Wendy's Test free porn video

Wendy's Test      By Abe

"Pledges, you have worked hard all week,

cooking, cleaning, doing silly things like

scavenger hunts to prove you really want to

be a sister in this house.  Any second

thoughts?"  None.  "OK, tonight comes your

last and most important test.  Some will find

it easy.  Some will find it difficult, but you

will pass, if it takes you all week‑end.  Read

and sign this paper, if you wish to join this

sorority."  Wendy's older sister, Bronwyn,

was president of the sorority, so Wendy was

their most enthusiastic pledge.  She read the

paper quickly, something about releasing the

house from all liability, consent to physical

compulsion, and a promise to keep secret all

that occurred.  Of course she signed it.

Eight pledges, freshman girls, and 23 sisters,

upper class women, piled into Black Beauty,

a repainted former school bus.  All but the

seniors were blind‑folded.  The young

women rode, mostly in silence, for about an

hour.  (One blindfolded sophomore got car

sick and was let out, briefly, to vomit) 

"OK, everyone get up and hold hands.

Bronwyn will lead you.  Watch your step

getting off the bus.  No talking."  They were

led into some sort of building and down

some stairs. "Pledges, you will leave your

blindfolds on for the entire exercise, even

your initiation into the sorority.  Others, you

may take your blindfolds off until we

leave."  There were murmurs of comment as

the sophomore girls saw the room for the

first time.  "Pledges, take off your clothes,

everything.  Put your clothes in the shopping

bag you will be given."

Wendy, in the darkness of her blindfold

(actually a sort of mask without eye holes),

was sort of anxious, but, after all, she was

among friends, her future sisters, and her

real, biological sister was there.  She'd

undressed in front of Girl Scouts, when she

was younger, so...  Bronwyn wouldn't let

anything terrible happen.  Wendy peeled off

her T‑shirt and undid her bra, pulling it off

over her arms.  She took off her shoes and

socks.  Music played, with a lot of

percussion, but it seemed to Wendy that she

could hear the noises of cameras.  She

didn't like the idea of someone having

photographs of her in the nude, but there

was no turning back now.  She unbuttoned

the waistband of her jeans and slid them

down.  She was naked, but for her white

panties, and then she was totally naked.

"Pledges, stand at attention."  She was sure

they were taking pictures.  She hated the

idea of someone having pictures of her

nude.

"Now, pledges, you will be guided to a

padded bench.  Lie on your back and relax

while we prepare you for the next event."

Wendy was reassured when it was Bronwyn

who led her to a low padded surface and let

her lie down.  Wendy felt her ankles being

lifted and pulled apart, and she

automatically resisted, trying to keep her

knees together.  "Wendy, don't fight it.  You

have to pass the test.  Relax." advised her

sister.  Wendy relaxed and let them strap her

ankles to some sort of overhead support,

approximately over her head, so that her

bottom was upturned and her pubic area was

fully exposed.  "This is not time for false

modesty," announced the pledge mistress,

"we're all sisters, or will be."

"Whoa, hey!  What's going on,"said Wendy,

as someone poured water over her pubic

hair.  "Silence!" said the pledge mistress.

"You cannot be a sister unless your pubic

hair is entirely gone.  In future, you will

remove it yourself."  Someone used electric

clippers to remove most of her pubic hair,

which was red, like the hair on her head.

Wendy tried to lie still, but she squirmed

inwardly, stressed out at the thought that

someone was touching her down there.

They smeared shaving cream between

Wendy's legs and across her lower abdomen

and used a razor to remove what was left

after the clippers.  Wendy cringed, as fingers

moved her labia from side to side, to shave

all the nooks and crannies.  Finger tips

stroked her newly naked labia, in search of

missed stubble, and a couple more strokes

of the razor took care of that.  She waited

for what came next, trying to breathe deeply

and relax.  Someone was smoking a

cigarette.  That was against the house rules,

wasn't it?  Then the pledge mistress spoke

again: "OK, each of you pledges, reach

down and feel your nice smooth cunny.

Remember, once you are sworn in as a

sister, you will be required to keep yourself

as smooth as you are now.  That means,

probably, shaving every other day or so, or

using chemical depilatories.  Feel how nice

it feels when you stroke yourself.  That's the

way.  Now, press down over your clit and

rub gently."

"Wendy!" hissed Bronwyn, "do it.  Now!

I'm not going to be embarrassed by a little

sister who behaves like a virgin."

"But I am a virgin.  I went to St. Teresa's,

same as you, and they told us never to touch

ourselves down there."

"Do it!  Here, I'll guide your hand."

Bronwyn held Wendy's hand firmly and

pressed the index finger between her labia.

"That's it, pledges, keep rubbing.  We want

to see you cum," said the pledge mistress. 

"No, I can't," said Wendy, and she snatched

her hand away, folding her arms over her

breasts.  She couldn't do anything about her

private place being so exposed, but there

was no way she was going to masturbate,

and certainly not in front of the other girls.

Time passed, and Wendy heard, over the

background music, giggles and moans and

sighs and a few joyous expletives.  There

was a new fragrance in the air.  Then she

heard the pledge mistress.  "There is one

pledge who chooses not to cooperate.  She

won't even try."

