An Intense Visit to A Special Spa

                              by anon1940

While leafing through a fashion magazine one day, you see a notice
advertising a spa that runs weekend retreats dedicated exclusively to
women.  Curious, you visit the website given in the notice.  You are
somewhat shocked by the unabashedly frank tone in which the spa services
are described.  The spa caters to the sensual predilections of its 
clients.  In the process, it hopes to encourage its clients to expand their
sensual horizons to include activities that they either have never
considered or have been too inhibited to explore.  In particular, emphasis
will be placed on developing the client's appreciation of the pleasure that
other women can provide them.  No details are given, but you have no
difficulty understanding the message.

You return to the website several times, and, after each visit, you spend
time mulling over the idea of signing up for a retreat.  There is no
question that the idea excites you, but a month passes before you summon up
the courage to act.  Taking care to avoid a weekend when your period might
be a problem, you submit an application.  The application form requires you
that you give a good deal of personal information, including your age,
height, weight, and measurements.  It also asks whether you have ever had
sexual relations with another woman and, if so not, whether you have
reservations about doing so.  Another week passes before you receive an
email saying that your application has been approved and that you should
plan to arrive on the Saturday morning of the weekend that you chose.

You are met at the entrance by a startlingly beautiful young Asian woman.
You are immediately struck by the composure of her facial features and the
radiance of her bright black eyes.  She is wearing a diaphanous tunic
through which her trim figure is clearly visible.  In spite of their
diminutive dimensions, her physical assets assert their presence.  Her
breasts ride high on her chest and are crowned with erect nipples set in
large, dark aereolae.  Her waist is minuscule, but her lower belly shows a
feminine roundness where it presses against the fabric of her tunic.  Her hips
are narrow but not boyish, and they are well complemented by the gentle
swell of her flat buttock.  Staring at her, you feel a yearning for closer
contact with this female body whose virtues are so different both from
your own and those of the men with whom you have shared yours.  She
accepts your uninhibited gaze without embarrassment, and after you raise
your eyes to hers, introduces herself, telling you to call her Yoko.

Mesmerized, you let Yoko take your hand and lead you into the estate where
you will be spending your weekend.  Her destination is a large tiled room
containing a variety of equipment.  In the center is a shallow pool from
which fragrant steam rises and in which you see that there are several
women floating.  Without further ado, Yoko turns to you and begins removing
your clothes.  Each time that she reveals a new portion of your body, she
pauses to admire and examine it.  She seems oblivious to the embarrassment
that she is causing you as her gentle but knowing fingers trace over your
rounded contours and delve into the dark regions that, heretofore, have
been the privileged preserve of only your own hands or those of your lovers.
After a while, your embarrassment subsides as you succumb to the magic of
her skilled hands.

When you are completely naked, Yoko takes you over to the pool and has you
climb in.  Kneeling by the side of the pool, she frees the upper half of
her tunic and lets it drop to her waist.  Her pert breasts spring into
view, their nipples pointing straight at you in what looks like an
invitation for you to suckle them.  Armed with a sponge and visiting every
nook and cranny, she scrubs your skin until it radiates a pink glow.  When
she is done, she tells you remain in the pool and wallow in its warmth.  As
you drift, you occasionally bump into the bodies of your companions.
Like yours, their flesh is radiant and soft, and you smile at the image of
playful porpoises that comes into your dazed mind.  About half way through your
stay in the pool, you become conscious that a new guest has been brought
into the room, and you watch while she undergoes the same preparations as
you went through.

