Saturday, July 6, 2013
Midnight - Segment XXV
Probably better titled, ‘home for mousey, lonely, little understood, masochistic girls,’ the secretive ‘Club Le Femme’ is run by an imposing woman with a whip, her nom de guerre ‘Miss Deville’. For the enjoyment of the members, she welcomes young girls with special needs. On a given Friday or Saturday night some half dozen or more will enter by a special door, strip naked and offer themselves, oddly attempting to douse cold water on the fiery lustful deviant desires, their proclivities bizarre but well embraced by paying members.
No one, especially the members, knows their names, identities completely anonymous. They are bound, examined, whipped, clamped, ‘forced’ into debauchery, in general degraded and humiliated. Yes, the members bring satiation... a narcotic for the addicted.
Thus, so many came back week after week...
As stated, my attendance, my needs, were relatively subtle... a simple blow job from some nameless strumpet kneeling at the club bar with wrists well cuffed. Being fellated to the tuneful sounds of swishing leather on naked skin, such as that emanating from the ‘bad girl’s ballroom’, added a certain aberrant appeal. We guys always speculated about the antics of the lesbian and bisexual members who would disappear for hours at a time and return worn and sweaty. Then finally came that Friday night, the conversation while Victoria quaffed her brew.
“You look tired,” my words axiomatic in striking up a conversation.
This white robed beautiful woman with disheveled hair smiled, finally returning her glass to the bar, having half emptied it in one continuous gulp.
“Some of these naughty girls need much convincing to finally acknowledge their needs. Used one cane until it cracked tonight. The second not far behind.”
“Perhaps bastinado?” aware that slight taps to the feet and toes can be a much more efficient use of the flagellatrix’s energy.
Victoria smiles, a sort of ‘nice try’ message, but still pleasant.
“A girl’s got to walk. Miss Deville does not relish having to toss a girl into a cab. The back door entrance is to be kept quiet. Plus I normally enjoy the more physical transference. Exercise the muscles, exorcize some demons. It’s just that this girl tonight was not as hungry as most. But in the end, she ate... and ate... and ate.”
Well, of course her words ignite the fires of the eidetic male mind, blazing to know what was ingested. Why would it require excessive caning to encourage a presumably bisexual girl to partake in feminine flesh?
Victoria finishes her brew and I signal the bartender for another, on my tab.
“You trying to pick me up? I doubt we have compatible...” Victoria pausing in search.
“Tastes?” I interject. “Guess it depends on what’s on the menu.”
Victoria’s smile transforms, sheepish yet sly. She waits for the bartender to slip away. Then comes her retort.
“Well Oliver, I am sure like most members, I come here to blow off some steam, leaving the vanilla world behind for a few hours. Be with those who... well... who don’t make judgements.”
“Not judging anyone... and coming here for about the same. It’s just that we’re all curious... all the guys... about the bad girl’s ballroom.”
“For me, tormenting those with demented penchants is asexual, Oliver. I’m not a lesbian. I just find it easier to convince a girl to satiate my needs. And those little girl tears flow so divinely...”
It is so noble for the sadist to condescend and accommodate, I think but speak not.
“Have you ever had a girl eat excrement for you,” Victoria bluntly inquires, noting all are out of hearing range.
I shake my head, my proclivities more conventional and conveniently fulfilled. She notes I do not blush, cower or find objection with the subject matter and thus continues.
“Well a little girl from cow country just ate some dung... or at least she thinks it was dung. Imagine after all the years she spent growing up on a dairy farm, then coming to the big city and being made to ingest what she so often had to shovel,” laughing wickedly.
I am determined not to show revulsion, desiring to learn more. Victoria leans and whispers.
“Analingus, Oliver. A favorite of mine and so many members and visitors to the bad girl’s ballroom. Convincing a girl it is best to so orally please requires some cane strokes, but once they ingest faux shit, having them lick becomes less repulsive. In fact it becomes most facile... like offering great relief. No more pain, no more dung, just press that pretty face between the cheeks and feast.”
“Faux shit?” I ask somewhat incredulously.
“A special concoction of dog food with harmless chemicals added to produce an odor most foul. It’s in the mind, Oliver. And once they’re brought to the level of degradation to eat what they think is excrement, you can make a girl do anything... and thank you for the privilege of serving. The tongue works best when performing with gratitude.”
She returned to the second brew, my turn to speak. Victoria and I thereafter bonded.
A frightening swish of rattan returns my thoughts to Midnight, the barn and the wooden pony...