"I'm a good girl," Wendy replied, "and I

can't play with myself."

"Very well, we'll teach you.  An orgasm is

required; no one fails the test."   Wendy

freaked out when she felt someone's mouth

against her vulva, and, judging from the

scratchiness of beard stubble against her

tender inner thighs, it was a man!

"A man! No!"  She tried to push him away,

but strong hands held her arms over her

head.  Bronwyn stuffed a cloth in Wendy's

mouth and held her hand over it to keep her

from complaining.  Wendy squirmed and

resisted as much as she could, as an

invisible man had his way with her, licking

her clit, sucking on it, fingering her anus.

"No, no," she moaned through her gag. 

"Yes, yes," said Bronwyn.  "Wendy,

remember how the most pious nuns would

practice mortification of the flesh, to get

nearer to God?  This is like that.  You must

say yes, must embrace the experience, and if

you go with it, you will have a religious

experience."  Confused, Wendy tried to bear

it.  Frightening sensations coursed through

her body, almost like electric shocks.  She

started to sweat and blush.  Wendy didn't

want to enjoy it, raped or sodomized by an

anonymous man.  She felt a moment of

unbearable guilt, but then, in a flash of

insight, she remembered the Christian

martyrs, raped and tortured by the Romans,

before they were crucified or torn apart by

beasts in the Colosseum.  Those martyrs

became saints, so she should not feel guilt

when she was subjected to...  Already,

Wendy felt better, even happy, as she was

ravished by a vigorous tongue.  She

wriggled as much as she could, under the

circumstances.  Bronwyn removed the gag. 

"Yes, yes," murmured Wendy.  "Oh, oh, oh,

Oh, Mother of God!  Oh, OH, OH! Oh,

God!"  Her body convulsed, involuntarily, as

a strange ecstacy flooded her consciousness.

"OH, Uuungh! Ahh!"  And then the mouth

was gone, and Wendy relaxed into a half‑

conscious stupor, hearing faint cheers and

clapping through her confusion.

"Now, pledge, show us that you can make

yourself come."  Wendy shook her head, no.

"Do it.  Every pledge passes the test, sooner

or later.  We're all waiting for you."  And

they must all be watching!  Her sisters to be,

and how many men? Tentatively, Wendy

touched her still swollen clitoris and moved

her finger back and forth.  It did feel good,

but...  "Come on, we don't want to be here

all night."  She tried harder, without getting

closer to a climax.  "Use your left hand, too.

Push some fingers into your vagina."

"No, I can't do that.  I swore I'd preserve

my virginity until my wedding night."

"Seems like physical coercion is called for.

Bronwyn, butt out!"

Wendy felt the tip of an erect penis between

her labia.  "NO!  NO!  I'm a virgin!"

"In the ass," growled the mistress, until she

makes herself come.  Wendy rubbed harder,

helpless to stop what was happening, except

by displaying an orgasm.   Someone spread

lubricant between her lower cheeks.  "Don't

be a tight ass.  Relax."  Wendy tried to

relax, knowing it would hurt if she didn't.  It

can't be too bad, she thought, my number

two is as big as his penis, so...  She felt the

latex clad penis pushing against her, and she

tried to let it in.  Suddenly, it was deep

inside her, and it started sliding back and

forth.  Wendy tried to ignore that and

somehow reach an orgasm by rubbing her

clitoris, but she couldn't get over the edge

until...   She was a Christian martyr being

raped in the Coliseum before hoards of

jeering Romans, preliminary to being put to

death and sent to heaven..  She shivered at

the thought, and suddenly she was in the

throes of the second orgasm of her life,

writhing and calling out in unintelligible

syllables.

She was empty again, faint twinges from her

anus reminding her that she had been raped,

martyred, and it had led her to another of

those religious experiences.  She had to

make sense of it all, things her body did that

she could not have imagined.  She didn't

pay attention when the mistress said

something about demonstrating fellatio.

She reached down and was surprised at how

wet she was.   They unfastened her ankles

and helped her off the bench, leaving her

kneeling on a cushion, not unlike her prayer

in church.  Wendy tentatively explored her

slick, smooth labia and sensitive clitoris.

From time to time she heard polite clapping,

but she ignored it as she tried to understand

her previously unknown sexual responses.

Suddenly someone pulled her head back and

said, "Open your mouth.  Don't bite.  Make

him come.  You don't have to swallow."

She felt a penis between her lips.

"AAAGH! NO!"

"Listen, pledge," said the pledge mistress,

"no one fails the tests.  Make up your mind

to suck his dick until he comes."

"No."

Suddenly several hands pulled her forward

onto her front, pinning her right arm beneath

her, her hand still between her legs.   A cane

swished and slapped against her upturned

bottom, the pain making her whole body

convulse.  Several more times it slashed her

tender buttocks, until, miraculously, she had

another of those paroxysms of religious

experience.  Sobbing, she got back up on her

knees and opened her mouth.  Mechanically,

she followed their instructions, licking,

sucking slightly, bobbing on the penis.  It all

seemed distasteful, until she heard  the roar

of the Romans, felt the sand of the coliseum

against her knees, felt the heat of the

waiting branding irons, imagined her

broken, martyr's body ascending into

heaven.  The next thing she knew, there was

real clapping, and semen was running down

her chin.  She gave one more rub of her clit

and fell over in an orgasmic swoon.

