad to stimulate my clitoris; however, I didn't have to do much to attain and enhance my orgasm. The Sybian had its way with me. I was most certainly along for the ride!
Still, after a couple of minutes, it turned into an ordeal. My body had to be in contact with the surface so the stimulator pad could operate effectively, but elevated slightly so the insert could rotate freely within me and do its job properly. After several minutes, I finally found my sweet spot. However, when the strain on my thighs and my tied hands became too intense and I slumped onto the seat, I felt the insert rubbing against my cervix, which was uncomfortable but not unbearable. So I had to strain to lift myself only slightly off the seat.
My knees began to ache, my thighs cramped; my body ached from the contractions and spasms as Matthew now cranked up the pace relentlessly. Despite having visited the bathroom, the urge to pee was intensified than I had ever felt with an actual penis inside me. It was excruciatingly pleasurable; but with knowing my bladder was empty, the pleasure of letting go and surrendering to those waves of delightful arousal was divine. My mind was focused solely on the events within me until a hazy, blissful veil fell over my brain, blocking out all other stimuli. The blindfold was effective.
If I were prone to quoting cliches, I'd claim that I became one with the machine. It's a bizarrely satisfying sensation. Although it was disconcerting to have my hands bound, it does, as Desiree had stated, magnify the experience. And being blindfolded heightens your sensitivity and strips you of inhibitions, making you feel like you're in your own world. So when my session was over, I didn't care about who might be observing me. All I regretted was yielding my position to the next lady in line.
When it finished, I couldn't lift myself off the saddle without assistance; and once the bulbous prosthetic was removed from my body, the entire attachment was taken off its stem. As my hands were still restrained, I couldn't get it out. Someone - presumably Desiree - gently took it out of me. The extraction created a sucking noise that, for some reason, mortified me more than anything else (thus far). Exhausted, I dropped down onto my knees again, beside the Sybian. My legs were too weak and wobbly for me to stand up right away. I could hear someone cleaning the seat, and to my chagrin, I felt a warm flow trickling down the inside of my thigh. I endured a few moments of embarrassment (what a time to be squeamish about fluids!) before realizing that the wetness was sweat.
The majority of the women had several rounds on the Sybian, including myself. A handful opted for a third ride, while I was content with my two experiences. By the end of it, we were all drowsy and unsteady, sweaty and disheveled, lurching and stumbling. And I couldn't help feeling sorry for the men. Their pleasure was, in a sense, borrowed, borrowed from witnessing ours. Which for them was fine because males (supposedly) have a greater response to visual sexual stimuli than women, making the viewing aspect adequate. Being in control of the control box allowed them an active role, but this was merely to amplify our pleasure. And while I might be biased, I prefer sensations to sights - no matter how captivating they might be.
As the focus of the party shifted away from the synbians, it carried on into the late hours of the night. By the time the rides were over, most of the women were completely naked, without feeling the need to put our underwear back on. We proceeded to spend the rest of the evening in this state, while the men continued to be clothed. This experience, in itself, was already sexy and sensual, but the sight of just "CMNF" (clothed male, naked female, if you're not familiar) seemed like an anti-climax.
That evening, a significant shift occurred in my experience and attitude. I had been willingly led into doing things that I had never fathomed before. However, it was time for me to take charge, diving deeper into uncharted yet inviting territory. To push the metaphor, it was like crossing the event horizon of a black hole. I was now irreversibly set on a course, staring straight ahead towards the future, unable to look back or turn back. The path ahead of me was promising, leading me to a whole new, captivating world.