The Wooden Pony Club Pt. 03

Literotic asexstories – The Wooden Pony Club Pt. 03 by sarobah,sarobah
“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, 1712, The Spectator

Now I knew the meaning of the name Wooden Pony Club and its nature, as a BDSM club. At least, that was what it became after midnight. I had heard and read about such places. 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 as waitresses. 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 gruelling 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.

The most important rule was that the only two “conductors” who performed the various tortures and debasements were Black Mask and Red Robe. The former, portly and grizzled, was George, whose routine job was club janitor (and who had greeted me during my first daytime visit). The latter, Jerome, was thirty-something, muscular and good-looking though prematurely balding, and in the daylight hours the club’s accountant. (Their employment contracts must have made for interesting reading.) Sometimes a woman’s partner would be allowed to participate, but under the guidance of the two experts.

One time there was a party of six young women, the same all-girl group I saw on my first night. They sat at the rear of the room, less noisy than before, and after midnight very subdued. During a break between acts, the girls began nudging, daring and goading each other until one, a statuesque brunette, stood up and walked to the stage, accompanied by cheers from her friends and from the other tables. She took off her clothes without hesitation, but when George wheeled the wooden pony to the middle of the spotlight and Jerome started plying his whip, she went a little pale. Nevertheless, she did not waver as she was bound and blindfolded and hauled up onto the contraption. A second girl, a petite blonde, now volunteered and was put on the sybian. She wasn’t blindfolded, and her comical grimace as the large dildo slid into her small body earned her a round of applause which she acknowledged with a smile just as the machine began to hum and she began to moan. Neither of the women was spared the whip.

Jerome invited their four friends to come up onto the stage to participate in the floggings, and they did so with gusto. But they must have known there would be some comeuppance. Before long a curvaceous redhead joined the first girl on the pony. They were facing each other, close enough that their boobs were pressed together and they could kiss, which they did. I expected that the remaining three women would also take their turn but this didn’t happen. And as they all returned to their table I observed once more the seductive power of the club’s raison d’etre. Those who’d suffered earned pre-eminence in their group. The three who hadn’t faced the ordeal must have regretted their demurring, because they bore the forlorn expressions of wallflowers at a school dance.

This théâtre de dégradation was scheduled only for Friday and Saturday (although the waitresses served topless and danced in the nude after twelve every night of the week). 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 server in a number of 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, continued my studies and during the day taught a couple of classes. (However, I was able to give up tutoring, which I loathed.) Still, working in my lingerie I now 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 went to work after dinner. 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. We all had to. So when my turn came, Desirée patted me gently on the shoulder and told me my panties, garter belt, stockings and shoes, even my choker, would have to come off, so I was completely dénudé. 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 in this case didn’t have an equal role share. Supposedly they provided security, as the club did not employ bouncers. But I never saw them in that capacity, because the customers were always well-behaved.

In fact, it bothered me less than it probably should have that we females earned no more than the men while we bore by far the greater burden of duties, including that of baring our bodies. But it didn’t seem like a burden at all. It was fun.

Anyway… 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 danced barefoot, while they whirled and twirled elevated above the floor on stilettos (which was all they had on). 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. The attitude of us girls 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. Among the attendees were George and Jerome. Neither of the two men had brought a partner, but nor had Desirée.

It started off as a regular party, actually quite sedate, except that it was promoted it as ladies’ lingerie night, and all the women including consorts dressed down accordingly. My ensemble was similar to my work uniform but without the stockings and garter belt (which I’ve never adored as some women do).

A makeshift set of curtains draped the stage area. I was curious but didn’t peek. Then, after an hour or so, Desirée opened them. Half a dozen sybians were lined up on the platform. Some appeared brand new while a couple looked a little scruffy from their employment in the post-midnight shows. Instead of being perched on poles, they sat directly on the floor. Everyone in the room knew their purpose. Indeed, from veiled hints I had some idea beforehand what was on the agenda and what lurked behind the curtains.

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 bewitching 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 advised us that anyone who had not done so for a while should take a trip to the bathroom. This created an awkward few minutes. Most of us immediately turned and headed in that direction, in complete silence except for a few suppressed giggles of excitement and embarrassment.