Someone was sponging her off with warm

water, wiping her face and between her legs.

The pledge mistress announced, "All the

pledges having past the test, we will now

proceed to the induction ceremony."

          *******

Before she went to bed, Wendy confronted

her sister, Bronwyn: "You never told me

there would be men, that I would be raped!"

"It's not the way we operate.  How long

would they allow us on campus, if we

advertised that we sell sexual favors?  You

never wondered why you don't have to pay

money for room and board?  You thought

that we have a huge endowment.  No, you

don't have to pay to live here, because you

earn your keep  on Friday nights.  As an

hourly rate, you will be earning several

times what the chancellor of the university

earns.  Don't knock it."

"But I swore to remain a virgin."

"OK.  You can do what you did tonight.

From each according to her ability.  Of

course, if you won't let guys fuck you

normally, you may have to put up with

doing other things.  If you are the only girl

in the sorority who doesn't enjoy sex, you'll

have to earn your keep some other way, not

so enjoyable."

"You mean you enjoy sex with men?  You

enjoy working your way through college as a

prostitute?"

"Yes, I enjoy sex.  You did, tonight.  Any

normal woman should be able to.  I look

forward to the weekends.  Now, go back to

your room and get some sleep.  Be here at

nine for breakfast and supervised study."

Back in the freshman girls dorm, Wendy

was torn by conflicting feelings.  She felt

betrayed, raped, dirty.  She took a long, hot

shower, washing her red hair and scrubbing

her defiled body.  She spent ten minutes

brushing her teeth; she had tasted semen for

the first time.  She put on a flannel night

gown and got into bed, but she couldn't

sleep.

About 2 AM, her room mate, Judy, came in.

"Well, I'm now a member of the Delts.

How did your initiation go?  Our ceremony

was so corny, with pricked fingers and blood

oaths and a paddling.  Hey, I guess it's

traditional.  What was your ceremony like?"

"I'm sworn to secrecy."

"That house always does things differently,

from the name, Margaret Sanger Sorority,

instead of Greek letters, to your secret

activities.  You never have parties, the way

we Greeks do.  You never have men in the

house.  I have to admit, though, you have a

reputation for good looks and high grades."

Wendy declined to comment.  "Oh, well,"

Judy said, "time for bed.  Sleep tight.  Don't

let the bedbugs bite."

Wendy lay there in the dark, trying to make

sense of it all.  She slowly slid her right

hand down across her tummy and felt the

smooth lips of her vulva.  She had never

imagined shaving down there, though of

course she'd been shaving her legs and arm

pits for years, but now she was going to

have to, sorority rule.  She already knew

from Bronwyn about the other rules, the

discipline of the cloister, so to speak.  If she

had a date, she would have to sign out and

sign in, and no dates on Friday night.   There

would be supervised study periods, and the

upperclassmen would mentor the freshmen

and make sure they completed their

assignments.  There would be daily exercise

periods, and every girl would weigh‑in

weekly.  Unspecified punishments or

additional chores awaited any sister who did

not maintain her good looks or who failed to

excel academically.  Since the college

required freshmen to rent a dorm room,

Wendy would still have her room with Judy,

but in the next few days, she would, for

practical purposes, be moved into MSS

house.  It would be a different world.  Yes.

Tentatively, Wendy slipped her finger

between the smooth outer lips of her vulva

and felt for the swelling that was her

clitoris.  Shivers of guilt distracted her, as

she tried to summon up the exquisite

feelings she had experienced during her

initiation, but it was hopeless.  At last she

fell asleep.

Over the next week, Wendy pretty much

moved in and began to sleep at MSS house.

Bronwyn, and the house mother, Mrs.

Shultz, insisted on knowing where she was

and on making sure Wendy conformed to

the standards of the house.  While the

weather was warm, every evening, before

dinner, all the girls would don a uniform and

do four circuits of the quarter‑mile practice

track out by the athletic fields.  The Greeks

would make fun of them, 31 young women

in identical t‑shirts and shorts, running

together.  But, as Judy had acknowledged,

they were good looking, and there wasn't a

fat one in the lot.

On Friday, Wendy had a major anxiety

attack.  She went to Bronwyn and pleaded

not to have to go.  Bronwyn told her to be

tough and do what she had to.  The

alternative was to drop out of college and go

home.  Wendy went to Mrs. Schultz, who

was seldom seen, and tried to explain her

problem; she had sworn to remain a virgin.

"There, there, Wendy," said Mrs. Schultz

soothingly, "there's no need for you to lose

your virginity."  My god, thought Wendy,

I've been raped in the backside and forced

to perform fellatio, but I'm still a virgin?

"Now, Wendy, take off  your clothes and sit

over there."  Wendy knew she would have

to obey, so she did.  "Now, pull your knees

up and apart, so I can inspect your genitals."

