Wooden Pony Club Part 4.
"True joy is rarely found when we search for it; often, our most thrilling moments of happiness are sparked by unanticipated events." - Samuel Johnson, 1759, The Idler
I'd been employed at the Wooden Pony Club for over four months, including a handful of late-night shifts. This job turned out to be one of the best I'd ever had. I cherished prancing around the tables in my lingerie and occasionally stripping completely. I even learned a few moves for my nude dance performances. I even started doing exercises to firm up my muscles. I even carrried out a suggestion from one of the ladies: shave my pubic hair. "Your customers like it, and that increases your tips," she explained. (Custoemrs... I actually had fans.)
However, having fans came with a cost - losing anonymity. The club was often frequented by university staff members. I crossed paths with a few of them, and they'd cross paths with me serving topless and naked. But it was never a problem. We just exchanged nods and smiles, and no one ever mentioned it outside. Admission to membership was also selective, in that the people who were allowed in were open-minded and secretive, and I had no issues with my body, which had always remained sleek. In fact, I was proud of it and wasn't shy about showing it off.
At the same time, my relationship with Matthew seemed to be cooling without explanation. Guilty, I blamed myself. With my postgraduate research, teaching duties, and the several hours I spent working at the club, I had no time left to exclusively focus on him.
So when Desiree suggested I take on a lighter workload by only working the midnight shift, I asked, "Why just that?"
She said, "Some of the girls have rather successful tip-building personal followings. They earn well."
I understood the subtext soon enough. I thought about Marilyn and Beth, and others. I must have looked puzzled.
"There's no pressure," she added, "Think about it and take as much time as you need." Still, she followed up, "It's not all about the money. I believe you’ll find it..." She hesitated. "...rewarding."
It didn't take me long to make a decision. However, I can't say what exactly enticed me to make that decision at the time. The curiosity of what was happening during those late nights intrigued me. Plus, that hidden voice within me told me it was time to be more than a passive bystander. I wanted to find out, by experiencing it myself, what drove those girls and what excited them and me too. Maybe it was a desire to reclaim the daring, adventurous spirit from my childhood. Perhaps it was because I'd spent most of my life immersed in my family and studies; it was time to do something new, thrilling, and bold - a change from my undistracted existence.
The one-third of Friday and Saturday regular customers included both first-timers (virgins) and eager regulars. I had long been fascinated by the bravery and endurance of these people. This was a trial of courage and something more; something I couldn't quite name. I eagerly awaited to know the experience, to have a taste of what these women submitted themselves to, and to understand their motivations and excitement. Was it perhaps a reflection of my youthful, unrestrained adventurousness? Was it the necessity to break free from my ordinary life, which felt increasingly unfulfilling?
Weeks before my performance, I was an edgy, fidgety mess. Friends and colleagues steered clear of me. Only Matthew and Richard knew why. Both were supportive, and supported my decision, but it seemed that Richard, the one who had brought me to the club and introduced me to Desiree and helped me get the job, was the only one to say, "You don't have to do this." Maybe it was because he felt more at fault for pushing me toward this. Matthew, on the other hand, seemed too eager to help, almost thrilled by it. That disturbed me.
I worked the serving area for a couple of hours that night. It was my turn to perform second. Nervous to watch the first one, I helped in the kitchen while Matthew sat in the audience. Once the opening act finished, the girl left the platform and I went backstage, almost losing my nerve. There were a few dance breaks, one with Desirée in a challenging routine. When she came off, her body glistening with sweat, she tried to ease my nerves with a few consoling words. She assured me I could end the show with a code word, and gave me a loose ring to wear on my right index finger. I worried about people's response if I stopped it (since I had never seen that before), and she was usually blunt.
"Forget them. If they don't like it, let them take your place."
