TV Groupie - 3 free porn video

TV GROUPIE--3 By "C.C." "Now don't you dare spit those out," she cautioned, clamping my red lips together. "Mustn't litter, you know!" Naomi rose, holding my leash with a gay nonchalance, and calmly led me out of the restroom. If I was confused before, I was even more at sea now! It seemed so strange to be led bare-ass on a leash out among a crowd of amorous lesbians. I wanted to scamper close to Naomi to shield my front from view, and I wished I could spread my fingers wide in my single mitten to cover my naked bottom. But of course, I couldn't. The most sensuous parts of my feminine body were completely exposed, and the rest of me was excitingly off-set in heels, hose, corset and collar -- plus, of course, that cramping, confining single glove! As I minced obediently behind Naomi, I wished fervently that I could just disappear. Yet, if my hunch was right, I might be out of this soon, I thought. For I had noticed something about that girl on stage that might be significant: Those red-painted breasts of hers! And if they meant what I thought they did, then I had found the runaway Thaylor girl. I swallowed my pride and tried my best to ignore the discomfort and embarrassment I felt over my lewd, feminized condition. Meekly, I followed Naomi back to her table and crouched demurely beside her chair while she sipped a drink and chatted with her girlfriends. Then, I sensed rather than heard the soft tread of leather sandals behind me. Edie Smythe, the lead singer of Bitchin' Heat, drew up a chair and sat regally down at our table, her legs crossed so that one exquisite foot dangled just inches from my face. Naomi, true to our plan, began working on her immediately. "Oh, Ms. Smythe," she gushed, "my slave just adored your show! And I must say, it gave me plenty of good ideas, too!" "Well thank you," Edie smiled. "It's so nice to feel appreciated, Miss- er-" "Oh let me introduce myself. I'm Doctor Naomi Bernstein. And this," she nudged my bare ass with the toe of her shoe, "this is Slave Darling." Instinctively I bent my neck forward as much as I could and kissed the female singer's toe through her sandal. "How charming!" she smiled. "Tell me: Have you had her long?" The two women then started comparing notes on bondage techniques, slave training, the natural superiority of women as lovers, and the importance of living out one's fantasies. "Speaking of fantasies," Naomi suppressed a giggle. "Slave Darling confessed an interesting one to me in the Ladies' Room just a few minutes ago." "Oh, really?" The red-head looked down at me speculatively. "Oh yes," Naomi replied, "she told me that she was absolutely intrigued by that girl you had bound up on stage there, and she wondered what it would be like to live as a Groupie with a band like yours, appearing in the show, attending you off-stage, following you from town to town..." "Fascinating!" Edie's look was more calculating than ever. "As it happens, we're staying the summer with a local friend, working on some new ideas we want to put in the show next Wednesday. We've got just oodles of room, so if you and Slave Darling would care to pay us a visit...?" "Oh, I just couldn't," Naomi sighed. "I'm on call at the clinic all next week and possibly the week after--" She looked down at me. I was fidgeting, trying to let her know that we had to accept this invitation. I had to get closer to those singers to see if my guess about the Thaylor girl was right. But of course, I could say nothing with my mouth full of panties. Naomi, however, read my impatient movements. And promptly mis- interpreted them! "Of course, you could always take Slave Darling home with you," she said casually. "She has no commitments, and I'm sure she'd be just thrilled to live out her fantasy with you!" "You wouldn't mind?" Edie raised an eyebrow. "Losing a little gem like this?" "I can pick her up later. Maybe." She casually passed my leash across the table to Edie. "But what's her real name?" Edie asked smiling. "What's her background?" "Her real name is whatever you decide it will be." Naomi rose, looking down at me through those hooded eyes of hers, "I call her Slave Darling, but Slut would do just as well. Or anything, really. And a slave has no past. She lives only in the present, her only goal in life to please her Mistress." She looked up at Edie as she turned to go. "Enjoy her. Perhaps I'll see her at your show next Wednesday if I can get off work." Dumbfounded I watched Naomi's tempting backside as she walked away. What had she done? Did she really imagine that I wanted to be just given to this sadistic singer? Or was she secretly enjoying this? Or did she have some plan for picking me up again ? Or-- My wondering was cut suddenly short by a firm tug on my leash. I looked up to see Edie