My strange journey began prosaically enough. My boyfriend Damian took me to a fancy restaurant for my birthday. Afterwards we went to our favourite pub, where we came across Matthew. He was drinking with a couple of his friends but left them to join us.
At the time, I was hardly on speaking terms with my brother. With both of our parents gone, I had raised him more in the role of a surrogate mother than an elder sister. I am just three years his senior but had to grow up fast while he got to enjoy the last of his teenage years. I didn’t resent him for that, even though I was forced to abandon my studies in order to work two jobs. The problem was that Matthew had not grown up. At the age of twenty he was barely passing his subjects (doing just enough to ward off expulsion), had no ambitions and never held a paying job. Yet it was my fault. In my determination to fill the void left by the divorce and our mother’s death, I had spoilt him. I indulged his impulses, put up with his games and supported his dissolute lifestyle. He needed discipline and direction in his life, but I was not sure how to provide it.
Now we had come to a crossroads. I had resolved to go back to university, which meant switching to part-time work. If we were to keep up the house payments, Matthew would at last have to pull his weight. I had been rehearsing the speech that I was going to present when the right opportunity came along. But it never did.
That night, however, I was feeling complaisant. Perhaps it was the two glasses of dinner wine. But I had noticed a change in my brother in recent weeks. He seemed more focused, had begun finally to show some maturity. He had even started to contribute to the rent and housekeeping fund. So when, that night, he proposed that we move to a new venue, I put aside my usual “What is he up to?” reservations. Damian agreed, somewhat reluctantly, and the scene was set for my voyage of self-exploration.
Matthew steered us to a rather seedy-looking nightclub about ten minutes’ walk away. The cool night air partially cleared my head, and I was starting to have second thoughts, especially when I saw the notice that females were admitted free of charge. This is rarely a good sign. Nevertheless, it intrigued me that Matthew flashed an ID card for the doorman, and all three of us were ushered inside without paying.
However, the interior was not as dingy or sordid as the façade suggested. It appeared to be a typical establishment for its kind – crowded and noisy. Most of the patrons were male, but there were quite a few other women, including an all-girl group who were the most boisterous in the place. 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 that 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 somewhat fuzzy, I had lemonade. The waitress called Matthew by name; and sometime later the manager came to talk to us. My brother introduced us and announced 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 Matthew was being behaving very familiar as she stood beside him, patting and fondling her backside and playing with the suspenders on her garter belt. She kept brushing his hand away with hers but seemed otherwise unperturbed by his manners.
Desirée stayed to chat for a couple of minutes. She seemed interested in my circumstances and I guessed (correctly as it turned out) that she was appraising me for a job offer. But shortly before midnight, Matthew suddenly declared that it was time to leave. Aware of his nocturnal habits, I found this rather odd; but since it was a weeknight, I was happy to go. Damian concurred, keen to be out of the place and anticipating a reward for the patience he’d shown thus far. He was not disappointed... but that’s another story.
I had almost forgotten that evening’s events when, a couple of weeks later, Matthew woke me up with coffee and a prospect. At the time, having given up my previous jobs, I was looking to supplement my meagre income as a tutor. I had done waitressing before and 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.
With that information, I felt guilty for criticizing his out-all-night lifestyle of the past few months. Yet when I demanded why he hadn’t just told me, he gave a cryptic, evasive reply. In any case, the very next day 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, from the street the place looked even more disreputable than it did in the dark, and in striking contrast to the plush decor inside. I had the distinct impression that this was deliberate… a false front. The air of mystery aroused my curiosity, and it was something of a letdown to be welcomed by a weather-beaten, middle-aged man in scruffy overalls wielding a mop. He conducted us to an upstairs office where Desirée was just hanging up on a phone call. She was now in a business suit and her hair was tied back, but even in a tailored jacket and a man’s tie she maintained the casually 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 garter belt like the one she was wearing when we first met.
As she started outlining the terms of employment, it only just occurred to me what had been bothering me the most. Matthew worked there as a waiter and bar attendant, was one of the most junior members of the staff, and this woman was his boss. This put his interaction with Desirée’s derrière that night in the club in a much different and more interesting light. But I did not dwell on it, since the job opportunity was 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 the poolside restaurant not so long ago.
At only one stage of the interview did I have any misgivings. Desirée asked Matthew to wait outside, and after he’d excused himself she told me to stand up, take off my blouse and drop my jeans. I complied, feeling awkward and self-conscious as she leant back in her chair and inspected me, telling 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, honey.”