Shortly after the newcomer enters the  water, Yoko comes to fetch you.  She
is still naked to the waist, and, while she is rubbing you dry, her breasts
repeatedly graze  against you.  Dry at last,  you are led over  to a table.
The  table  top  has  been  molded   to  create  a  hallow  place  that  is
unambiguously  designed  to  cradle  the  female  body.   Following  Yoko's
instructions, you  lower yourself backwards  into the hallow.   Feeling its
sides hug your sides  and hips, you have a sense of  having returned to the
womb.  However, your stay in this  womb is going to be quite different from
your experience  as an  embryo.  No  sooner have you  sunk into  its loving
grasp than Yoko enlists the assistance  two other women, each of whom takes
one of your  feet and raises your legs, spreading them  as they rise.  If they
had not  spent time  in the  soothing warmth from  which you  have recently
emerged, you would  have difficulty tolerating the strain  being imposed on
your legs  and groin.  The  women holding your  feet are strong,  and they
seem intent on  bringing your legs into the same plane  as the table top.
In addition to the strain, you  are painfully aware of your exposure: every
detail of your vulva is on parade.

Your chagrin increases when Yoko takes up a position between her aids and
begins applying rouge to your vulva.  Using her fingers, she applies a thin
layer first to the outsides and then, after folding them back, to the
insides of your labia.  Once she has finished with your vulva, she moves to
your side and makes your aereolae and nipples a matching color.  Adding
insult to injury, she holds up a large mirror to show you what a garishly
decorated symbol of raw carnality you have become.  Smiling at your dismay,
she leans down to kiss your quivering lips and assure you that your
suffering will be amply rewarded.  However, you are not convinced,
especially when she extends two arms from the sides of the table and has
the women who have been holding your feet secure your ankles with cuffs to the
arms, thereby preventing you from closing your legs when they release your
feet.

You think that your humiliation is complete, but you are wrong.  Standing
by your head, Yoko invites the other women in the room to come over and
examine your body.  Without hesitation, several accept her invitation.
Although they are gentle, they all take full advantage of your
availability.  Your vulva and nipples seem to draw them like flies to
honey, and they have no compunctions about probing between your labia and
testing the resilience of your teats.  While they do so, they discuss their
findings with Yoko, who assumes the role of proud possessor of a much admired
object.  When the interest of the other women begins to wane, Yoko leans
over so that her breasts hang like ripe fruit over your face and her
nipples touch your lips.  Like a child who seeks comfort from her mother's
breasts, you open your lips and draw her nipples deep into your mouth.  You
cannot explain why, but these turgid buds pressed between your tongue and
pallet have a miraculously soothing effect, an effect that grows as you
suck more and more of Yoko's small but delicious breasts into your mouth.

Consumed as you are by your own conflicting emotions, you do not notice
that the new arrival has been receiving the same treatment as you.
Thus you are surprised when her ward and Yoko wheel the tables
on which the two of you lie so that your splayed legs become mirror images of one
another.  Even more surprising to you is what happens next.  Yoko and her
counterpart use of long, flexible tube to attach the two of you via your
vaginas.  Each of them first inserts her end into the appropriate
receptacle and then adjusts the tube so that it bows like a suspension
bridge spanning the gap between your tables.  At first you cannot figure
out its purpose.  You are acutely aware of its presence inside you, but why
it is there you cannot fathom.  This is certainly not the first time that
an intruder has entered your vagina.  Besides your lovers, you have
yourself introduced a variety of objects into it.  However, all previous
invasions had been accompanied by activity culminating in orgasm, whereas
this one seems to hold out no such promise.

Just as you turn to Yoko for an explanation, you feel an ephemeral but
distinct movement of the tube along your vaginal walls.  To confirm that it
is not simply your imagination, you shift your pelvis and tighten your grip
on the tube.  You know that your efforts are not in vain when you hear a gasp
from your partner at the other end of tube and receive a
return signal from her.  This exchange is sufficient to make you understand
what sort of divine torment you and she can inflict on each other.  Your
mobility is severely hampered and your groins will have to pay dearly, but
each of you can give the other sexual pleasure using a contorted but
effective form of long-distance masturbation. Whether that pleasure will
eventually be consummated you cannot say, but you are willing to find out.  