wrapping the free end securely around her wrist. "Come along then, Slave Darling," she smiled. "I'll introduce you to your sister-sufferer and get you all packaged up!" Packaged up!?! I balked, tried to hang back. This couldn't be! When I started out this evening, I had assumed I would be the sedately-dressed date of the prestigious Doctor Naomi Bernstein, able to come and go freely, to inspect the slaves here at my leisure. I had certainly never intended to be paraded around bound and naked, much less carted off to God-knew-where. "Oh come now," Edie sighed, "you're not one of those Slave-Girls who tries to provoke a lot of beatings, are you? Well, if you insist--" She made a practiced, graceful motion toward her belt with her free hand, and suddenly she was holding a flexible, two foot riding crop! I blanched pale, petrified with fright as she swung the evil-looking thing through the air. "Still won't move, eh? Well, try a few of these for starters." Thwack! She had moved around behind me and brought the riding crop down across my defenseless buttocks with surprising speed. Thwack! Another one, this time across my tender thighs. Thwack! And a third, back across my still-inflamed bottom. "Now will you come along?" Oh yes! I wanted to scream, Yes! Yes! At that point, I would gladly have walked stark naked into the locker room of a boy's high school football team, just to escape another one of those terrible, stinging blows. "Come along, then." And I obediently trotted behind my new Mistress as she led me across the crowded room, bare-assed and bare-breasted, past tables of snickering lesbians, and finally to a dressing room backstage. "Meet your new sister," Edie said as she opened the door, "I think you'll find you have a great deal in common. Or if you don't, you soon shall!" Inside the room was an assortment of musical instruments, sound equipment, and, sealed inside a fifty-gallon drum made of clear plastic, the naked, hooded girl with the painted breasts that I had seen earlier on stage. "I call it 'Canned Slave'," Edie commented. "Take a good look." It took me a few moments to comprehend the bizarre sight of a girl crammed inside a crystal-clear drum of tough acrylic plastic. I soon saw, however, that the container was perforated all over with air- holes, permitting the contents to breathe. But that must have been scant comfort for the pent-up nude inside! She was forced to sit in that thing with her knees drawn up and her arms folded over her hooded head, while her bare ass and shapely legs pressed excitingly against the clear plastic sides. I wondered how it must feel to be unbound, yet captive in such a tiny space, vulnerable and on-view to any chance passer-by. A few minutes later, I found out. Edie had been joined by the other three girls in the group: Olivia, Cindi, and Grace, and the four of them set about preparing me for packaging. My corset, collar, stockings and shoes were all unceremoniously removed, and my arms freed from that awful single glove. The girls obviously weren't worried about me running away stark naked, and besides, I remembered how well this place was sealed off. Edie reached up and placed a strong finger gently between my red lips. "I'm going to remove the panties that I know are in your mouth," she said, "and when I do, you shall have a chance to speak. Just have a care to choose your words carefully." Slowly she pulled the silky things from my mouth, holding them in a tight ball. "Thank you, Mistress," I said, eyes downcast submissively, very aware of my feminine nudity. "An excellent response," she smiled. "Who are you, now?" "I am -- whoever you want me to be, Mistress," I almost whispered. "Better still. And what are you?" "Your slave, Mistress," I answered. "Your own property to use as you wish. My only desire is the pleasure of you and your friends." "What a charming reply!" Edie laughed. "Let's package her up, Girls!" The girls of Bitchin' Heat moved like a practiced team. Cindi removed the top from the drum that held their hooded slave, then ordered her to stand upright, feet spread as wide as the huge can would allow. Then, to my helpless surprise, Olivia and Grace picked me up bodily and inserted me into the can, head-first! I felt myself lying on the back of my head and the nape of my neck, discovering, to my relief, that the bottom of the can was covered by a thick sponge mat. I felt my feminized, naked body slide past that of my fellow captive, felt my legs being doubled over and pressed down upon her shoulders, leaving me ass-upwards. Then, as she obediently sat back down, I saw and then felt her smooth, round bottom press into my face. Felt her legs against my sides, her hooded face pushed down near my pussy. A few more shoves crammed us closer together. My face was swallowed up