The Sisterhood of Slaves Pt. 01


The Wooden Pony Club

“The seeker embarks on a journey to find what he wants and discovers, along the way, what he needs.”

— Wally Lamb, The Hour I First Believed

My journey began when my boyfriend took me to a fancy restaurant for my birthday. We feasted gloriously on chilled avocado soup, char-grilled salmon with asparagus, lamb casserole l’arabique and dark chocolate feuillantine. Just before the dessert arrived, Matthew took from his coat pocket a black satin scarf and folded it lengthways.

“What’s that for?” I said.

He gave me a quizzical look, then a grin, and pressed his fingers against my lips. This was not the first time that Matthew had blindfolded me. He loved how it made me so sensitive and helpless and dependent on him. So did I. We were in a quiet corner of the room, and in the subdued lighting we could not be seen by the other diners; but anyway, it didn’t matter. What other people think has never bothered me.

Matthew brushed the hair from my eyes with slow, soft strokes, and gently tied the scarf around my head before tightening the knot with a sharp and not so tender tug. I heard the dishes being placed on the table and the tinkle of a silver spoon against porcelain. I sniffed the sweet fragrance, and after the first delicious mouthful my whole body tingled. Being sightless not only stimulates your other physical senses. The intimacy you feel as you are cut off from your surroundings, deprived of your self-reliance, and you have put your trust in your partner to feed you, has a wonderfully erotic effect. Matthew felt it too. I shivered as he drew his fingertips across my neck and along my shoulders and slipped the straps of my dress down my arms. Ignoring the waitress as she cleared away the dishes, he started kissing and caressing my neck and décolletage.

When we left the restaurant, I was still wearing my blindfold, having no idea if we were being watched. I still didn’t care. Matthew held onto my waist as he guided me out onto the street. There he offered me his jacket, but I declined. The evening chill tickled my bare arms and legs in a pleasant way. Then, with my sight restored, we walked to our favourite pub, three blocks away. Inside we came across Richard. He was drinking with a couple of his friends but left them to join us.

Richard and I have known each other since childhood when we were neighbors. He’s two and a bit years younger, and I never much enjoyed his company. I found him to be rather indolent and dissolute, generally undisciplined and more supercilious than he had any right to be. But his sister and I were good friends at school and university. Emily is my age, and we were at one time almost inseparable. We had much in common, both straight-A students, not very sociable and not particularly interested in boys (or girls, for that matter). I was something of an “adrenaline junkie” who preferred to spend her weekends and vacations in pursuit of adventure — cave-exploration, sky-diving, base-jumping, rock-climbing, that sort of thing. I dragged along a somewhat reluctant Emily, and she got her own back by drawing me into more sedate, back-to-nature pastimes — hiking, camping, bushwalking. Small, with delicate features, hazel eyes and pixie-cut blonde hair, she looked the part of the free spirit she was.

Richard was good-looking in a fuzzy, disheveled way, short and stocky with unruly hair and eyes that never seemed to focus. Emily was very protective of her “baby brother” and fretted about him when we went off to university together. Because it was a long way from our family homes, we moved into student accommodation, and eventually rented a cheap apartment. When Richard arrived on campus a couple of years later, he moved in with us. At first he was so fish-out-of-water disoriented, so babe-in-the-woods lost that my attitude towards him softened into sympathy; but the self-indulgence and arrogance rapidly reasserted themselves.

Then, just as I was starting my postgraduate studies, Emily was awarded a research fellowship which meant her moving interstate. We each went our separate ways. Nevertheless, I still encountered Richard on the odd occasion, such as this.

When he proposed that we move to a new venue, I felt inclined to decline; but my head was foggy from two glasses of dinner wine. It may have been three. So I put aside my usual “What’s he up to?” reservations.

“What about your friends?” I asked, and Richard simply shrugged, not even looking back at them.

Matthew agreed to relocate, also reluctantly. He didn’t like Richard and was no doubt also asking himself “What’s the deal?”

But we did go along. And so, with that fortuitous encounter in a bar on my birthday, the scene was set for my outré voyage of self-discovery.

Richard steered us to a rather seedy-looking nightclub about fifteen minutes’ walk away. In my skimpy dress I regretted refusing the offer of my boyfriend’s coat. On the other hand, the Maltepe Sınırsız Escort cool breeze did partially clear my head; but as a result I was starting to have second thoughts… especially when I saw the notice by the entrance announcing that females were admitted free of a cover charge. This, in my experience, is rarely a good sign. Nonetheless it intrigued me that Richard simply nodded at the doorman and all three of us were ushered inside without paying.

To my relief, the interior was not as dingy as the façade might suggest. It appeared to be a typical establishment for its kind, crowded and noisy. Women patrons slightly outnumbered the men, but that was due to a large and boisterous all-girl group. The waitresses and female bar attendants were scantily clad but in expensive lingerie — satin-and-lace bra and panties, garter belt, stockings and high heels. The music was provided by a contemporary jazz band which was really good. I was not surprised that the main entertainment was “exotic dance”, but it was tasteful enough.

