The Wooden Pony Club Pt. 02

Literotic asexstories – The Wooden Pony Club Pt. 02 by sarobah,sarobah
“Everything that gives pleasure has its reason.” — Charles Baudelaire, Salon de 1845

It did not take long to get used to working in lingerie at the club. The biggest challenge was posed by the high heels, and by the end of each shift I was near to exhaustion. But on the whole it was a very pleasant working environment. Although we rarely socialized, because we had different rosters, everyone got on well together. Desirée was a first-rate manager, very skilled at walking the line between the rights and welfare of her staff and the needs and demands of the customers. I was happy there, and grateful to Richard for getting me the job. It paid well, especially with the tips that netted me more in a week than I had earned in a month at that poolside gig.

Matthew turned up on the first few nights to give me encouragement, and (of course) to check out my uniform; but we did not stop in when I was off-duty. I normally worked Tuesday to Thursday; but at the end of my probationary period I was asked to come in that Friday evening, to put in a few hours and then stay to enjoy on-the-house drinks and take in the entertainment. Matthew arrived just as my shift was finishing, around eleven o’clock. Richard was still working and kept my boyfriend supplied with the free drinks. I remained sober, eager to know the reason for Desirée’s invitation.

At exactly midnight, the character of the club changed, so quickly that it took me by surprise. The lighting turned a lurid red. The band started playing throbbing, discordant notes. The waitresses shed their bras to serve topless. That startled me, but Desirée had gone even further. The music rose to a crescendo as a circle of harsh white light tracked across the room before settling on the stage, which was raised slightly off the restaurant floor that surrounded it on three sides. Desirée emerged from the shadows to mount the platform. My boss was completely nude, apart from her black garter belt and fishnet stockings, high-heeled boots and, encircling her throat, a silver-studded leather collar.

I was so astounded that I didn’t hear what she announced before she disappeared. An expectant buzz filled the room as onto the stage stepped three figures. There were two men, one clad in a dark tunic and breeches with a hooded red robe, the other in a leather jumpsuit and black mask. Between them was a petite, young, blonde woman wrapped in a white cape and blindfolded with a purple sash. The men were holding her arms to lead her up onto the platform.

The man in leather seized the girl by her shoulders, spun her around and stripped off her cloak. She was naked underneath. He pulled her arms behind her back, clamping steel bracelets on her wrists and linking them with a piece of cord. He was not particularly rough, but the girl gasped and gulped as he took his time securing her hands and pinioning her arms. He turned her around a full three-sixty degrees so that we could see that her elbows almost touched. It looked excruciating and she was grimacing. The way she was bound drew her shoulders back, pushing out her chest. Her breasts were not large, but this enforced posture enhanced them. They glistened with a thin film of perspiration. Her nipples were hard and erect. Her eyes seemed to bulge through their purple veil as the second man, not so gentle, pried her jaws open as wide as they could go and pressed a large red ball-gag into her mouth. He braced it with a leather strap, tugging so forcefully that the girl’s head was wrenched backwards. He fastened a metal collar about her neck.

My initial shock quickly gave way to curiosity and excitement. Matthew put his arm around my shoulders and squeezed me tightly as we watched.

Red Robe wheeled onto the stage, up a small ramp at the rear, a triangular wooden structure. Sitting on stubby legs, it was like a vaulting horse, what gymnasts leap over, except that the top was not flat but peaked; so that in profile from the front it was shaped like an A. Leather straps were attached at strategic places along the sides. Black Mask guided the young woman to one end. Then, with a hand on her back between her shoulder blades, he pushed her forward until she was bending over the apparatus. Now each man grabbed an arm and thigh to heave her up onto the frame. Her ankles were secured with the straps. She was made to sit up straight, straddling the wedge-shaped top. Her weight, though slight, pushed her crotch down onto the wood. The girl immediately began to wriggle about, but only for a short time, until she realized that this only made things worse. Her struggles quickly subsided.

Even partly concealed by her blindfold, I could see the woman’s face contorted in pain and humiliation. Her protests, though muffled by her gag, could be heard clear across the room. Then, to add to her distress, Black Mask drew her shackled wrists upwards behind her, toward her shoulders, twisting her already strapped arms into an awkward, stressful position, to attach her bracelets to her collar. That way she could not use her hands to raise her body off the beam. The two men then stood back to allow us, the spectators, to admire their work.

Breathless and somewhat traumatized, Matthew and I just looked at each other, saying not a word. I scanned the audience for reactions. To my astonishment, everyone soon went back to drinking and chatting, ignoring the wretched girl. As the band began to play again, one of the waitresses mounted the stage, took off what little she wore and began gyrating to the music. She was a talented dancer, transitioning to a jazz ballet with skilful moves.

I turned to Richard, who had come to join us at the table. “The show’s not over yet,” he said. Then he saw the look on my face and grinned. “Take a closer look.” He gestured towards what he called the wooden pony. Its pointy peak was not sharp, which could have caused serious injury to the rider, but rounded, more an upside-down U than an inverted V; and it was lacquered and polished so there was no danger of slivers, splinters or blisters. Nevertheless, with the girl’s body pressed on its bare, most tender parts, she could not have been comfortable.