That was the push I needed. I put my panties, garter belt, stockings, and shoes away under the counter. Desirée handed me a broad brown leather collar, and instead of the slim black choker I had been wearing. I fastened it around my neck with a back buckle. And what happened next made me even more confident, even though it came as a bit of a shock. I wouldn't be alone in my humiliation. Richard had shown up, which threw me off for a moment. But he went behind Desirée, grabbed her wrists, and tied them behind her back with nylon rope. Her face changed from a glare to a look of pure bliss. The transformation was swift and astonishing. Her chest heaved as she started to softly breathe, and her nipples began to harden. She bent at the waist and lifted one leg as the arousal started to swell within her. Richard was still holding her arms, and it was unnerving to see this elegant, beautiful woman, normally so strong and self-possessed, nude, bound, and desperate from the hands of this young man who was not just her employee but shorter and less attractive in every other way.
Jerome and George, the Red Robe and Black Mask, came to join us. George dressed in a menacing black mask and studded leather vest, had a thin, reedy voice with a slight lisp.
"Sorry, sweetheart. It has to be tight. The customers like it."
Jerome clipped a chain to a ring on the front of my collar. Then George took another chain and summoned Desirée closer. She hesitated, but just for a second, before coming back to George. He didn't attach the chain to her collar. He commanded her, "Spread your legs!" He reached down to her crotch and connected the clasp to the small piercings in her labia. She winced as he gave her leash a couple of hard tugs. Then Desirée and I were led about the place, following a path that took us close to every table. As we passed Matthew's, our eyes met, and I saw something confusing in his gaze -- a mixture of arousal and contempt. He appeared to disdain me for enduring this humiliation. Maybe it was just my imagination. I could barely think straight.
Desirée and I were led to the stage. The room fell silent. Somehow, it's tradition that a virgin is allowed a low-key start, but I think the spectators were stunned to see Desirée back so soon after her energetic dance. And, I don't know whether her encore was just Richard's idea or a plan he arranged with Jerome and George. But she quickly adapted to her impending ordeal, and smiled as they blindfolded her. I stayed blind, and wasn't thrilled about the sight of lots of people staring at me under the stage lights. It was difficult to see faces in the crowd, to witness their twisted pleasure. But the applause and cheers sent me off balance. There was a sudden burst of laughter and clapping. I nearly tripped going up the platform's steps. Contemplating the wooden pony that awaited me, my tension vanished. I was shaking, but not from fear, as I beheld the apparatus in front of me.
Desiree drew everyone's attention first. She had to endure what's known as the "electric bar dance." It was a simple but cruel contraption: just a horizontal bar attached to legs, like a carpenter's trestle and set above the floor around crotch height. At one end of the bar were wires leading to a battery. The woman would straddle the apparatus and stand on tiptoes to keep her lower parts off the bar. The first time she lost balance and touched the bar, she squealed in pain, then screamed, and after several more instances, only whimpered. Although I didn't know the true strength of the current, I could hear faint crackles. And as Desiree grew more tired, lifting herself onto her toes became harder, causing those sounds to get more frequent. The crowd laughed.
The chain still attached to her pussy was stretched across the electrified beam. The clasp looked to be made of brass, which doesn't conduct current well, but it would still have supplied a low-level charge to her genitals, along with the jolts from the bar. After about ten minutes, she was given a brief break so Jerome could insert an inflatable gag into her mouth. He pumped it up until her cheeks bulged like cartoon characters. It had to be ridiculously humiliating. It muffled her shrieks as the dance started again. The audience cheered.
But now it was my turn to entertain. I was lifted onto the wooden pony and sat in the middle, with my ankles tied to the sides. My hands were useless, so a rope harness was tied around my neck and shoulders, and my wrists were then connected to the yoke in the middle of my back. The weight of my body pushed the wooden beam against my groin, causing pain that I hadn't fully predicted but was less painful than I feared—more of an annoying ache than a sharp pain. The most uncomfortable moment came when George pushed me backward, putting all the pressure against my tailbone. That was pretty distressing, and then he put his hand between my legs and spread them with his fingers. When I was brought back to an upright position, I expected excruciating pain, but with the tender flesh no longer pinched between my body and the wood, the discomfort was reduced.