in the cleft of her bottom. My hands pinned against her breasts. Her feet were resting on my own breasts, and I felt her damp toes across my nipples. The top of the can was replaced, pushing my knees closer down around the leather hood of my can-mate. I moved my head to get some breathing room, and my eyes came out from under the other girl's bottom. I could see. I almost wished I couldn't. For around me were the four leather-clad female musicians, grinning broadly, and I suddenly realized that they could see in as well as I could see out! Every inch of my body, crammed into this ridiculously sexy container, was on display to anyone who cared to look. Thank heaven, I thought, for the relative privacy of the dressing room! If anyone else saw me like this, I don't know what I'd do! Then Edie said, "Let's give 'em an encore, girls!" A fur-covered dolly was wheeled into place and the can that contained me and my soul-sister was shifted onto it. A push, and we were being wheeled out on stage, into the glare of a multicolored spotlight, onto the turntable where my companion had danced, now revolving slowly so as to show off our bizarre, nude, feminine predicament from every angle as the girls picked up their instruments and Edie began to sing: "Canned Slave, Ca-a-anned Sla-a-ave, Y'thought that you could trust her, Awwww, But Baby now you're only just her Canned Slave...." That was Friday night. Wednesday morning at Eight, the alarm clock chimed. I worked my way out from under a pile of silk sheets and dragged myself across the oversized bed to the night stand, striking the alarm button to turn it off. Then I squirmed around to my bed mate. "Wake up, Robyn!" I said in my soft, feminine voice. "We've only got an hour to get ready for our Mistresses." Yes, it was Robyn Thaylor I was sharing a bed with: the missing daughter of my wealthy client. As soon as I had noticed her red-painted bosom there on the stage, the thought had occurred to me: Robyn Red- Breast! Immediately, I had known that such a joke would have an irresistible appeal to the cruelly amused rock singers. Well, my hunch had been right. Robyn Thaylor was the bound, hooded captive on stage, performing as a willing slave to Bitchin' Heat. But as I pulled the satin covers off our nude, feminine bodies, I realized that I was no closer to returning her home to Mommy than I had been when I took this case a week ago. Robyn wiggled herself upright. She had to wiggle, because her entire upper torso had been sealed inside a thin but strong casing of flesh- colored rubber! I watched as she moved around in this. Above the waist, up to her neck, she was encased in the skin-tight rubber except for her breasts, which stuck out lewdly through outlet holes. Her arms were tightly taped to her sides and completely covered by this thing, giving her an oddly sexy armless look. We had experimented alone at night, and found it to be reinforced with nylon, impossible to remove without cutting it off. So poor Robyn was stuck as a long-legged walking female torso, a sort of young Venus di Milo, forced to depend on me for any hand-work, such as feeding, dressing, lighting cigarettes, and even going to the bathroom. And I was in quite a predicament myself. A very similar casing of skintight, flesh-colored rubber had been applied to my legs, sealing them tightly together, sticking straight out like a bizarre snake-tail. The rubber extended clear up to my bottom, leaving it bare, "for everyone's convenience," as Edie said. So Robyn and I had been turned into a kinky feminine Yin and Yang, complementing each other as slave-toys. She had no arms and I had no legs. She could run places, fetch things in her mouth, or haul (with a little help) wheeled serving trays. I could only wriggle and crawl about on the floor or, with great difficulty, hop short distances, but my arms and hands were free for chores like cooking and cleaning. Now, as Robyn finished on the toilet in our slave-bathroom and I wiped her clean, as per instructions, I became more convinced than ever that she had gotten the best end (so to speak) of this deal. After I finished on the toilet myself, Robyn went over to the shower-tub and waited for me to crawl in and turn on the water. Once it was running, I would have to soap us both up, shampoo our hair, and lie there in the bottom of the tub while Robyn rinsed off. Then I would have to towel us both dry, comb and blow-dry our hair, put makeup on both of us, and get us dressed. Oh yes, we were both required to wear uniforms, and they were exotically unique creations. Black nylon dresses, styled like maids' uniforms, but with some exciting differences. For one thing, both dresses were extremely short, barely covering Robyn's pantied bottom, and quite full, so that they flipped up and rustled gaily