As my brother came back into the office, I was still 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 me a little concerned, but I put it out of my mind. It was only a short bus ride from our house and the university, so the easy commute was a bonus. Desirée introduced me to my co-workers in the dressing room and presented me with my uniform. It consisted of a pink chartreuse camisole and panties, trimmed with black lace, a frilly garter belt with four suspenders, pure silk stockings which alone must have cost a small fortune, and stiletto-heeled pumps. One of the girls had to help me with my garter belt, and the shoes were not designed for long periods of waiting on tables. However, it was sexy and feminine, and when I got started it was fun to be the centre of attention as the new waitress.
Matthew was tending bar that night, and there were a couple of other male staff. They were elegantly dressed in grey slacks and waistcoats, white shirts and red ties. I envied them in one respect. The temperature of the room was turned down low, so if I didn’t keep moving the goosebumps began to appear. Not only goosebumps… we weren’t permitted to wear a bra under the camisole, which was very sheer, 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.
The work was typical waitressing. There must have been some unwritten decree about the behaviour of the customers, because it appeared that a strict hands-off policy applied to the newer girls (who were distinguished from the veterans by wearing the camisole instead of a plain bra). I was not touched once all night, unless it was so subtle I was too busy to notice. On the other hand, all the other women including Desirée received the feel-up treatment. On my second night I was fair game, although it was nothing to complain about -– an occasional hand on my backside or the inside of my thigh. The penalty for gross misconduct was immediate ejection from the club, but I only heard of this rule and never saw it needing to be imposed.
The most novel thing I encountered was the procedure for tips. Those left on the table and bar or dropped onto the trays were pooled for equal distribution amongst all the staff; but any gratuity that was slipped inside our knickers or the tops of our suspenders was ours to keep. So I quickly got used to the unofficial guideline that you didn’t react too quickly when you felt a guy’s fingers inside your pants. Occasionally someone would go too far and try to insert his money into the slot, but you could deal with this by means of a cautionary flick to the ear. The male servers did not seem to mind that they were denied a share of about eighty percent of the tips. On the whole, the mood among both staff and patrons was upbeat and the ambience of the club (on the inside at least) was distinctly upmarket.
For the first month I was on probation, although my wages and duties were the same as the others’. Since just about everyone but the boss worked part-time, there were a lot of staff. Most of my fellow employees were university students like myself, and because the girls had to be over twenty-one years of age, we were mostly postgraduates; which meant we were probably the most highly educated bunch of waitresses in the city. Yet we hardly ever socialized, because we all had different rosters.
It didn’t take me 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 turned out to be a very pleasant working environment. Everyone got on well together, and 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 clientele. I was happy, and grateful to Matthew for getting me the job. It paid well, especially with the tips, which netted me more in a week than I earned in a month at that poolside place.
Damian turned up the first couple of 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, Desirée asked me to come in that Friday evening, put in a couple of hours and then stay on to enjoy on-the-house drinks and take in the entertainment. Damian arrived just as my shift was ending, around eleven o’clock. Matthew was still working, and he kept my boyfriend supplied with the free drinks. I remained sober, eager to know the reason for the special 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 in particular 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. She was completely nude, except for a black garter belt and fishnet stockings, high-heeled boots and, encircling her slender neck, a studded leather collar.
I was so stunned that I didn’t hear what she announced to the audience before she disappeared. An expectant buzz filled the room as onto the stage stepped three figures, two men wearing robes and masks (one black, the other red) and a young, tall, blonde woman wrapped in a white cape and blindfolded with a black sash or scarf. The men were holding her arms to guide 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 silver bracelets on her wrists and linking them with a piece of cord. He was not gentle, and her body jerked and twisted as he secured her hands. He turned her around a full three-sixty degrees so that we could see that her elbows almost touched behind her. It looked agonizing 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.
The girl squirmed as the man shoved a large ball-gag into her mouth and braced it with a leather strap, tugging so forcefully that her head was wrenched backwards. He fastened a metal collar around her throat. My initial shock quickly gave way to curiosity and excitement. Damian, who appeared just as startled, put his arm around my shoulders, and he squeezed me tightly as we watched.
The other man had wheeled onto the stage a wooden bench that was roughly like a vaulting horse, one of those things gymnasts leap over, except that the top was not flat but peaked; so in profile from the front it was shaped like an A. It had leather straps attached at strategic places along the sides. While red robe positioned the bench, his associate 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. Her feet still touched the floor, until each man seized an ankle, raised it and secured it with one of the straps. In doing so they hoisted her roughly onto the device and she was left sprawled on top of it. She was made to sit up straight, straddling the wedge-shaped top. She immediately began to wriggle about, but only for a short time, until she appreciated that squirming only made things worse. Her struggles quickly subsided.
Even through her gag and behind her blindfold, I could see the girl’s face contorted in pain and humiliation. I’m sure every woman in the room gasped and cringed in sympathy. 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, toward her shoulders, twisting her arms into an awkward and excruciating position, to attach her bracelets to her collar. The two men then stood back to allow the enthralled spectators to admire their handiwork.