Reluctantly, Wendy complied. "Now, this

may hurt for a few seconds, but don't worry.

Just clench your teeth and bear it quietly."

Mrs. Schultz parted Wendy's labia, and

there was a burning, stinging sensation,

which faded in seconds.  "There, that's a

good girl.  I used 'Super Glue'.  Your vagina

is sealed for several hours, so there's no way

you can lose your virginity.  Does that

relieve your concerns?"

"But then, what happens tonight?"

"Wendy, you still have your mouth and

anus.  Here, give yourself an enema."

"I can't.  I've never done that."

"Time you learned."  Mrs. Schultz

administered a soapy enema and then a

rinse.  "Now,  just one more thing to get you

ready, before you dress."  While Wendy

knelt, bent over the bath tub, Mrs. Schultz

inserted a well lubricated butt plug.

As before, all but the seniors were

blindfolded for the ride in Black Beauty, and

the freshman were not allowed to remove

theirs at the destination.  Even if a girl tried

to incriminate the sorority, tried to file

charges of rape, she would have no idea of

where the act occurred or who had done it.

As Wendy sat in the bus, unable to see, very

aware of the object which was stretching her

anus, she resigned herself to her fate,

whatever that might be.

Again in the basement room, the sorority

sisters took off their clothes and stood,

naked, at assigned spots, on display, Wendy

supposed.  Someone placed  an adhesive

label below Wendy's navel.  Of course, she

had no idea what it said.  Wendy could hear

people moving about, and occasional cough

or whisper, the handling of clip boards.  She

figured out it was some sort of silent

auction.  Unseen "clients" were bidding on

her virgin flesh, writing down their bids.

Whatever came next, she would bear it

stoically.  She would say nothing, cooperate

as little as possible, put up with her fate.

There was no escape.  She would be raped;

she would be the victim, and she would

admit no guilt.

A bell rang.  "Bidding stops now.  If yours is

the last bid, you may claim your companion

for the next hour."  A strong man's hand

grasped Wendy's right wrist and led her

across the room and down some sort of

hallway to a room.  It seemed there were

more than one man, and she heard the door

shut.  Someone tore the label off her tummy.

"Well, Wendy, it says here that you don't

fuck like the other girls.  That's OK, you

cost less, and the three of us, who pooled

our  money, will get out money's worth, one

way or another.  So, what do you do best?"

Wendy said nothing.  "Come on, it says  you

give head  or take it in the ass.  Wendy

shook her head, no.  "Maybe  are you some

sort of pain slut?"  Wendy said nothing.  She

felt a sharp slap on her cheek, which

brought tears to her eyes, but she wouldn't

speak.  "Answer me.  What'll it be?"  She

was slapped on the other cheek.

"Hey, come on, you don't have to hit her.

Wendy, bend over and grab your knees."

She felt her buttocks being parted.  "See,

she's got a butt plug.  She takes it in the

ass."

"That's OK with me.  I go first.  Bend her

over the end of the bed."  Wendy felt the

hard metal end of a cot pressed against her

thighs, and someone pulled her hands

forward, so she was bent over, with her

breasts against a scratchy blanket.  Someone

kicked her ankles apart, and she felt a pull

on the plug in her anus, distending the

orifice until the plug popped out.  "Loosen

up, bitch!"  She felt a slap on her ass and

another.

She could hear, in the darkness of her

blindfold, the roar of the Roman crowd as

the Christian martyr was defiled for her

faith.   With righteous courage, Wendy

endured the invasion of her rectum by a

pagan penis.  It periodically penetrated to

the point where the scrotum impinged on

her vulva, sending exciting, distracting,

tingles though her pelvis.  The tension built,

the fluttering uncertainty inside as the beast

beat against her bottom and stretched her

rectum.  She could hear the incoherent roar

of the spectators to her martyrdom, and that

heavenly feeling of ecstacy flooded over

her.  Somewhere, only half aware, she

heard, "Damn, that was good.  This bitch is

tight!"

Her helpless body was lifted and rolled over.

The Roman soldiers put her on her back,

with her knees over someone's shoulders,

and a monster prod pressed against her

aching anus.  Half delirious, she felt the

spear penetrating her bowels, and she dimly

knew the Romans would applaud her lethal

impalement.  Her martyr's soul would rise

to heaven.   It seemed immanent!   The

Roman's pubic bone was pressing over her

clitoris, and the effect distracted her.  She

felt no pain, as the waves of sensation made

her feel as if she were having an out‑of‑body

experience.  Joy, satisfaction, martyrdom,

flooded her mind, as her body convulsed in

response to the rape.

She found herself exhausted, panting, face

down, her knees on the floor, her breasts

against the blanket.  "Shit, she can't lick me

clean.  She isn't even conscious.  She's like

a rag doll."  "You don't think she had a

heart attack, or something."  "Well, if she

did, there's nothing we can do about it.  You

can see her breathing."  "This will wake her

up."