When everyone had returned, Desirée looked around at the crowd gathered around her, and the first brave volunteers stepped forward. But even as they did so, she casually stripped naked, and put her hands behind her back. George tied her wrists with silk cord, finishing with a sharp tug that wrenched back her shoulders. She grunted, rolled her eyes and sucked in a breath. She bit her lower lip. Her nipples became hard and erect. A couple of the other women lined up before the row of machines blanched at the sight. On Desirée’s advice they all took off their knickers, but only one, a waitress named Jennifer, took off her bra as well. Their hands were bound behind their backs.

“You can still push yourself up off the seat if you need to,” Desirée reassured them; but bound hands would obviously make the task harder, and she didn’t explain why it was necessary. Then they were all blindfolded as well, “to enhance the sensory experience,” Desirée said as the black satin sash descended over her eyes.

Next to each sybian was a small open case containing a collection of prosthetic accessories for the seat, all phallic in form but of different sizes and shapes. There was also a hand-held console connected to the machine by a cord. This had controls for vibration and rotation with on-off switches and rotary dials. Each woman conferred with her partner. Desirée selected one of the rods which Jerome attached to the seat. It was purple-coloured and sculpted exactly like a large penis. Jennifer and one other woman opted for inserts as well, while the remaining three chose to be satisfied with the clitoral stimulator pad (the dimpled panel, which lives up to its name).

Without any help from Jerome, Desirée knelt astride the apparatus and eased herself down onto what she called the joystick (which got a laugh) entered her. She wiggled her body to insert it completely, and leaned forward slightly to press her clitoris against the stimulator pad. The other women followed but required some guiding and assistance from their partners.

As the machine began to hum, Desirée coolly started up a commentary, explaining that while the sybian can be delightful without the joystick, it heightens the pleasure. Suddenly, in mid-sentence she gasped; her toes curled; her face became flushed. There was a soft whir emanating from the machine between her thighs which gradually increased in volume and tempo, as Jerome manipulated the dials on the control box. She closed her eyes and pursed her lips, and her head lolled as beads of sweat glistened on her brow and dampened the top of her blindfold. And just as her first orgasm began to subside, she suddenly emitted a loud moan and vigorously shook her head. Each time her breathing calmed and her twitching waned, Jerome turned up the intensity to the next level. By the time her ride ended, after about ten minutes, her self-possession had dissipated. She had to be helped to her feet, her body quivering, her skin clammy and goosebumpy, her face streaked with rivulets of sweat, her legs wobbly, her speech slurred; but she maintained her inscrutable smile, and when her blindfold was removed the steady, steely radiance in her eyes remained undimmed. She continued naked and her hands stayed bound behind her back.

The other women groaned and sighed, and looked disappointed when their jaunt on the pony was over. All were unsteady on their feet for some time, but where there had been nervous laughs were now grins of self-satisfaction, as they made way for the next half-dozen riders. 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 façade.

In the end, all but two women took a turn. Some needed gentle encouragement and there was much blushing and balking, wavering and demurring; but there was no pressure and none who came forward changed her mind at the last instant. In the second group, all used the joystick after seeing its effect. I procrastinated until the last 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, George and Jerome cleaned the sybians and lubricated the moving parts, I took off my bra and knickers. I opted to embrace the full experience — joystick, rope, blindfold; and 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 — not very tightly but enough to restrain my arms.

Before the darkness descended, 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 of the control console were as jittery as the rest of her.

Matthew guided me to my allotted machine and tapped my right thigh so I knew I was in place to straddle it. In a kneeling position and with his assistance, I crouched until I felt the tip of the silicone-rubber shaft nudging the lips of my vagina. I teased myself with it for a few seconds, and then whispered “Okay.” With my man’s assistance I lowered my body onto the saddle. It had a velvety texture, easy on the skin and easy to clean.

The plug did not slide smoothly into me. In a moment of bravado I had chosen the “jumbo” size, and of course joked that this what I was used to. Matthew beamed with manly pride. It was fashioned essentially in penis form, but more plump and spheroid, basically an elongated egg-shape on a short stump, and with a bumpy surface. I had to push down to insert it through my narrow cleft, and then it slid into my vagina with a delicious plopping sensation. It filled my insides completely. This meant it didn’t move inside me as freely as it might have to maximize my stimulation; but once it got moving the nodules massaged my G-spot wonderfully.