with every move we made. The fronts of the skirts had tiny white lace aprons sewn on them, but these were practically useless as aprons (mine in particular, since I spent so much time crawling about on my stomach) and they served primarily as frivolous ornamentation, reminding us of our lowly maid-slave status. At the waist, each dress turned into a black satin corset, compressing our sides and tummies very tightly indeed, and I knew this must be very difficult for Robyn, since her arms were taped to her sides as well, but she never uttered a word of complaint. Above the waist, two wide straps of black satin, trimmed in white lace, rose over our shoulders and crossed behind our backs. Aside from that, our costumes were completely topless, our thrusting breasts bared to the world. On our heads, we wore cute little white lace maid's caps, pinned in our curly hair. Robyn's legs were sheathed in black net stockings, held up by white lace garters, and she was shod in the tallest of high-heeled pumps with six-inch stiletto heels. For myself, the girls had designed a special wide, one-legged pantihose, in dark stretch-nylon. It covered me -- more or less -- from my waist down to my single foot (which wore a double-wide high-heel shoe, especially made for me) but the sheer dark nylon highlighted my legs and ass so excitingly that I really would have been better off nude. And in these bizarre mockeries of maids' uniforms, Robyn and I had to mince and hop about, docilely serving the girls of Bitchin' Heat. I prepared their breakfast and put it on a serving tray, which Robyn pushed into the large, mirrored bedroom they all shared, while I crawled behind. Sometimes I would see us in a mirror this way -- our feminine curves flashing, trimmed in white lace and black satin, Robyn stepping daintily while I squirmed about on the floor with that silly maid's cap perched in my hair -- and I would feel terribly naked and helpless, almost like the submissive female I was pretending to be! Over the last four days, Robyn and I had been attending our mistresses faithfully, and today was no exception. After serving Breakfast, we served the girls themselves, wriggling onto the bed and kissing, caressing, and licking whenever and whatever we were directed, until the singers had come to repeated climaxes. Our own sexual needs were blithely ignored. Following this, we assisted our Ladies in the Bath, Robyn fetching towels, perfume and powder puffs in her mouth while I lovingly scrubbed, dried and body-oiled their feminine bodies. For the rest of the day, we fetched and carried refreshments, note- paper, instruments, or anything else, obedient hand-maidens to the musical muse that Bitchin' Heat had embraced. I found, to my surprise, that the routine of these rock singers was far from the endless round of drugs and sex that I had imagined. They all worked hard several hours each day, practicing, listening to classical music and taking notes, writing and re-writing lyrics. These girls were no empty-minded pot-heads. They were serious and talented musicians, dedicated to translating their unconventional lifestyle into interesting and even memorable music. And they were working especially hard today, intending to try out a new routine this very night. Their attitude towards Robyn and me could best be described as Benevolent Cruelty. Edie, Olivia, Cindi and Grace all understood well the nature of the masochist: how he or she thrives on sexual denial and constant titillation; the thrill of being forced to expose oneself in silly erotic clothing; the comfort of bondage and the inner security that comes from Obedience instead of Choice. They thought we wanted all this (and in Robyn's case, they were right) and by their lights, they were doing us a kindness by allowing us to serve them. I'll admit that I more or less fell into the spirit of this thing. I thrilled at the feel of silk, and satin sliding over my feminine curves. Deep inside, I tingled at the intimate contact with my Mistresses' bodies, and during my entire stay there, I felt the pleasant excitement that only comes from sexual arousal. Does this make me kinky? I think not. Take any man: feminize him; surround him with feminine clothes and perfume and with beautiful women in various stages of dress and undress; force him to tenderly and thoroughly give oral love to these gorgeous creatures, but deny him any sexual relief himself -- I can just about guarantee that any man in my position, transformed into a male lesbian, would have found it as erotically thrilling as I did! The difference is that I never lost sight of my goal. The entire time I was there, I kept looking for a way out of this feminine captivity. Kept my eyes open for the chance that would let me get myself and Robyn Thaylor out of there and