Suddenly, a penis-shaped gag was pushed into my mouth. It was a silicone thing that looked like a penis, held in place by a leather strap, a disgusting, big, foul-tasting object that filled my mouth and compressed my tongue. The tip almost reached my throat without choking me, but it made me feel like I was about to vomit.
While Desiree was struggling to hold herself above the bar, I could tell from the spasms in her feet and calves that she was suffering from cramps due to standing for so long on her toes. As a result, she was bouncing up and down, on and off the bar to the sound of sizzling crackles. It would've been comical if it weren't so awful. But her situation got worse. While still dealing with the increasing pain in her legs, she was whipped on her stomach and breasts. The lashes weren't heavy, but they didn't have to be. Each lash made her sway, and there would be more crackling noises as the tiny sparks jumped from the metal to her thighs and genitals. Her red-flushed face (what wasn't covered by the blindfold) told me how much pain she was in. She shook her head violently, and a foam of saliva from the sides of her gag now sprayed everywhere. But she still tried to keep most of her body straight to reduce contact with the electric current. It took considerable strength and self-control, but it made little difference.
Desiree's situation took my mind off my own predicament for a short while. After five minutes on the wooden pony, I realized that whatever your weight is, the pressure on one spot will build inexorably. Although my legs were secured to the pony's sides, I had just enough flexibility to shift the pressure back onto my perineum (in front of the tailbone). The part of me in contact with the beam was numb, but the painful soreness in my pubic area grew into an intense pain. When I tried to relax, leaning forward slightly distressed me even more, as the blood rushing back into my body felt like a dagger piercing through me, prompting me to scream through my gag. I felt a little embarrassed that I made more noise than other women, but then I told myself that my screams made my performance more exciting and entertaining. (Yes, I was losing it.)
I could only get temporary relief by pushing my knees against the wooden panels and lifting up with my ankles, which were fastened. Since the panels were fixed at an angle, this position caused me to lean slightly forward. When I stopped doing this because of fatigue, the top edge of the wood would leave marks on me. If I tried to change my position by rotating my hips, it only added to the pain. Any kind of squirming or wriggling did the same thing. It was a distressing situation, made worse by the fact that everyone was watching me, completely captivated by my every movement.
However, things got even worse when I started to feel something in my left leg. I didn't expect any help, so I tried to communicate this to Jerome by muttering through my gag. Remarkably, he knew what I meant and eased the pain before it turned into a cramp. But he wasn't just trying to be kind; it only extended my suffering.
Some women had tried riding the pony with their hips, humping it as they reached a state of ecstasy and agony. I didn't want to do that. But to my shock, I started leaking fluids down my legs. Other fluids were also leaving my body, and my face was soaked with sweat and a few tears. The saliva from my gag flowed out past my mouth's edge, dripping onto my breasts.
If I tried to guess how much time had passed, I would've thought it was about two hours. In reality, it was less than twenty minutes. As I was lifted off the pony, I heard the applause and knew that my torment wasn't over yet.
Desirée was set free too, appearing even more gaunt and ghastly than I probably looked. Her body was coated in lather, her hair covered in sweat, and she was shaking, almost seizing. We were still restrained with our hands bound behind us as we were forced to stand back-to-back, connected by leather belts around our arms and legs. Our fingers were interlocked.
The fact that I wasn't blindfolded made the waiting worse since George was wielding a whip and a cane. Meanwhile, Jerome was dealing with metal clips and wooden pegs. He put clips on Desirée's nipples, and she groaned and gasped in pain. I only got less painful pegs, but they still hurt a lot. Despite my condition, I was ashamed that Jerome didn't need to stimulate my nipples to make them erect and easier to clamp. They were already hard and distended.