Matthew waited until I had seated myself just right, and then began working the control box. Having seen how others had performed, he varied the rotation and vibration of the joystick, raising and lowering the intensity in a haphazard manner so I couldn’t be sure what was coming next. His operation proved adept, sensitive and insightful. He used the dials together and separately to slowly escalate my pleasure and then suddenly maximize it or ease back to allow me to catch my breath. The plug didn’t spin inside me but rather oscillated on its base, moving in a small circle and kneading the walls of my vagina. I was leaning forward slightly, so my clitoris was in contact with the stimulator pad. This was a separately vibrating, ridged panel on the seat in front of the joystick. It buzzed away at my clit.

I found myself squirming at first. My body started rocking, which made it difficult to keep my balance, particularly with my hands tied. My head was rolling as the pleasure surged through me, not in a single rising crescendo but as roiling waves of ecstasy growing in magnitude as Matt twisted his knobs. I sighed, gasped, grunted, moaned. Only a belated sense of dignity stopped me from squealing or screaming. I found myself clenching the seat with my knees, grinding my pelvis over the stimulator pad to excite my clitoris; but I didn’t need to do much to achieve and intensify my orgasm. The sybian worked its magic on me. I really was along for the ride!

Nevertheless, after a few minutes it became an ordeal. 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. But when the tension on my thighs and in my bound arms got too much and I dropped my weight onto the seat, I felt the insert pushing against my cervix, which was not unbearable but, as any woman will attest, not very comfortable either. So I had to strain to lift myself ever so slightly off the seat.

My knees began to hurt, my thighs to cramp; my body ached from the contractions and convulsions as Matthew now unrelentingly cranked up the tempo. Despite my trip to the bathroom, the urge to pee was stronger than I have felt with a real penis inside me. It was an exquisite torment; but with knowing my bladder was empty the pleasure of letting go and giving in to those waves of delicious arousal was sublime. My mind became totally focused on what was happening within me until a shimmering haze descended, a fog of bliss, clouding my brain, blocking out all other sensations. And I understood the efficacy of the blindfold. It shut out my surroundings and directed all my perceptions inward.

If I was given to spouting clichés, I would say that I became one with the machine. It was an extraordinary sensation. 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 vanished. 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.

When it ended I couldn’t lift myself off the saddle without assistance; and then, with the bulbous prosthetic lodged inside me, the entire attachment came off its stem. As my hands were still tied I couldn’t extract it. Someone — I assume it was Desirée — gently pulled it from my body. The removal made a slurpy sound that, for some reason, embarrassed me more than anything else (so far). Exhausted, I sank to my knees once more, beside the sybian. My legs were too weak and shaky for me to stand up straight away. I could hear someone cleaning the seat, and to my dismay I felt a warm trickle down the inside of my thigh. I endured a couple of seconds of humiliation (what a time, I said to myself later, to get squeamish about fluids!) before realizing that the seepage was perspiration.

Most of the women had repeat sessions on the sybian, including yours truly. A few opted for a third ride, although I was content with my two turns. By the time it was over we were all groggy and tremulant, sweaty and dishevelled, shuffling and teetering. And I felt rather sorry for the men. Their pleasure was, in a sense, second-hand, derived from seeing ours. Which for them was fine, because males (supposedly) respond more to visual sexual stimuli than females, so the observer’s role was enough. Being in charge of the control box allowed them to have an active part, but this was nevertheless to provide us, the women, with more pleasure. And maybe I’m biased; but I prefer feeling over looking, no matter how pretty the picture.

The focus of the party eventually moved away from the sybians and went on past midnight. By the end of the rides all but a couple of us women were completely nude, and we didn’t feel the need to put our undies back on, so we spent the rest of the evening naked while our menfolk were still fully clothed. That was a sexy and sensual experience in itself, but after the sybians mere “CMNF” (“clothed male, naked female, if you’re not familiar) was almost an anticlimax.

In any case, I had something of an epiphany that night. The evolution of my experience and attitudes passed a new milestone. For until now I had been seduced, albeit willingly, into doing things that were not so long ago beyond my imagination. From now on, however, I would be taking the initiative, pressing farther into unknown but not unwelcoming territory. To push the hyperbole to its limit… It was like passing through the event horizon of a black hole. I was now set upon an inexorable course, my gaze fixed firmly on the future, unable to look back, incapable of turning back. Ahead of me beckoned a new, sublimely exotic world.