A small audience of interested spectators gather to watch you and your
partner's exertions.  Having been subjected themselves to this form of
torture, they know what you are experiencing and ready to offer
encouragement and advise.  One of them comes to your side and leans over
your breasts.  Circling the base of the breast nearest to her with both her hands, she
gently squeezes until your breast balloons between her closed fingers.
In response to the pressure behind it, your nipple swells and looks like a
little beacon meant to broadcast your excitement.  With a knowing smile on
her face, the woman lowers her head and applies the tip of her tongue to the
tip of your nipple.  Based on her own experience, she knows exactly what
will maximize your pleasure and frustration.  After running her tongue around
its stem, she captures your nipple between her teeth and applies just
enough force to make you wonder whether the sensation you feel is one of
pleasure or pain.  Whichever it is, there is no doubt that she is providing
your body something that it craves.  Your nipple seems to have a direct
connection to your crotch, a connection along which signals are being
transmitted with devastating clarity in both directions.

All this time, Yoko's breasts have remained available to you.  Perhaps in
revenge for the torment that she has orchestrated for you, you mimic what is
being done to your own breast.  Cupping your hand around one of her
conic orbs, you subject its nipple to the same mixture of sensations
that your own is receiving.  At the same time, another member of your
audience has positioned herself half way along the bridge between you and
your partner.  For a while, she simply watches the subtle pulsations that
your joint efforts cause to run along the bridge.  After careful
observation, she has spotted a rhythm in these pulsations and has figured
out a way to augment their effect without reducing your and your
partner's responsibility to ultimately satisfy each others needs.  With
calculated precision, she taps the center of the tube at the exact moment
when one or the other of you sends a pulse along it.  As a result, the
pulse is transformed into vibrations that travel in both directions until
they are dampened in the depths of the vaginas at either end.

You remain suspended on the verge of orgasm for more than five
minutes, but finally your efforts are rewarded.   From the other end of the
bridge, you feel a sudden increase in the frequency and strength of the
signals you are receiving.  Sensing that your partner is approaching orgasm
and not wanting to be left out, you renew your own efforts.  The cost to
your groin and thighs is exorbitant, but it is a price that you know you
must pay.  With wild abandon, you ignore the consequences and thrust your
pelvis into the air.  Trembling, you hold it there for more than a minute,
not lowering it until the last waves of your orgasm have been recorded on
your tautly stretched tummy and tightly clenched buttock.

Your ankles are freed and you are able to lower your legs.  You bask in
the comfort of the womb that your tabletop provides and sense of
fulfillment that your orgasm has given you.  You drift into sleep and wake
only when Yoko comes to fetch you.  Except for you and her, the room is
empty.  After rousing you from your slumber, she escorts you into a
bathroom and leaves you briefly to relieve yourself.  When she returns, she
is carrying an enema bag which she hangs from a hook above a douche next to
the toilet.  Explaining that the next item on your program requires that
your bowels be cleansed ahead of time, she asks you to squat over the
douche while she inserts the nozzle and administers your enema.  You have
always hated enemas, but Yoko is so gentle that this one causes you
hardly any distress.  When it is over, she leads you to a shower stall, where she
washes away all the evidence of your body's recent travails as well as the
rouge with which she had decorated your vulva and nipples.  After drying
you off, she spreads a film of fragrant oil over your entire body, leaving
you shining and stirring the embers of the fire that you had thought your
orgasm had quenched.

Taking you by the hand, Yoko guides you to the dining hall.  You are still
naked, but the women whom you pass along the way are wearing the same sort
of tunic as Yoko.  You ask why you too are not wearing one, and she
explains that you have yet to undergo a kind of initiation rite.  This rite
entails your being displayed in the dining hall while the other guests have
their lunch.  So saying, she leads you over to two columns that
adorn the hall.  One of these column is already occupied by the woman who
was at the other end of the bridge earlier.  This is the first time that
you have had an opportunity to see her, and you are impressed by what you
see.  She is a handsome black woman with large breasts and broad hips that
accentuate the narrowness of her waist.  Around her waist and circling the
column is a wide belt that keeps her back pressed against the column.
However, this belt cannot fully account for the tension that you sense in
her frame, a tension whose origins you will soon discover.