Wendy felt the sting of a belt across her

bottom.  Again and again if smacked her,

the tip sometimes whipping around and

biting into her hip or thigh.  "Uh!  Uh!" she

gasped at the blows.  It slashed across the

small of her back, the Romans scourging

her, preliminary to her crucifiction in the

Colosseum  The direction of the blows

changed, and the tip whipped between her

parted thighs, searing her labia.  "Ahh!" she

screamed, and as the blows to her most

private place continued, "AH! Ow! Oh,

God!"  She slumped, as if unconscious, as

the waves of sensation washed through her,

rebounding from the walls of her pelvis and

cleansing her soul.  She was vaguely aware

of something stretching her anus, of

pressure against her bruised bottom, of a

resurgence of the stirring inside her as her

Roman rapist pounded against her womb

through the wall of her rectum.  Push, push,

push, and the waves of sensation inside her

again built to a crescendo.  She saw lights,

felt disembodied, shuddered, and fainted.

She was back in the main basement room,

leaning against a wall.  The hard floor

pressed her bruised bottom, as she slowly

became aware of her surroundings.  She

heard Bronwyn's voice.  "Hey, sister, you all

right?"  Wendy nodded.   "Someone worked

you over with a belt, didn't they?"  Wendy

nodded again, realizing it would be futile to

say it was the Roman soldiers.  "Well, when

they can't screw you in the conventional

way, they'll find some other way to get their

money's worth.  That's the breaks, kid.

Lucky for you, no one bid on your second

hour, so you can just sit there and relax for a

while."  Wendy curled up on the hard floor

and drifted off to sleep.

          *****

By Saturday morning, Wendy was mostly

recovered from her beating, and her anus no

longer hurt.  Friday night seemed like ‑‑‑ a

bad dream, almost.  She had the thought that

she should go to confession, and to mass on

Sunday, but, sworn to secrecy, what could

she tell the priest?  The urge to confess

passed, but the memories of those mind‑

numbing orgasms kept recurring.

The rest of the day was spent preparing for

her classes, running with the other girls, and

taking her turn of  kitchen duty.  Mrs.

Schultz stopped by to look at Wendy's

bottom.  "There, there, Wendy, there's no

real harm done.  There's always a few who

like to spank or whip a girl.  If you suck

their cock or climb aboard and ride it, you

can usually distract them from their sadistic

urges.  There's something about men.  If

they can't please you, their pride is hurt, and

they'll try to hurt you.  Just an observation.

You do what you think best."

Wendy didn't go to mass on Sunday, but

then  she hadn't gone since school started.

Somehow, when her mother wasn't there to

get her going, she just didn't.  Her father

never went.  She often thought that the

Sunday afternoons she spent with her father

were more "uplifting"  than mass, anyway. 

Somehow, religion had become meaningless

ritual for her, and now communion could

not compare with the transcendent spiritual

glow when she was martyred by faceless

Romans on Friday night.

On Wednesday, as she returned from her

Psychology 101 exam and went to change

into her running clothes, Bronwyn came to

her.  "Wendy, mother called.  Dad's had a

stroke.  He's in the hospital, can't talk,

seems paralyzed on his right side."

"We've got to go home and see him."

"No.  Mother says we mustn't.  He wouldn't

know us, doesn't even recognize her, and

she wants us to remember him as he was

when he was healthy.  If he gets better, we

can see him over winter break."

"What do you mean, 'if'?  Is he going to

die?"

"We are all are going to die, someday,

Wendy.  The question is when and how.  We

don't know, but the doctors don't hold out a

lot of hope.  He could have another, fatal,

stroke, any time."

Wendy managed to run with the other

sisters, rather slower than usual, and

somehow carry on through dinner and study

time.  Later, in bed, she tried to masturbate,

but it was hopeless.  It only left her feeling

frustrated and guilty.  The nuns were right;

self pollution is a sin, and not even an

enjoyable sin.  Other sins, like gluttony, may

seem enjoyable, even though they are

harmful and endanger one's soul, but lust ‑‑‑

lust is fruitless and pointless.  Wendy

promised herself, and the Virgin Mary, too,

that she would refrain from self stimulation,

down there.

Before they boarded Black Beauty for the

Friday frolic, as some of the sisters called it,

the girls were divided into groups of three,

based on their stature and running times. 

When the bus stopped to unload, Wendy

knew they were somewhere different from

the usual location.  Even the upper class

sisters  were to remain blindfolded. There

was grass underfoot, and they were led into

a building that had to be a barn.  The floor

was rough wood, and she could smell horse

manure.  The sisters undressed and stood

there, naked, barefoot on the dirty floor.