The first stroke of the cane on my breasts was a shock, and I thought my virgin flogging would be fairly gentle. It wasn't. The strokes kept coming, going lower, across my bruised and battered pubes, down my thighs to my knees, before traveling back up. Every hit felt like a red-hot claw pinching my skin. At the same time, Desirée was being flogged with the whip. When we recoiled from our flogging, we collided, making us turn around so I moved into reach of Jerome's whip. It didn't puncture my skin like the cane, but by now, any sense of dignity in the face of adversity was long gone. My resolve to withstand the urge to move and scream, to beg for mercy through my gag, quickly vanished. Of course, my pleas were ignored, and I didn't use my safe signal, but it was for the amusement of the spectators. Every time I begged, the next blow seemed worse than the last.
And even though I wished my ordeal would end soon, I hadn't considered ending it by moving the ring from my finger. It may seem unusual to use the word "pride" in this situation, considering how I had been degraded, but the truth is that I was so proud I didn't give up so close to the end. I wanted to find out how much I could take. I wanted to prove something to myself... even if I didn't understand what it was. The crowd's applause meant nothing to me. Performing at the Wooden Pony Club was about facing my fears and pushing my limits, not about pleasing or delighting the audience.
As a newcomer, I was fortunate enough to avoid some of the last degradations. The stocks had been placed on the stage, but inside the lower section was a pillory, designed for the arms and feet. Desiree was placed in the upper part, while I was placed into a kneeling position beneath her, with my bottom perched on the board. My head, however, faced the audience. As I watched, I saw that everyone was quiet and captivated by the spectacle. I expected prurient excitement or scandalous entertainment. Instead, they displayed a morbid curiosity. Fortunately, I was unable to identify Matthew in the dim lighting.
I received a few more whip and cane strokes, but then Jerome stepped away as George took his place. He pressed his body against Desiree's buttocks (who was slightly bent forward) and unzipped his trousers. She emitted cries and moans through her gag, reaching a crescendo of loud grunts and primeval noises as he thrust, initially gradually but increasing the rhythm and intensity of his movements until the pillory we were in shook and creaked. The two men then exchanged roles. Jerome took George's position inside Desiree.
When the show ended, I decided to walk off the podium without assistance but was led by George on a chain leash. Desiree appeared to be in a much worse condition, yet she also left under her own power and even smiled as she returned backstage. We showered and I returned to Matthew. When I assessed myself in the mirror, I was somewhat relieved that the punishments inflicted on my body had barely broken the skin. For this, I had to commend our torturers. George and Jerome were masters of their craft. They knew how to inflict the greatest amount of pain with the least amount of lasting physical harm.
I also observed Desiree as she cleaned off. As her shivering subsided under the shower stream, she was at ease as always. From the strands of her pubic hair, I saw the small golden rings and the small lock, which had been closed once more after the two men had completed their actions. And when the woman turned away, I noticed a new, raw pink scar on her left buttock. It was not a new injury, but it was still very fresh. It was also adorned with two interlocking S-shaped glyphs, resembling a twisted rope or chain. It was similar to the section symbol, or silcrow, §, in typography. I was perplexed and somewhat repulsed but chose not to inquire.
When I joined Matthew at our table, the people there gave me a nod of approval, and those closest to us commented encouragingly.
My boyfriend remained silent until I laughed.
"What's funny?"
"Oh, nothing really," I replied. My entire body was still sore, but especially the intimate parts. "I'm just hoping that you're not expecting sex tonight."
I rode the wooden pony numerous times over the next few months. I also sat on the Sybian and danced over the electric bar, and I positioned myself in both the pillory and the stocks. I experienced the sting of the whip, the swat of the cane, the smack of the paddle, and the shock of the cattle prod. There were additionally creative and whimsical tortures. The shows evolved to include more diversity, ingenuity, and extravagance. I, of course, was often the one who received the whip, paddle, and other forms of corporal punishment. George and Jerome had sex with me, which was a part of the show. Each time a condom was used.
"Health and safety regulations," George explained to me. I'm not sure if he was joking.