back to reality. And that Wednesday afternoon, I found it. The girls were upstairs practicing, and Grace sent me to the Study for some notes she had taken earlier. Robyn, meanwhile, was doing some bondage poses for them. So for the first time, I was by myself in the house and unobserved, As quickly as I could on my single leg, I wiggled down the stairs and into the Study. I'd had a lot of practice dragging myself about on my tummy, with my leg wriggling behind me like a sexy tail (Funny: I thought of it now as one leg, although I knew that it was actually two joined together) and my breasts jiggling merrily in front, so it took me less than a minute. In the study, I perched myself up on the large desk near one wall, and in seconds, I had dialed Margaret Thaylor. One ring. Two. I tried flexing my throat so that when I spoke, it would not be in the high, feminine tones that I was accustomed to using. Three rings. It suddenly occurred to me that Mrs. Thaylor might not be at home. If not, when would I get a chance like this again? Four rings. Would they have missed me upstairs by now? I kept my eye on the door that led to the hallway, looking for any movement that might signal an approach. Five rings. Si-- "Hello?" The familiar voice came over the wire to my welcoming ears. "Thaylor residence." "Mrs. Thaylor," I whispered as deeply as I could. "Clinton Crayle here. Don't talk. Just listen, because I may not have much time. Your daughter is staying with a lesbian rock group called Bitchin' Heat. She's not a prisoner, but they do keep her tied up at her own request. I think they're staying on the Grandamme estate, but I can't be positive. I do know that the group will be playing at a place called The Club just off Route 117 tonight. Did you contact those strong-arm girls I told you about? Good. Now listen: Don't try to take your daughter out of the Club. That place is too well-guarded to get into and out of safely. The only way to get Robyn is to hi-jack the band's van between here and the Club. You can't miss it; It's an over-sized gold thing with the letters 'BH' on each side. Robyn will be inside, tied up, with the other equipment. Just have the girls get her out of the van and take off with her. If I were you, I'd have her taken straight to a de-programming clinic before she runs away again. Got all that now? I may have to hang up in a hurry, so if you have any questions, go ahead." "No..." Mrs. Thaylor's voice was hesitant at first, then stronger. "I'll make all the arrangements, Mr. Crayle. And thank you." "Oh one more thing!" I had almost forgotten a very important item. "There'll be another woman tied up in the van with Robyn. Tell the girls to take her as well. I'll explain later. Understand?" "I think so. Is she supposed to g--" Suddenly I heard a rustling noise behind me. I slammed the phone down in its cradle and spun about, my leg sliding across the smooth desk- top. There was a tall, feminine figure standing there in the shadows. Completely nude, bald, but undeniably female. She walked stiffly forward into the light, and my eyes widened. She was made of rubber! It took me just a second to recompose myself. After all, I had seen things like this before. It was someone inside a full body flesh-tone latex sheath, much like the ones that covered my legs and Robyn's arms. This one, too, fit like a second skin, but as it covered parts of the body, it accentuated them. Packed inside the thin rubber casing, the breasts and buttocks seemed full, firm and taut. There were high heels inside the feet, bringing the wearer up to a tip-toe walk that showed off the long, shapely, rubber smooth legs. The arms moved stiffly, and there were no fingers in the gloves, just small hand-pods, so I assumed that this was a bondage costume of some sort. The head was completely covered, and feminine features drawn on the face, including a smiling, red-painted mouth that I knew must cover a gag. The only apparent opening in this entire thing was two holes at the eyes for vision, and through these, two intense blue orbs positively burned out at me, as if trying to express everything that the person sealed inside could not say. For my part, I stared back at this rubberized person. How much had he or she heard? How much could one hear inside that thing? And what-- "So there you are, you naughty slave! I wondered what was keeping you!" The sound of Grace's voice in the doorway startled me. I tried to spin around again, forgot about the fix my legs were in, and promptly fell off the desk onto the floor. I lay there on the floor, looking guiltily up at the slender, dark-haired rock singer. "I see you've met our gracious hostess." Grace looked from me to the rubberized figure, smiling. "Mrs. Grandamme, meet Slave Darling. Slave: Curtsey for Mrs. Grandamme." Somehow