Senior sisters got the girls into their

preassigned groups, and went from group to

group, preparing them for the evening's

sport.  Wendy felt herself being fitted with a

sort of head band, with plumes on it.  "We

don't have enough halters and bits, so you'll

have to wear these."   Wendy felt a sister

putting some sort of rubber strap around

the base of Wendy's right breast.  She felt

the strap tighten and knew her breast was

being deformed, made more prominent.  Her

nipple hardened   perhaps it was the cool

air ‑‑‑ and a little loop of string, supporting a

bell, was tightened around her nipple.  The

same procedure on the left side left her

standing there feeling foolish, feeling

confused about the sensations in her swollen

breasts.  A wide leather belt or waist‑cincher

was placed around her middle and laced

tightly.  A tail was attached, to hang down

between Wendy's naked buttocks.  "Be glad

it's not on a butt plug," whispered the sister

who was preparing her.  Wendy felt leather

cuffs bing put on her wrists, and then the

short chains from the cuffs were fastened to

leather belt.  "Tonight, you are a pony.  You

won't say anything, except, perhaps to

whinny if you want to get someone's

attention.  If you need to go to the bathroom,

God forbid, just go, wherever you are, as a

horse would.  Things may be uncomfortable,

but it won't last long.  That's  a quarter‑mile

track out there.  You know you can do it.

Oh, protective equipment."  They put knee

pads on her and taped a Kotex over her

vulva.  Wendy wasn't sure she felt any less

naked or more modest, looking as if she had

her period.

The first group was led out of the barn, and

in a minute or so, Wendy heard a bell and

cheers and "Go Blue!" or "Go Red."  There

seemed to be both male and female voices,

and betting going on.  It didn't take long

before the cheers peaked, and the race was

over.   The second group went out, and

pretty much the same things happened.  And

then Wendy's group was up.  She knew the

other sisters in her group, a sophomore and

a junior.  She thought they ought to be pretty

well matched, but she was determined to try

harder, try to win.  She wondered, however,

how she could stay on the track, which

would be an oval, when she couldn't see at

all.

That mystery was cleared up when she was

led onto a dirt track and placed between the

shafts of a cart, a two‑wheeled racing sulky.

Her hands, chained loosely at her waist,

could support the shafts, but the grips she

was holding slid on the metal pipe of the

shaft, so she could exert no forward force.

Someone hooked something to the leather

belt, and she felt it passed between her legs.

It was a soft, satin rope, perhaps  four or five

centimeters in diameter, like the ropes they

use to control crowds in theaters.  Someone

hooked the rope to the cart behind her.  A

rein was passed under each arm and

fastened to the strap which constricted her

breast.  The weight of the shafts increased;

someone had climbed onto the cart.  Then a

masculine voice said, "OK, Blue, walk

forward."  Wendy did, and immediately the

rope between her legs became taut,  pressing

between into the pad between her legs.

Protective, indeed!  It was not like running

on the track at the college.  She had to lean

forward and dig her toes into the soft dirt to

get the cart moving, while the pad was

pressed against her tender spots.  She felt a

tug on her right breast, and she turned right,

"Whoa".  She straightened up and backed up

enough so that the rope loosened, touching

her inner thighs.  Someone led her forward a

step and told her to wait for the starting bell.

"When the bell rings, I want a fast start.  I

aim to win, and if you don't put out your

best effort, I'll use the whip."  She heard the

crack of a buggy whip.  She stood, waiting,

unable to see, with a cool evening breeze

wafting across her aching breasts, the nipple

bells tinkling when she moved, the tape on

the Kotex pulling her at her mons.  She

heard the bell, and she lunged forward,

hearing the whip crack behind her.  The taut

rope pressed the Kotex between her labia,

pressed her clitoris.   In a few steps she had

built up speed, but from time to time they

would hit a soft spot in the track, and the

rope would press harder on the pink

membranes of her vulva.  The Roman crowd

was roaring, as the Christian martyrs were

whipped into the Colosseum.   There was a

tugging on her left breast, but it didn't

register in her brain, only the roar of the

Romans and the pain of her nipples and the

pressure between her legs.  "Left, left, you

stupid mare!"  A whip cracked against her

bottom.  She jumped away from the whip,

breaking her stride, and the Kotex tape tore

lose.  She had turned too sharply, and now

her right breast was being yanked on,

squeezed by the strap. And the whip once

more bit her buttock.  The pad fell away,

and the satin rope wedged itself between her

outer labia.   She threw her breasts forward

and strained with her legs to go faster, but

the sensations, the pains in her clitoris and

mashed inner labia, overcame her.  As the

whip cracked again, she became semi‑

delirious and staggered.  Her insides

churned, and her brain told her she was

dying, and she was experiencing that

incredible pleasure.  Her knees hit the dirt,

and she dropped the shafts, as she tried to

break her fall with her hands.  She could

not, of course, and she pitched forward, the

bells suddenly silenced by dirt.

Several hands picked her up.  She was still

weak‑kneed from that incredible orgasm,

but they disconnected her from the cart and

somehow led her off the track.  Half

consciously, she heard her driver: "I was

cheated.  That fucking mare didn't make it

through  the first turn.  I demand  to race

again, with a new mare."  Wendy stood,

breathing heavily, still shaky, somewhere on

the grass, apparently in  a crowd of

spectators. None of the voices were familiar.

"My boy friend is pissed.  He wants this

pony punished."  Another female voice said,

"Looks to me as if this oversexed animal

had an orgasm as soon as the whip touched

her."  "Well, we know what punishment she

should have, don't we."  Someone pulled on

Wendy's nipple bells, and she whimpered in

response, not a proper whinny, but not out

of character.  "This mare looks sound to me.

