The Wooden Pony Club Pt. 04

Literotic asexstories – The Wooden Pony Club Pt. 04 by sarobah,sarobah
“Pleasure is very seldom found where it is sought; our brightest blazes of gladness are commonly kindled by unexpected sparks.” — Samuel Johnson, 1759, The Idler

I had been working at the Wooden Pony Club for just over four months, including a dozen or so after-midnight shifts, and it was arguably the best job I’d ever had. I began to enjoy prancing around the tables in my lingerie and every so often topless. I even learned a few moves for my nude dancing sessions. I was inspired to begin aerobic exercises to tone my muscles. I even took the advice of one of the girls to shave my pubic hair. “Your fans prefer it, and that increases the tips,” she explained. (Fans… I actually had fans.)

Yet fandom has its price, the loss of anonymity. For the club was frequented by university people, mainly staff members (because the prices were too steep for most students). I recognized a few, and they recognized me, saw me serving topless and dancing naked. But it was never an problem. We would just exchange a nod and a smile, and no one ever brought up it on the outside. In any case, admission to membership was selective, in the sense that the sort of people allowed in were broad-minded and close-lipped. Plus, I was proud of my body, which I’d always kept trim. I didn’t mind showing it off.

At this same time, however, I found my relationship with Matthew to be inexplicably cooling. Looking for someone to blame, I chose myself. Between my postgraduate research, my teaching duties and the hours I spent working at the club, there was not much time left over for focusing the attention on him that he felt he deserved.

So when I told Desirée that I was thinking about cutting back on my roster, she said “Why not work just the midnight shift? Less hours, bigger take.”

It made sense; but I could tell from her tone of voice that there was more to it.

“Some of the girls,” she continued, “do especially well with the tips. They build up quite a personal following.”

It took a few more seconds to get the message. I thought about Marilyn and Beth, and a couple of the others. I must have frowned.

“No pressure,” she said. “Give it some thought, and take whatever time you need.” Then she added “It’s not just about the money. I think you will find it…” She paused. “…enlightening.”

In fact, it didn’t take me long to make up my mind. Yet even now I do not really know what enticed me to make the choice when I did. I was intrigued by what I had seen on those late nights; and a voice somewhere deep within me was telling me that, as with the ride on the sybian, I should be more than a mere spectator.

About a third of the Friday and Saturday night players were virgins, as first-timers were called, while the regulars tended to be very regular, as in every weekend. And as someone who had always been almost masochistically willing to test her own limits, I admired and envied them all. This was the ultimate trial of courage and endurance… and of something else, something I could not quite put my finger on. So I was curious to know what it was like, to experience for myself what these girls put themselves through, or consented to have done to them, and to understand what motivated them and excited me. Perhaps it was the happy-go-lucky fearlessness of my youth (when I was an unreconstructed tomboy and adventure junkie) reasserting itself. Maybe it was because I had spent so much of my life absorbed in my family, my studies, my boyfriend, that I felt it was time to do something new, daring and dramatic, to put the focus on myself, to break the chains which bound me to an existence I had found increasingly to be less than fulfilling.

For days before my show I was distracted, fidgety and even bitchy. My friends and colleagues started to avoid me. Only Matthew and Richard knew the reason. Both were supportive of my decision, but it did not escape my notice that it was Richard who was gallant enough to tell me, several times, “You don’t have to do this.” Perhaps it was just that he was feeling more responsible, since it was he who had brought me to the club, had introduced me to Desirée and helped get me the job which led to this. Matthew, on the other hand, seemed too helpful, too accommodating, more excited than sympathetic or apprehensive. That bothered me.

I worked the tables for a couple of hours that evening. Mine was to be the second performance. Too jumpy to be out front watching the first, I helped in the kitchen, while Matthew sat in the audience. When the opening act ended and the young woman came shuffling off the platform, I went to the backstage room, close to losing my nerve. There were a couple of dancing interludes, one featuring Desirée in a particularly strenuous routine. When she came off, her naked body glistening with sweat, she attempted to soothe me with a few comforting words. She promised I could terminate the event at any time with a safe signal, and gave me a loose-fitting ring to wear on my right index finger. I worried about the crowd’s response to my stopping the show (since I had never seen this happen), and she was characteristically blunt.