I got to my knees and raised the hem of my skirt, trying to smile submissively through my confusion. This was Mrs. Grandamme?! But why? What was she doing in that get-up? Had the girls taken her captive in her own house, or was she willingly undergoing this treatment? Was she really Mrs. Grandamme? Was it even really a "she"? And most important: How much had she heard? How much would she tell, if she got a chance? But Grace was talking. "Really now, Slave Darling, I realize that seeing our hostess for the first time must have been surprising to you, but that's no excuse for dawdling around down here. You deserve another spanking, Don't You, Slave?" There was only one answer to a question like that. "Y-yes, Mistress," I admitted, hanging my head. "Very well," Grace picked up a metal ruler from the desk and swished it through the air experimentally. "This will do nicely, I think. Stand up, Slave. You may hold on to the back of that chair." Trembling a little, I pulled myself up to my feet (or "foot" in my case) and bent forward, clutching the back of the chair tightly. Swoooshshshwhackkk! Hot pain exploded across my tender bum. I moaned softly. "Mmmm," Grace commented, "you like this, don't you? I'll bet you're having an orgasm right now, you little slut--" Whoooshhhswackkk! More pain. As I winced in agony, I cast a nervous glance over at the rubberized feminine figure watching all this. Her eyes shone brighter than ever, but I could read no emotion on her plastic face. Woooosshwackckck! How strange to be spanked in front of this silent, glassy-faced spectator! I wondered in embarrassment what she must be thinking. Whack!! "There," Grace said finally, "that'll do for now. Come upstairs, Slave Darling. It's time for you and Robyn to practice." "Th-thank you, M-Mistress," I gasped, lowering myself to the floor. Obediently I wriggled upstairs for Practice. Grace led the way, and I couldn't help but stare from my low vantage point at her shapely, pantied rear. And think about how brightly red my own bottom must be glowing as I swished along. This Practice was something that, so far, I had been unable to figure out. Twice a day, for a few hours at a time, the girls put Robyn and me through a routine they called "Practice." They approached it as thoroughly and professionally as they did all their work, but I had yet to understand its purpose. First, Robyn and I were ordered to stand at attention -- easy for Robyn, but terribly difficult for me to balance on my single high heel. Then (with a little assistance for me from Olivia and Cindi) we had to bend over and touch our palms to the floor without bending our knees. This feat had been patently impossible when we first tried it Saturday morning, but with a great deal of work, and physical encouragement from our Mistresses, we had finally gotten to the point where it was almost easy. Once bent over, Robyn and I had stout bands of strong, flesh-colored nylon wrapped around us; one across the middle back, under the breasts and around the backs of the knees, and another, slightly higher up, around the small of the back and the upper thighs. Secured like this, it was completely impossible to straighten up. Robyn and I were like two salt shakers, asses raised high, totally vulnerable and exposed. Vulnerable, maybe, but far from motionless. Under the strict guidance of Bitchin' Heat, Robyn and I had actually learned to walk like this! I had to hop about in tiny movements, scooting my pretty hands across the floor and bouncing my high-heeled foot to keep up. There were dire punishments for falling over while attempting this movement, so I had perforce learned to keep my balance fairly well. As a reward, my Mistresses had given me a stiff, curved collar to wear that kept my head bent back, allowing me to see in front of me, and a pair of padded satin hand-pods that laced up my arms almost to the elbows. They had the double effect of protecting my hands from the hard floors and of keeping me totally helpless and unable to remove a bit of my bondage. Robyn fared a little better, since she was able to move her high-heeled legs from the knees down, and could look between them to guide herself as she walked backwards. In this way, her breasts were pretty much hidden behind her legs, while mine were exposed and flaunted by the neck-arching collar I wore. This was the "Practice" that we had been subjected to. A few hours each day for five days now, until both of us were fairly proficient in moving about with our noses to the ground and our bottoms in the air. Today, our Mistresses were very pleased with our work, and as a reward, when they let us straighten up they allowed us to rest until Dinnertime. "Rest" consisted of lying on a long, long sofa in the Living Room, Robyn on her back and me on my