Let's see if she can pull or if she's just

goofing off."  Wendy felt the rope pulled up

behind, so it once again robbed her sensitive

labia.  "Pull!", and the whip cracked against

her ass.  The next race had started, and the

crowd went wild, but her tormentors were

intent on punishing Wendy.  Again the whip

stung her bottom, and she tried to pull away.

The rope would not budge; it simply  pulled

tighter and pressed deeper, crushing  her

labia, mashing her clitoris.  They used the

shaft of the whip like a cane, and laid a

cruel welt across both buttocks, as low as

the rope would allow.  Wendy let out an

incoherent howl and collapsed, quivering

with the spasms of a mind‑blowing orgasm.

Someone kicked her, but she was feeling no

pain at that point.

"Gawd, she's an animal."  "Can you

imagine, you whip her and she has an

orgasm."  "Let's make her do it again."

"Yeh, but over there."  Wendy felt herself

dragged to her feet by people pulling on the

reins, literally lifting her by her breasts.  She

was pulled along, staggering, to some sort of

roadway, followed by  a small crowd of

curious spectators.  "Let's hang her up, from

the gateway.  I saw something like that on

altsex.com."  Still groggy, Wendy's Roman

captors passed the reins beneath her arms

and used them to lift her until her feet were

off the ground.  "Look out, it looks like you

might tear her tits off."  "Well, this will take

some of the weight."  They pulled on the

rope between her legs until her torso was

horizontal, partly supported by the straps

around her breasts and mostly supported by

the rope in her crotch.  Her legs hung down,

well above the ground.  Her arms, of course,

were useless, with her wrists still chained to

her waist. 

"You got 'em tied off?  OK, lets see if we

can ring her bells."   A cane or whip slashed

against her breasts, just at the nipples, and

the bells tinkled, but the sound was drowned

out by the scream of anguish from Wendy.

Half a second later, someone whipped her

ass, just at the top of her thighs, where the

rope, tightly up the crack of her ass, did not

interfere with the whip.  Wendy gasped and

writhed, her legs flailing, which only

intensified the  rubbing of the rope against

her vulva.  She could hear the Romans

cheering.  They meant to kill her.  The

pain...  The intensity of her orgasm, flooding

her brain with endorphins, wiped away

reality, and the Christian martyr ascended,

however briefly, into heaven and bliss.

Th next thing Wendy knew, she was on her

feet, being hugged by Bronwyn.  Senior

sisters removed her pony gear and carried

the naked freshman back to the bus.  "I

don't care how much they pay, I'll not have

my girls abused by perverts," declared Mrs.

Schultz.

          *****

Somehow, one Friday became much like

another.  The word got out: well, it was

posted on her bid sheet.  Wendy was for the

butt‑fuckers and sadists.   The men or

women who bid on her would usually bind

her, helpless, to stuff penises, or other

objects, in her mouth and ass, spank her

bottom, pinch her labia, squeeze her breasts,

pull her nipples, even urinate on her,

sometimes, anything to abuse and humiliate

her.  But Wendy wasn't humiliated.  She

was ennobled, sanctified, by her suffering

and martyrdom.   In minutes, if they used a

whip, Wendy would have a mind‑blowing

orgasm, and in the allotted hour, she could

have several.  Inevitably, the sisters, full of

pity, would carry her back to the Black

Beauty bus in a semi‑conscious state, and

often as not, carry her, with a robe on, back

into the MSS house.  In the morning, Wendy

would be as good as new, usually, re‑

invigorated and ready for a hard week of

studying.  By the next Friday, however, she

would be out of sorts, nervous.  Most the

sisters assumed it was anxiety, fearfulness

about her coming ordeal, but Bronwyn knew

the truth.  Wendy needed those orgasms.

She could not reach a climax unless she was

"martyred", forced to come against her will.

Wendy thrived.  Good food, regular

exercise, the attention and beauty advice of

her sisters, and the weekly orgasms, all

contributed to her looking great.  Her red

hair shone, her body was trim and straight,

her smile was radiant, her grades were good.

In February, it all turned to shit.  Dad died,

and was cremated, according to his wishes.

His months of intensive care had drained the

family's finances.  The house was sold, and

the better car.  Wendy's mother was left

with no insurance money and only a tiny

income from Social Security; the  hospital

and the lawyers got all the rest.  The mother

was moving to Florida, to live with her

brother in a trailer near Tampa.  "Wendy,"

said Bronwyn, "I'm in my last semester

here, with the bills paid and a job waiting,

but you are in a bind.  MSS will take care of

your room and board, but tuition...  Even if

you can get loans and aid, by the time your

graduate, you could be a hundred thousand

in debt.  Are you able to face that?"

"Can I get a job?"

"Flipping hamburgers won't do it, Wendy.

However, I've had a talk with Mrs. Schultz,

and if you can handle it, she thinks she

could get a 'sugar daddy' to put up your

tuition.  Just maybe.  Would you be able to

live with that?   It would mean whoring your

way through college."

"I promised God I'd preserve my virginity.

Otherwise, I could do it.  Would it be any

worse than Friday nights?"