“Screw them. If they don’t like it, they can volunteer to take your place.”

It was the first time I’d heard her speak like this about her customers; but it was reassuring, in its own way. Then the woman’s countenance changed. She glared at me so hard I almost toppled backwards.

“Strip,” she snarled.

That was just the tonic I needed. I placed my panties, garter belt, stockings and shoes in a box under the counter. Desirée handed me a broad, brown leather collar, to replace my slender black ribbon choker. I secured it about my throat with a buckle at the back. And what happened next gave me even more confidence… after the initial shock. I wouldn’t be alone in my torment. Richard had come to join us, which disconcerted me at first; but he got to the rear of Desirée, seized her wrists and tied them behind her back with nylon cord. Her momentary look of surprise, wide-eyed, open-mouthed and rather comical, convinced me that this was unplanned and unexpected. Yet once again her face changed, this time to a blissful expression. The transformation was as marvellous as it was sudden. Her breasts began to heave as she started softly panting, and the pink buds began to rise and stiffen. She bent forward at the waist and lifted one leg as the tickle between her thighs began to swell within her. Richard was still holding her arms and it was extraordinary to see this stately, gorgeous woman, normally so tough and totally self-possessed, nude and bound and wilting with arousal in the clutches of this young man, her employee, almost a head shorter and thoroughly unspectacular in every other way.

Meanwhile Jerome and George, Red Robe and Black Mask, had come for us. The latter bound my hands behind me, much more strenuously than I was prepared for, and I groaned. Desirée was about to say something but I whispered “It’s okay.”

George, who looked so menacing in his sinister black mask and studded leather vest, had a thin, reedy voice with a slight lisp.

“Sorry, love; it has to be tight. The punters love it.”

Jerome clipped a chain to a ring on the front of my collar. George then held up a second one and beckoned for Desirée to come nearer. She was still unsettled and hesitated, for only an instant but enough for the man to growl “Get over here!” He did not, however, secure his chain to her collar. Instead he commander her to “Spread your legs!” He reached down to her crotch and attached the clasp to the small rings which pierced her labia. She flinched as he gave her leash two sharp tugs. Then she and I were led about the room on our tethers, on a course that took us close to every table. As we passed Matthew’s our eyes met and I saw in his something peculiar and disturbing — both titillation and what I can only call disdain. He seemed contemptuous that I allowed myself to be put through this degradation. Perhaps it was my imagination, I told myself. I was hardly thinking straight at this moment.

Desirée and I were led to the stage. The room went eerily quiet. It was a club tradition to allow a virgin such as myself a low-key entrance, to gain her compose herself for what lay ahead; but I also think the audience members were startled to see Desirée returning to the spotlight so soon after her vigorous dance. And while it was obvious that she had not planned or prepared for our double act, I don’t know if her encore had been Richard’s sole impulse or an ambush he’d arranged with George and Jerome. Anyway, she immediately reconciled herself to her impending ordeal, and smiled as she was blindfolded. I retained my sight, and didn’t relish the view of the dozens of spectators gawking at me in my adversity. However, with the garish lights on us it was difficult to see into the crowd, to observe their faces and behold their perverse pleasure. But there was suddenly an eruption of clapping and cheering. Spooked by the noise and dazzled by the glare, I almost tripped while stepping up onto the platform. And yet my tension had melted away. I was trembling, but with excitement, as I beheld the wooden pony awaiting me.

Desirée drew the first attention. She was to endure what was called the electric bar dance. The torture device was devilishly simple, just a horizontal bar attached to legs, like a carpenter’s trestle and set above the floor at crotch height. At one end of the bar were wires leading to a battery. The woman was made to straddle the apparatus and stand on tiptoes to keep her tender lower parts off the bar. The first time she lost height and was zapped she squealed, then she screamed, and after half a dozen she just whimpered. Although I had no idea of the strength of the charge, I could hear faint crackles; and as Desirée became more fatigued raising herself onto her toes, these sounds became more frequent. The crowd laughed.