Half an hour after the first, the second act commenced. The show was, indeed, just getting started. Next to the wooden pony, two new contraptions had been set up. One was a pillory, that mediæval contrivance into which a victim’s head and hands are locked. The other was a “sybian”. I had seen pictures and heard stories, but this was my first concrete evidence that such a device actually existed. It consisted of a seat or saddle mounted on a thick pole so that when a woman was sitting astride it, her feet dangled just off the floor. Protruding upward from the top of the seat was a phallic-shaped rod.

The men brought out a pair of naked females. They were already gagged and blindfolded but I recognized them as off-duty waitresses, who minutes earlier had been sitting at a nearby table. Marilyn’s husband and Beth’s boyfriend were still seated there.

While Marilyn was locked in the pillory, Beth rode the sybian. Mr Red Robe tied the latter’s hands behind her back while the other man put his fingers into her crotch and began massaging, until she was squirming and snorting through her gag. Once her body had been thus prepared, she was hoisted up onto the saddle, with loops attached near the base of the upright for stirrups. She was positioned above the rod and lowered onto it until it penetrated her completely. It was lubricated, and her vagina had been opened up for the insertion by the stimulation from Black Mask. Her ankles were strapped to the base of the upright, not so much to prevent her from dismounting but to save her from toppling. This also forced her to lean forward slightly, which brought her clitoris into contact with a raised, dimpled panel on the seat. When the interior electric motor was switched on, she immediately began to twitch. Soon she was breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling, her breasts jigging and swaying to the rhythm of the rod which now vibrated and rotated inside her.

Unlike the girl still astride the wooden pony (who was tilting her head as if trying to work out from behind her blindfold, what else was happening), for neither Beth nor Marilyn was this to be a static tableau. From a bench beside the stage, the men retrieved whips. These were evil-looking things, each a bundle of braided leather tails. Black Mask stroked Marilyn’s bare bottom a few times with his; she flinched and shook her head. Suddenly both men began flogging her. It was a relentless and brutal assault, from above on her back, buttocks and thighs, and from beneath on her breasts and belly and groin. Each blow began with a sinister whish! and terminated with a sickening, slapping, splattering sound, as the multiple straps seared the unprotected flesh. After a dozen or so lashes I stopped counting, as pink ridges began to swell up on the poor woman’s body. Through her gag she howled and screamed. Tears darkened the fabric of her blindfold. Bubbles of saliva frothed out from the edges of her gag.

I cringed at the obvious relish with which the two men went about their grisly business. Their victim had stopped shrieking but started yelling something through her gag, and I thought at first her muffled screeches were curses or pleas for mercy; but then I realized that she was mocking and taunting her tormentors.

“Is that all you’ve got?” she gurgled.

“Cool it, girl,” I thought.

But she appeared to be laughing as the men increased the force and tempo of the lashes, until each in turn had to take a breather because he had worked himself into near exhaustion flailing the woman’s naked body. Halfway through the battering, her blindfold was removed so she could see the audience taking delight in her suffering and we could witness the anguish in her expression. She was still managing a misshapen grin, but then her knees began to buckle, and she looked in danger of strangling as her throat jammed against the lower board of the stocks. The men solved the problem by lowering the device until she was able to kneel. This reduced the surface area of her skin accessible to the whips, but it did not relieve the intensity of her scourging. By now, all of her from neck to knees was swollen and scored with dozens of flay marks. But as these began to coalesce into a single bright red bloom, leaving no room for new impressions, the men were obliged to stop. They thereupon switched their attention to Beth and began thrashing her. The shaft lodged inside her was an additional torment, because as her torso jerked and twisted, it became another tool of torture. She pushed down with her legs on the straps which anchored them to the pole, in order to lift her weight and so ease the pressure, but this was exhausting, and when she dropped the jolt and thrust of the rod upwards into her sent a spasm through her from shaking head to curling toes. Some in the audience clapped and yelled their approval; but I’m sure every woman in the place gasped and shuddered in sympathy.

It was hard to watch, but I couldn’t turn away. I was embarrassed and repelled and fascinated by this horrid spectacle of young nude females writhing in agony for the amusement of the spectators. Their chastisement lasted no more than ten minutes, though it must have seemed like an eternity to these martyrs to the crowd’s lustful proclivities.

When Marilyn was freed from the pillory, she walked shakily to the edge of the platform. Beth was then lifted off her seat and released from her bonds. When her feet touched the floor she staggered. One of the men put out a hand to assist her but she brushed it aside. Instead, Marilyn helped her off the stage. Both women’s faces, streaked with tears and sweat, were ashen grey in gruesome contrast to the crimson welts and purple bruises which covered their ravaged flesh. But they acknowledged the applause with broad smiles and arms raised in triumph. During the intermission they reappeared at their table, still naked but neither, except for the marks, appearing much the worse for her ordeal. In fact, Marilyn glanced across towards Matthew and me. She grinned and winked.