We found a table and ordered drinks. Since I was still feeling fuzzy, I had lemonade. The waitress called Richard by name; and sometime later the manager came to talk to us. Richard introduced us, announcing her as “our hostess” Desirée. She was a tall, slim, striking brunette, with dark, sparkling eyes and a wry, slightly crooked smile. She wore the same sexy outfit as the other female staff, and as she stood beside him, Richard was behaving in a very familiar manner, patting and fondling her backside and playing with the suspenders on her garter belt. She kept on pushing his hand away but appeared otherwise unperturbed.

Desirée stayed to chat for several minutes. She seemed interested in my personal circumstances, and so I guessed (correctly as it turned out) that she was appraising me for a job offer. But shortly before midnight, Richard suddenly declared that it was time to leave. Aware of his nocturnal habits, I found this somewhat strange; but since it was a weeknight I was happy to go. Matthew concurred, keen to be out of the place (despite the lingerie-adorned décor) and away from Richard, and anticipating a reward for his forbearance. He was not disappointed… but that’s another story.

I had just about put the evening’s events out of my mind when, two weeks later, Richard turned up at my apartment with coffee, croissants and a proposition. At the time, I was looking for something to supplement my meager income as a tutor. I’d worked through a series of dreary part-time jobs, and waitressing was not the most horrible; so I was receptive when he told me there was a position open at the nightclub.

“How do you know?” I asked.

“Because I work there, dummy,” he replied.

So that very afternoon we went back to the Wooden Pony Club. The name was discreetly displayed on a small sign above the doorway.

In the harsh light of day the exterior looked even more shabbily disreputable than it did in the dark, and in striking contrast to the congenial interior. I had the distinct impression that this was deliberate, a false front. The air of mystery aroused my curiosity, and it was therefore something of a letdown to be welcomed by a weather-beaten middle-aged man wearing scruffy overalls and wielding a mop. He conducted us to an upstairs office where Desirée was just hanging up on a phone call. She was now attired in a business suit and her hair was tied in a bun, but even in a tailored jacket and a man’s tie she maintained the sensual deportment of a showgirl. When she stood up and came round from behind her desk to greet us, her skirt, short and pleated, was still falling into place, giving us a peek of bare thighs between the tops of silk stockings and a suspender belt like the one she had on when we first met.

As she outlined the terms of employment, I knew this was a job opportunity too good to refuse. The pay was generous, the hours were flexible and the dress code was… well, I’d worn less when serving drinks in a poolside bistro not so long ago.

At only one stage of the interview did I have any misgivings. Desirée asked Richard to wait outside, and after he’d left she told me to stand up, take off my blouse and drop my jeans. I complied, feeling ill-at-ease as she leaned back in her chair to scrutinize my assets. She told me to stretch out, touch my toes and perform slow pirouettes. She said I was very pretty and I thanked her for the compliment, and she said “Just stating a fact, sweetie.”

As Richard came back into the office, I was buttoning my shirt, and he gave us both an inquisitive look before nodding and grinning.

I started the following week. That uncomfortable moment in Desirée’s office had left me a little concerned, but I quickly put it out of my mind. The club was only a short drive or bus ride from our apartment and the university, so the easy commute was a bonus. Desirée introduced me to my co-workers Maltepe Suriyeli Escort and presented me with my uniform. It consisted of a pink chartreuse bra and panties, trimmed with black lace, a black ribbon choker with a tiny embroidered white rose, a frilly garter belt with four suspenders, silk stockings that alone must have cost a small fortune, and stiletto heels. One of the girls had to help me with my garter belt (not part of my usual ensemble), and the shoes were not designed for long periods of waiting on tables. However, the costume was feminine and sexy, and when I got started it was fun to be the centre of attention as the new waitress.

Richard was tending the bar that night, and there were a couple of other males on duty. They were elegantly dressed in grey slacks and waistcoats, white shirts and red ties. I envied the men in one respect. The temperature of the room was turned down rather low, so if I did not keep moving the goosebumps began to appear. Not only goosebumps… I was not permitted to wear a bra under my very sheer camisole, so the chill had a visual effect that was, at least, pleasing for the customers. Our boss, to her credit, led from the front in her skimpies.

During my two-week probation, my duties and wages were the same as the others’. Since everyone but the boss and the maintenance man worked part-time, there were many of us. All of my fellow employees were university students, and because the girls had to be over twenty-one years of age, we were nearly all postgraduates; which meant we were probably the most highly educated bunch of waitresses in the city.

The work was typical waitressing, despite the hedonist tone of the place. On the whole, the mood among both staff and clientele was upbeat and the ambience of the club an easy-going sensuality. For the patrons there was a strict no-touching policy. I still received the occasional hand on my backside, but the penalty for misconduct was immediate and permanent expulsion. Yet that put Richard’s cheeky interaction with Desirée’s derrière on my first night in the club in a much more interesting light. There was something a little off-beat about the Wooden Pony Club.

It did not take long to get used to working in lingerie. 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 never stopped 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 small stage. She emerged from the shadows to mount the platform. My boss was completely nude, apart from a 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 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 black 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 Maltepe İranlı Escort 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 blue 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 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 young 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 handiwork.

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 from the top of the seat was a phallic-shaped rod some ten centimeters long.

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 was still seated there, with Beth’s boyfriend.

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; but the woman was small, so the shaft pushed deeply into her. 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 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 that vibrated and rotated inside her.

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