This first act lasted no more than fifteen minutes, although it must have seemed like an eternity to the victim. I was embarrassed and repelled and fascinated by this spectacle of a young nude woman suffering for the amusement of the crowd. But when she was lifted off the apparatus, set down on the floor and her restraints removed, she smiled and raised her arms in triumph. The crowd clapped and yelled their approval. And she was able to walk off by herself, albeit with a slight wobble.
Breathless and exhausted, Damian and I just looked at each other, neither saying a word. Yet the rest of the customers went back to drinking and chatting, as one of the waitresses mounted the stage, took off what little she wore and began gyrating to the music. Somewhat to my astonishment, she was a very accomplished dancer, transitioning to a jazz ballet with skilful moves.
I turned to Matthew, who had come to join us at the table. “It’s not over yet,” he said. Then he saw the look on my face and grinned. “Take a closer look,” he said, gesturing towards the contraption on the stage. The pointy peak of the “wooden pony” was not sharp at all, but rounded… indeed more an upside-down U than an inverted V. Nevertheless, with the girl’s weight pressing down on her most tender parts, it could not have been comfortable, especially in front of an audience.
About half an hour after the first, the second act started. Next to the wooden pony a pillory had been set up, one of those medieval contrivances into which the victim’s head and hands are locked. The masked men brought out two naked victims this time. They were already gagged and blindfolded but I recognized them as girls who a few minutes earlier had been sitting at a nearby table. One was a fellow waitress, Marilyn, who like me had been off-duty. She was married, and her husband was still at the table, with a man I presumed to be the other girl’s partner.
This second girl, with her arms shackled in front, was made to ride the wooden pony, while Marilyn was locked in the stocks. This time they presented more than just a static tableau. The men began flogging them, every so often swapping between their victims. I flinched as each blow landed, but after a while I noticed that there was no blood drawn, and the pink welts raised on the backs, buttocks and thighs were barely visible. The whips were flails with about a dozen braided leather extensions to spread and soften the impact. It was more ritual than torture, focused on degradation rather than inflicting pain.
Marilyn was yelling something through her gag. I thought at first they were muffled curses or pleadings, but once I understood the true nature of the show I realized that she was mocking and taunting her tormentors.
“Is that all you’ve got?” she gurgled.
“Cool it, girl,” I thought. But the men stayed calm.
When they were released, the second girl’s knees began to buckle and Marilyn helped her off the stage. But during the intermission they reappeared at the table, still in the nude but neither appearing any the worse for their ordeal. In fact, Marilyn glanced across towards us, smiled at me and winked.
Damian and I stayed for another hour. There were more, similar exhibitions, and the crowd gave each woman a rousing ovation. One pair was a lesbian couple who had been kissing and cuddling in a corner of the room until they were called to the stage. From their expressions I don’t think they were expecting it, but they went up willingly. I half-expected one of them to fill the domination role, but both were stripped (being the first “players” to come up still in their clothes) and placed on the wooden pony, facing each other, their hands shackled behind their backs. They were “seated” close up to each other with their chests pressed together, and joined by a dual gag, two balls fused so that when they went into their mouths the women were locked in a kiss.
Like Marilyn and her friend, they were whipped, and then tormented with something that looked awfully like a cattle prod. No part of their bodies were spared, not the soles of their feet nor their underarms nor their genitalia. 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 the table, and after a brief remonstration she bent over; but the man in black pulled down her knickers and poked her unprotected flesh. She shrieked and everyone laughed, but I shuddered to see the two helpless women on the pony hearing the yell and the scream and wondering, behind their blindfolds, what was coming.
I was mesmerized by each of these performances, but I was also tired and had to be up early in the morning. Anyway, I was mentally drained. Matthew must have signalled to Desirée, because she came to our table, and as I stood up she gave me a hug. She said a few words to both my brother and my boyfriend that I didn’t hear. She then gave some directions to one of the waiters, who took a card out of his pocket and handed it Damian. She shook hands with him, but when she held out her hand to Matthew he ignored it, grabbed hold of her left breast and shook that.
I sucked in a breath and held it in anticipation of an eruption, but she just laughed and told my brother to behave himself. I was captivated by this strong, confident woman, stark naked and yet in total control, completely at ease with her fully clothed male staff and clients and the liberties they took.
Damian was disappointed to be going. I had put on a little frock over my skimpy costume, but as the crisp, early morning air caressed my bare arms and legs, my shiver was not just from the cold. What we had witnessed in the Wooden Pony Club both troubled and titillated me… but even more my boyfriend. He stayed overnight, and made love to me with such vigour that it hurt. I didn’t get to sleep until almost dawn.
To be continued…