A Dance in the Cage
You know the girls dancing in those cages at clubs? Sometimes on a pedestal, sometimes suspended over the raving crowd? Ever wondered how they ended up there and what makes them move all night?
Despite the allegedly soundproof glass Bianka felt the vibrations at her eardrums, in the pit of her stomach, in the tip of her pen. The bass pounded its way through every structure, item and living being in the whole building. It was the heartbeat of the club, and with the small hours of the night being near it was hammering wilder than ever. If the owner, manager and icon of Club Noir were to turn around from her desk, she would be able to overlook the main floor through the glass wall of her office. She would see the fetish folk celebrating its own depravity, loosing itself in the dark world the legendary Bianka Schönfeld provided. A world of masks and collars, of monogloves and hobble skirts, where leather was the new lace and black the new black. To the left the long cool-lit bar ran in a wide arc alongside the clubbing area, which in turn bordered at the right on the VIP lounge. Further in the back the entrance to the lower levels awaited those in search for more titillating activities. The rooms for this spicy kind of entertainment were soundproof, for sure. Continue reading
Welcome to the Stud
Ten regained some degree of consciousness as she was unhooked from the whipping post, and I pitied her for that. The lashed girl was shaking violently, shivering as if exposed to freezing cold – although she seemed to burn up at the same time. The guards dragged her naked form down the platform and away, leaving the whip and the Ten’s clothing behind. The lady doc followed without too much of a haste.
If Warden Navier addressed some final words of righteous anger to us, I did not process them. I couldn’t clear my mind from the images of the blood whipping I had just witnessed. This quality of cruelty, this wilful physical and mental destruction of a human being would never fail to make me sick to my stomach. Continue reading
… Goes Unpunished
“Since today all of you are in their third week here,” Kandrin stated correctly during the little fall-in the next morning. From Eleven up to me, it was day 15. The others of my group have had a one day head start.
“As stressed various times in the past, bearing is crucial for a ponygirl. Every move and every pose are to be inherently sublime. After two weeks a certain grip on basic techniques as well as personal engagement to constantly better yourselves is expected. Therefore poor executions will not be tolerated anymore.”
Our group leader chose not to enlighten us when such things had ever been tolerated. Continue reading
No Good Deed…
Waking up was cruel. I had received just enough sleep for my maltreated body to be teased into false repose. A drop of water whilst I was parched. Easing myself out of my bunk woke up all my pains as well. Some dull and throbbing as they were gnawing at my muscles, others playing with razor blades in my still fresh wounds.
The two and a half or so hours of sleep turned out to be a torment in disguise. Better to spare oneself the agony of awakening. One has to suffer through a day of woe anyway. In my more battle-hardened days I would party into my birthday, celebrate through my birthday, and let my birthday end with some serious clubbing. Of course this would involve ridiculous amounts of high-octane alcohol as fuel – something not easy to come by here. Not that I was able to tell whether today was my birthday. In my current state I was lucky to guess the right year. Continue reading
Looking pretty in case her husband brought home his new business partners.
Mercédès’ schedule for today could be summarised by this. Being a beacon of beauty whilst striding otherwise pointlessly through the contemporary residence, or, like now, biding in the technocraticly styled conservatory. After all, her husband was known to be a connoisseur of decorative objects, a collector of everything pleasant to behold.
And wasn’t it her sacred duty as a wife to fulfil his standards? Continue reading
In the afternoon we had toilet duties – for the third time in five days. Kandrin was pissed about it, so to say. What was it to her? She wasn’t the one to wield the bog brush. I deprive the gentle reader of a detailed description of the cleaning activities. They weren’t nearly as eventful as they were ignominious.
Wiping down mirrors in one of the barracks, I could not but pity my own reflection. Ugly haematomata claimed the corners of my mouth and the adjacent tissue of my cheeks. My face still showed angry traces of bridle and blinkers. And if I were to bare my breasts, my nipples could be seen sore and discoloured. They were throbbing in memory of the fierce and prolonged clamping. For the first hour after the bells’ removal I had been positively sure that nerves had been permanently damaged. Continue reading
For once I was lucky, or so I thought: the late afternoon’s outdoor training had been cancelled. My group was due for its “initial evaluation”, whatever that meant. It couldn’t be nearly as painful, degrading and generally mind-searingly mistreating as pulling a sulky plus whip-happy driver through the woods (the term “outdoor” always referred to activities outside the camp’s perimeter).
When we gathered in front of our barrack, I already saw myself under bridle again. Then Miss Cuntling made one of her upbeat announcements.
“We make a trip to the main building, where you’ll be undergoing your initial evaluation. It’s a standard procedure, and I want to see spotless behaviour.” Continue reading