"Yes, preserve your virginity.  We'll see

what we can do, but, realistically, what sort

of man wants a mistress he can't screw?"

On Wednesday, both Wendy and Bronwyn,

rode with Mrs. Schultz in her little Kia over

snowy semi‑rural roads to a house in one of

those fancy developments.  It was a neo‑

Victorian and probably cost more than a

million, including the club membership.

Once inside, their host led them to a

basement "rec room."  There were about

twenty people, some of them masked, and

all in costume.  "We're having a toga party,"

said the host. "Wendy is the guest of honor."

"You realize there are limits.  She's got to

be able to go to class tomorrow.  No

permanent damage," said Mrs. Schultz.

"This is just a trial session.  If we think you

are going too far, or if Wendy can't take it,

the deal is off."

"Don't worry, Mrs. Schultz.  We have a

licensed medical doctor here, and I can

assure you, that while she may suffer some

pain, there will be no scars, except, of

course, what she agreed to.  One hour,

entertaining my guests, and you can have

her back."

Wendy looked around and said, "OK, I'm

ready."  Mrs. Schultz  took Wendy's boots

and removed her coat, leaving her standing

naked amid the "Romans" in their tunics

and togas.  "A Christian virgin!" said one of

the Romans.  "Ah, but the slave slut is a

magnet for lusty men.  We don't want her

pregnant."  "We can fix that."  The host

looked at Wendy questioningly, and she

nodded assent.

They put Wendy on her back on a padded

bench and several willing hands

immobilized her.  Two men held her ankles

aloft and far apart, displaying her hairless

peach.  Two women, one on each side,

spread her outer labia.  An older man in a

toga sat on the end of the bench and

examined her vagina.  "Not much of a

hymen left, but I could believe she's a

virgin."  "Why can't I see her clitoris,"

asked one of the women twat spreaders.

"It's completely hooded, no opening to peep

out of.  It's not uncommon, and it's easy

enough to fix, surgically."  He fingered the

membrane covered ridge and said, "I can

feel it, under there, and I'll bet she can too."

"Hey, that means it's less likely to be

injured when we whip her cunt."

The seated man was assisted by a Roman

matron who handed him a large, wet swab.

He painted Wendy's inner labia and vagina

with antiseptic solution.  Wendy gasped and

said, through clenched teethe, "It burns!" 

"It's the alcohol," said the man.  He sprayed

sterile water on the area, and Wendy

relaxed.  The woman handed him

surgical gloves and a paper envelope.  He

tore the paper and removed  a sterile, curved

needle and suture material.  With his left

hand he pinched her thin, pink inner lips

together and pulled them taut.  With his

right hand, he skillfully slid the needle

through the inner labia and tied off the stitch

with forceps.  Six times he did that, sewing

shut Wendy's vagina, except for a small

opening for drainage, too small for a tampon

but adequate to pass her menstrual blood.

They did not realize that Wendy had a

contraceptive implant, courtesy of Mrs.

Schultz, and seldom had menses.  "There,

she'll stay a virgin until the sutures dissolve,

or are cut."  Wendy winced at the residual

pain in her labia, but, so far, everything was

according to plan.

One of the male spectators said, "This

Christian woman refuses to sacrifice to our

Roman gods.  What's to be done with her?"

"Crucify her!" said several Romans.  They

dragged Wendy to a large, rough wooden

cross, as big as the crucifix in the cathedral. 

It was on the floor.  They stretched her on  the

upright,  and she closed her eyes as they

held her arms against the cross bar.  As on

some of  the real Roman crosses, there was

a protruding peg upon which she could sit.

It would support her weight, so as not to

dislocate her shoulders.  In Roman times, it

prolonged the torture, so the victim died of

thirst or exposure.  They slid her down until

it pressed her perineum, rather  like the

"wooden pony", and roped her arms to the

cross bar in the classic crucifix pose.

Wendy let them do it, relaxed, with a smile

on her face.

"Time to torture the Christian virgin."  They

erected the cross by lifting the top with a

cable through a hook in the ceiling.  It hung

there, the base an inch off the floor, with

Wendy hanging on the cross, her legs as yet

untied.  She closed her eyes and smiled,

pleased to at last be living out her fantasy of

being crucified in the Colosseum before a

crowd of pagan Romans.  A woman took a

whip with knotted tails and swung it hard,

lashing  Wendy's breasts.  Wendy cried out

in genuine pain, as the knots bruised her

breasts and punished her erect nipples.  In

seconds, she had the first of many orgasms.

By the end of the hour, Wendy's body was

criss‑crossed with pink welts from her knees

to her shoulders, especially her tits and twat.

She was only semi‑conscious, dripping with

sweat and pussy juice from countless

orgasms.  The Romans took her down from

the cross, and someone gave her a glass of

orange juice, half vodka, to refresh her.

"Can she come next Wednesday?" asked her

host, handing Mrs. Schultz  an envelope

stuffed with cash.

Bronwyn and Mrs. Schultz looked at

Wendy, expectantly.  She put down her juice

and held out her arm as a Roman man

helped her with her coat.  She smiled and

said, "It's a deal!"