The chain still attached to her pussy was draped across the electrified beam. The clasp looked to be made of brass, which does not conduct a current very well; but it would still have supplied a constant low-level charge to her genitalia, to supplement the jolts from the bar. After about ten minutes she was permitted a momentary respite, but only so Jerome could insert an inflatable gag into her mouth. He pumped it up until her cheeks bulged to cartoonlike proportions. It must have been dreadfully humiliating. It muffled her shrieks as the dance recommenced. The audience cheered.

However, it was now my turn to entertain. I was lifted up onto the pony and mounted in the middle, with my ankles strapped to the sides. So I couldn’t use my hands to raise myself off it, a rope harness was tied about my neck and shoulders, and my wrists were hitched to the yoke in the middle of my back. The weight of my body pushed the ridge into my groin. It hurt more than I anticipated but less than I had feared, more of a dull ache than a sharp pain. The worst moment was when George pushed me backwards until all the pressure was upon my tailbone. That was distressing enough, but then he put his hand between my thighs and used his fingers to spread my labia. When I was brought back to an upright position I thought it was going to be excruciating; but with the tender flesh no longer pinched between my body and the wood, the sting was actually reduced.

Immediately after that, a penis-gag was shoved into my mouth. It was a phallic-shaped silicone protuberance held in place by a leather strap, a horrid, bulbous, foul-tasting thing which filled my mouth, compressing my tongue. The tip was just clear of my throat so I wouldn’t choke, but it had me almost retching.

Meanwhile. Desirée was struggling to hold herself above the bar. From the spasms in her feet and calves, I could tell she was suffering cramps, from standing so long on her toes; and as a result she was bobbing up and down, on and off the bar to the tune of the crackles. It would have been funny if it didn’t look so appalling. Then her predicament worsened. While still fighting the intensifying pain in her legs, she received a whipping, on her belly and breasts. It was not very heavy but did not need to be. Each lash made her totter, and there would be another series of sizzles as the little sparks leapt from the metal to her thighs and pubes. Her face, or that part not covered by the blindfold, was flushed bright crimson. Her head shook wildly, and a foam of saliva which had been spuming out from the sides of her gag and dribbling down her chin now sprayed in all directions. But she kept the rest of her body as rigid as she could to minimize contact with the electric current. That took a lot of strength and self-discipline; but it made little difference.

Desirée’s predicament took my mind off my own troubles for only a short while. Around five minutes into my ride, I discovered that however light or heavy you are, with all your weight bearing down on one spot the stress is going to build relentlessly. Though my legs were strapped to the sides of the pony, I had just enough flexibility to be able to shift the pressure back onto my perineum (in front of the tailbone). My flesh directly in contact with the beam was numbed, but the throbbing soreness in my pubes grew quickly to a searing pain. When I tried to relax, I leaned forward slightly, transferring the compression directly into my vagina and squeezing my clitoris. Whichever way I swayed, the rush of returning blood was like a dagger stabbing into my body, caused me to scream through my gag. I felt some shame that I made more noise than other women who had ridden the wooden pony, but consoled myself that it no doubt made my performance more dramatic and thus entertaining. (Yes, I was that far gone.)

I could get only fleeting relief by pressing my knees against the wooden side panels and pushing upwards with my ankles in their fastenings. Because of the angle at which they were fixed, this caused me to pitch slightly to the front, and as soon as fatigue caused me to ease the tension the top edge of the wood gouged into me. If I attempted to rotate my hips to displace the pressure, this only increased the grinding. Any squirming or wriggling did the same thing. It was a harrowing dilemma, made all the more degrading because my audience was following my every movement, thoroughly engrossed. But my anguish worsened when I started to get a twinge in my left leg. Not really expecting any assistance, I whispered through my gag to Jerome, who somehow understood the gurgles and massaged out the kink before it became a full-blown cramp. Of course, he wasn’t just being humane. My ordeal was therefore prolonged.