stomach, with Robyn's legs wrapped firmly around my neck and tied there, my face buried in her crotch and my wrists in leather cuffs that attached with eighteen-inch chains to a collar thoughtfully locked around Robyn's neck by Grace. "There now!" I heard the pleasure in Grace s voice, but the furthest I could see like this was the slight curve of Robyn's flat tummy. "This will give Robyn a chance to brush up on her reading while Slave Darling practices her cunnilingus. Also this position will guarantee that the two of you stay out of trouble. As you can see, Robyn's legs and Slave Darling's arms are completely wrapped up, and with the two of you joined together like that, I'm sure you'll have plenty on your minds besides getting into mischief. On, by the way Robyn; Those books I set beside you are all lesbian magazines. Slave Darling can pick them up for you, if she strains a bit, and turn the pages. So enjoy!" And so she did. Dinner was a light meal served at 4:30 so the girls would not feel stuffy before their performance. As usual, Robyn and I were allowed to eat leftovers from bowls on the floor, after which I repaired our hair and makeup and brushed our teeth. But then the routine was changed. I was ordered to remove our clothes, except for our high heels, and we both presented ourselves to our Mistresses in the hallway near the Garage. Then, totally nude except for our footwear and our rubber casings we were ordered into the van. A chill went over me that had nothing to do with my shivering nudity. We were leaving! Had Mrs, Thaylor had time to arrange for our hi- jacking? Had Mrs. Grandamme told the girls anything? I knew that Robyn and I would be expected to perform with Bitchin' Heat tonight, and I fervently hoped that we would be stopped before we got to the Club. We had been driving for about Twenty Minutes -- the singers in cushy seats up front while Robyn and I huddled among boxes in the back -- when I thought my prayers had been answered. Edie said something about this looking like a good spot, and pulled off the side of the road. Had the van been stopped? To my disappointment, however, the girls of Bitchin' Heat laughingly got out and came around to the back of the van, opening the doors. "All right, Slaves," Edie announced, "it's exercise time. Climb out." Bewildered, we did as we were told. We were on a lightly-traveled country road, parked at a spot where heavy shrubbery would hide us from the roadway so long as we kept on the passenger side of the van. Which we eagerly did! "As you two are looking a bit pale, I've decided that a bit of fresh- air exercises in order," Edie announced. "Something to put a bit of flush in your cheeks." she eyed our exposed bottoms meaningfully as Olivia and Grace pulled two strange-looking items from the back of the van. "So we're going to let you cycle the rest of the way!" My red lips opened in shock and my tummy fluttered at the sight of what Olivia and Grace were pushing towards us. They were bicycles, but strangely designed and modified to our special needs. Mine was fashioned so that I could peddle it with my hands and steer it from the back by wiggling my leg, which was locked into a special frame for that purpose. Robyn's was similarly rigged so that her torso was strapped to the front, steering the bike with her whole upper body while she pedalled with her high-heeled feet. Both bikes were equipped with training wheels to keep us from upsetting, but they were also designed with the front wheel only half the size of the rear wheel, so that once we were strapped on these things, our bare asses were raised high in the air while our pendulous breasts hung and swayed with every motion. Once we were strapped, shivering with fright and blushing with embarrassment, onto these things, Edie gave us our instructions: "It's only a few kilometers to the Club, Slaves, so you should be able to cycle there in just an hour or so. Straight down this road leads to a back entrance where they'll be expecting you. If anyone sees you, you're on your own, so try to come up with a good story." The giggling girls climbed into the van and Cindi leaned out to blow us a kiss. "Have fun now!" she laughed as they sped off. I think the enormity of the whole thing hit me at that moment. I was totally feminized. Naked. Reduced to one leg and strapped to a bizarre mockery of a bicycle that flaunted my smooth ass and feminine tits outlandishly. Deserted here, in the middle of nowhere, where anyone might come along and see me like this. Ordered to peddle an unknown distance down a road that might (or might not -- what if those girls were on to me?) lead to a dubious safety. The fear, the humiliation, the total sexy helplessness all seemed to flood in on my consciousness at once. What should I do? What could I do?