There was more dancing, and just before the third act commenced the girl on the wooden pony at last finished her ride. She was able to walk off by herself, albeit with a wobble.

Three girls were bought up onto the stage this time. One had been chosen apparently at random from the gallery by the man in the mask. She stared aghast at her husband/fiancé/boyfriend, who just nodded. Yet without hesitation she stepped onto the platform, and was ordered to disrobe. The band started playing and I was expecting it to be something cheesy like “The Stripper”, but it was the slightly less dreadful “You Can leave Your Hat On”. The girl looked embarrassed, but she dutifully shed her clothing. After being gagged and blindfolded, she was hauled up onto the wooden pony.

Unlike her predecessor on the apparatus, she was whipped. Her hands had been shackled not behind her back but over her head, to expose more skin for flogging. However, her punishment was somewhat lighter than that meted out to Marilyn and Beth, presumably because she was a first-timer. And her companions appeared to be “virgins” as well.

These were a lesbian couple. They had been cuddling in a corner of the room and seemed genuinely shocked when they were called to the stage. But they went up willingly and undressed each other. It would have been interesting if one had been assigned the role of tormentor, but a second sybian had been brought on stage and they were seated facing each other. The redhead, statuesque and athletic, made a loud whistling noise as the shaft went into her. The brunette, small and slender, hardly reacted. Their hands had been bound behind their backs, and a yoke was placed around their necks and tightened to bring them in close to each other. Their torsos were bent forward but their lower bodies were anchored on the seats by the shafts embedded inside them. They were also connected by a double gag, two balls fused so that when these went into their mouths the women were locked in a kiss.

They were whipped as well, and then all three victims were tormented with something that looked like a cattle prod. No parts of their bodies were spared, not even the soles of their feet. Before this began, to demonstrate that the electrodes really carried a current, a male volunteer was zapped on the backside, through his trousers, and he jumped. He pointed to his lady friend at their table, and after a brief remonstration she bent over; but the man in the robe pulled her skirt up and her knickers down to poke her unprotected flesh. She yelped and everyone around her laughed, but I trembled at seeing the three helpless women hearing the noise from behind their blindfolds and knowing that something awful was coming.

When their adversity ended, they hobbled over to where their clothes had been thrown in a heap; but one of the robed men stamped his foot on the pile and waved them away. All three laughed and returned to their tables, the redhead and brunette to resume their snuggling happily in the nude. The other girl fell into her man’s arms and gazed into his eyes and said, “I love you.” As he wiped a tear from her cheek, he replied “You showed me,” and she nodded and smiled. That surprised (and shocked) me more than anything.

Matthew and I stayed for another hour. There were further exhibitions, progressively more extreme. The last that we witnessed particularly disturbed me. After her pony ride and torture, a frail-looking girl with silky black hair and glossy olive skin was given a standing ovation. The man in red then whispered something to her and she nodded, slowly and fearfully, but with a look of determination in her puffy red eyes. She lowered herself to her knees and then lay prostrate on the floor. With your hands bound behind you that’s not an easy thing to do, and she landed with a thud. The girl lay quiet and still for a minute or so before Red Robe nudged her with his foot. She began to crawl on her belly towards the edge of the stage, wriggling like a worm without the use of her arms. The men tormented her with their cattle prods until she had slithered over the edge of the platform. There a man from the audience came to her aid, removing her gag and freeing her wrists. She flung her arms about his neck and they kissed. She unsteadily stood up and managed a curtsy before he lifted her and carried her off, past the backstage curtain and out of sight. The crowd roared its delight.

I was mesmerized by each of these performances, horrified but enthralled at the bizarrely ritualistic pageant of degradation and torture. But as well as being mentally drained I was tired, and told Matthew that it was time to go. His expression betrayed some displeasure, but he nodded and handed me my dress (since I was still in my lingerie). I put it on right there, getting some perplexed looks from nearby customers. (“So this is what unsettles you?” I thought.)

Meanwhile, Richard had joined us and must have signaled to Desirée because she came to our table, still nude. Through the wisps of manicured pubic hair I could see the golden glint of small rings that pierced her labia and appeared to be joined by a tiny lock. She must have noticed me staring because she smiled. She said a few words to both Richard and Matthew that I did not hear, and then shook hands with my boyfriend. She started to extend a hand to me, but Richard brushed mine away, grabbed hold of her left breast and shook it. I sucked in a breath and held it in trepidation, stunned by his audacity; but she just laughed and told him to behave.

Just as I was fascinated by the toughness and fortitude of the female performers, I was captivated by this strong, confident woman, stark naked and yet in total control, so completely at ease in the presence of her fully clothed male staff and clients and with the liberties they took.

As we walked to the car I shivered, not just from the bite of the crisp, early morning air. The series of grotesque displays we’d witnessed, and the disgust and embarrassment I felt to see fellow females being tortured and sexually humiliated for entertainment, were troubling; but what really made me feel uneasy was that I also found it all so tantalizing and titillating… and even more so when Matthew and I got home. He made love to me with such vigour that it hurt. I did not get to sleep until almost dawn.