Some women I’d seen would hump the pony, actually riding it, so to speak, until they were moaning in both ecstasy and agony. I decided to forego that dubious pleasure. But to my horror, I felt a warm trickle down my thighs. Other fluids were coming out of me as well. Perspiration was pouring down my cheeks, along with a few tears, and mixing with the saliva oozing from the corners of my mouth past the edges of my gag, and twin rivulets dribbled over my chin and onto my breasts.

If I had tried to estimate how long I spent astride the wooden pony, I would probably guessed two hours. In fact it was no longer than twenty minutes. As I was lifted off my perch by tender hands, I received my applause and sank to my knees, knowing full well that my tribulation was not yet over.

Desirée was released as well, even more gaunt and ghastly than I’m sure I looked. Her gorgeous body was lathered, her hair plastered with sweat, and she was shaking, almost convulsing. Our hands remained bound behind us as we were made to stand back to back, held together with leather belts wrapped tightly around our arms and legs. Our fingers interlocked.

The fact that I was not blindfolded made the anticipation worse, because George was fondling a whip and a cane. Meanwhile, Jerome was fiddling with metal clips and wooden pegs, and these went onto our nipples. Desirée received the metal ones and gasped and groaned as they were applied. I got off lightly with the less robust pegs, but they still hurt like hell. In spite of my state, I was actually embarrassed that Jerome did not need to massage my nipples to make them erect and easier to clamp. They were already stiff and distended.

Though I knew what was coming, the first sting of the cane on my breasts was a nasty shock. I expected my virgin flogging to be relatively mild. It wasn’t. The strokes continued and moved lower, down my belly, over my bruised and battered pubes, all the way along my thighs to my knees before reversing course. Each whack was like a red-hot claw pinching my flesh. And as I was being thrashed, Desirée was being scourged with the whip. Recoiling from our beating, we leaned back against each other, and this caused us to slowly rotate until I was within reach of Jerome’s whip. It did not bite into my skin like the cane. But by now whatever dignity in the face of adversity I had tried to maintain had completely withered away. My resolve to resist the urge to twist and squirm, to cry out and beg for mercy through my gag, quickly dissolved. Of course, my cries went unheeded and I did not use my safe signal, but they served to amuse the onlookers and motivate my torturers. Every time I pleaded, the next blow seemed to come down harder than its precursor.

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 regaling 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. But I was facing the audience, and what I saw horrified me. Everyone was now silent, rapt in the spectacle. I’d anticipated prurient delight or salacious enthrallment. Instead the expressions were of morbid fascination. I found myself glad that I could not recognize Matthew in the dim lighting.

I received a few more strokes of the whip and cane, but then Jerome moved away 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 vigour of his lungings until the pillory in which we were locked rattled and creaked. The two men then switched roles. Jerome took George’s place inside Desirée.

When the show was over, I resolved to leave the podium unassisted, though led by George on my chain leash. Desirée looked in far worse condition; but she also left under her own power, even 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 could see amongst the tufts of her pubic hair the small golden rings and the tiny lock, which had been closed again after the two men were finished with what it now sealed. And when the woman turned away I noticed a slightly raised, pink scar on her left buttock, about half its length. It was not one of her freshly inflicted markings, but still raw and so recently made by some kind of 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.”

***I rode the wooden pony half a dozen times in the next few months. I also sat astride the sybian and danced over the electric bar, and I 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. George and Jerome fucked me, of course. That was part of the show. Each time a condom was used.

“Workplace health and safety,” George told me. I don’t know if he was being serious.

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. And 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. Nor did I ever have to use my “safe signal”.

One night we had a sybian-riding tournament, and it is only counterintuitive to those who have not experienced it that the remorseless pleasure of the machine 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 for their own sake did nothing to turn me on.

But since as far back as I can remember, I’ve had a 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. Taking pity on him, I invited him to stay in my home, accepting just a token contribution towards the rent payments and our living expenses.

As for Matthew, by this time we had broken up. He found 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 turn. Richard and I had begun to play games — BDSM games as a substitute for the sensation and thrills I had been missing since my departure from the club. These would lead me to a very strange place. My career plans were overridden, my life goals overwritten.

I was soon to join the Sisterhood of Slaves.