For my second pony ride, two weeks after the first, I was situated high above the beam, with my knees tight together. I was unable to move, so as I tired and lost strength, my muscles could not support my weight, and my legs unavoidably fell apart. After a few agonising, excruciating minutes, my body yielded and I cried out in pain. The audience cheered.
On another occasion, my limbs were restrained in a horizontal position at the rear, resembling the strappado method, and connected to a rope dangling from the ceiling. This maneuver not only induced torturous pressure on my shoulders but compelled me to curve my body forward, causing the horse to protrude further into my recess. To complicate matters further, I was engaged in an endurance contest. Jenna, a stunning beauty, was mounted similarly but was staring me straight in the face. Despite her loveliness, her exquisite characteristics, twisted by suffering, were obscured by tears and perspiration. She was panting forcefully through her gag, and sweat and saliva droplets were spattering all over me. A clock was placed where we both could observe it, and the passing of seconds and minutes intensified our misery. Finally, the contest came to a halt in a tie. Although I was delighted to be relieved from my ordeal, I couldn't help but feel a tinge of annoyance that my endurance competition had ended before its intended time. Since then, I have often considered if I might have lasted longer, but the rules of the club prohibited that and I had escaped using my "safe signal".
In a different episode, we participated in a sissy-riding tournament, and contrary to expectation, the constant pleasure of the contraption was more challenging to bear than the relentless pain of the horse.
At that time, I was uncertain what compelled or incited me to participate in these tests. Some of the participants were masochists, and others named themselves pain and humiliation aficionados. I witnessed firsthand how one can get addicted to the adrenaline and endorphins. Some were in dominant-submissive relationships, performing to appease the master or mistress, or to show their devotion. This made little sense to me. A few endured for no other reason than the additional tips they received from aroused guests. However, none of these motives applied to me. While I enjoyed serving topless and dancing nude - I was gratified by the attention as well as the gratuities - the infliction of pain and degradation for their own purpose did nothing to arouse me.
Yet, since my childhood, I had always enjoyed dangerous endeavors. As a young tomboy, drawn to rough-and-tumble activities, I could not resist a dare and accepted almost any that was offered. I was enthused by engaging in battles with the neighborhood boys and coming out victorious. I had indulged in some wild and reckless adventures. And these challenges at the Wooden Pony Club were the ultimate demonstration of my limits, the ultimate defiance of my concerns and weaknesses. Was I so distinct from the marathon or triathlon competitor who drove their body and mind to their endurance limit and sometimes, surpassed it?
When I submitted to my torment, I felt more alive, experienced more, and I would even say, I existed more intensely than I had in years. Amidst the pain and humiliation, there were sentiments of excitement and even freedom.
However, I eventually discontinued my membership at the Wooden Pony Club. I was embarking on a significant phase of my postgraduate education, which would entail research and a permanent teaching role. When I informed Desireé about my departure, she was gracious and even provided me with a substantial severance package. I promised to return, but I never did. One day, I inquired about Richard's occupation, and instead of responding, he simply stated: "Desireé is gone."
Not long after my departure, she also resigned... and vanished without a trace. Her whereabouts, her return, were all unknown. And during her absence, the Wooden Pony Club transformed into a more conventional striptease facility. The tackiness of its exterior was seeping into the interior. Turnover in staff increased significantly. Richard worked there for a while, but his enthusiasm dwindled. Eventually, he was dismissed or left during a round of cost-cutting. Eventually, I took him in, providing him with a meager contribution towards rent and living expenses.
As for Matthew, we had parted ways. He had found a new girlfriend, and I acknowledged that they were a perfect match. We continued to maintain amicable relations, but we seldom encountered each other. In any case, my life was about to take another turn. Richard and I began to engage in bondage and discipline games, which served as a surrogate for the sensation and excitement I had lost. These events led me to a very unusual place. My professional plans were thwarted, my objectives changed.
Soon after, I became a member of the Sisterhood of Slaves. Paraphrased