Indeed, after giving you time to admire your companion, Yoko brings you
over to the column against which you will spend lunchtime.  You notice that
there is a track along the column that runs for about three feet, starting
a foot from the floor.  Attached to the track is stainless steel bar
that has been bent into a shape very much like that of a meat hook.  However,
this is a meat hook that has been designed to display the female
body, not a side of beef.  It sticks out three inches from the track and is
shaped like an asymmetric U, with the branch further from the column
several inches longer than the one in back.  The tip is tapered and covered
with a lubricant, but about an inch below there is a bulge about the size
of a ping-pong ball.  Yoko has you back up to the column, positioning you
so that the longer side of the hook is buried between the cheeks of your
buttock.  Kneeling, she reaches between your legs and moves the hooks along
the track until the tip lies just above your anus.  She then rises and
steps forward, pressing the front of her body against yours while grabbing
the undersides of your buttock cheeks.  With strength that you would not
have suspected she possesses, she lifts you slightly and then lets you down
so that the tip penetrates your anus.  Back on her knees, she slowly raises
the hook, driving it into your bowels and stopping only after the bulge has
passed through your anus.  Satisfied, she locks the hook to the track.

Like a vine espaliered to a trestle, you already have become an integral
part of the column.  Nonetheless, Yoko wraps a belt around your waist,
tightens it until your waist is at least two inches smaller than normal,
and buckles it behind the column.  Having completed your binding, she
stands in front of you and combs your hair, parting it so that it frames
your face and falls symmetrically to either side over your shoulders.
Done, she places one hand on your protruding belly, and, in a hushed voice,
admonishes you to keep your tummy firm so that it will be attractively
presented to your audience.

You don't have long to wait before your audience appears.  Dressed in the
kind of tunic that you have not yet earned the right to wear, they enter
the dining hall in groups of two or three, looking like the chorus in a
Greek play.  On the way, they stop to admire the objet d'art decorating the columns.  At
first you are relieved that it is your companion who receives most of their
attention.  They are fascinated by her ebony color and statuesque
proportions.  However, after a while, you become jealous.  You too would
like to feel those admiring hands caressing your skin and probing your
musculature, and you are hurt that the only women who examine you are those
who arrive too late to get one of the coveted places next to your
competition.

During lunch, both you and your companion are left alone.  Although you get
some gratification from the occasional appreciative looks that your body
attracts, you would prefer more tangible attention, but it is not until the
others have eaten their lunch that you get it.  As they are leaving the
dining hall, two women stop at your column.  They seem particularly taken
by the luxurious softness of your pink body.  One of them steps behind your
column and takes your wrists in her hands, lifting your arms so that the
satiny skin on their inner sides is exposed.  While she holds them
above your head, her friend begins running her manicured fingernails over
the surface that your raised arms make available.  She begins with the flesh on your
inner arms, but soon moves on to the exquisitely sensitive flesh in your
armpits.  Never before have you been aware of the erotic potential of that
part of your anatomy.  Up to now, it has always been an region that society
deems is best to cover and masked behind deodorants, and suddenly it has
become the source of intense erotic sensation.  To your disappointment,
although these admirers have made you cognizant of an erogenous zone of
which you have been previously unaware, they spend no time on the more
familiar zones and depart long before you would have liked them to.

Ever watchful, when your company leaves Yoko comes to your aid and visits
with her fingers some of the regions that have been neglected.  However,
her touch is calculated to be tantalizing rather than satisfying.  She
traces your contours with special emphasis on the sides of your breasts and
the rounded bowl of your belly below your tightly cinched waist.  Finally,
dropping to her knees, she peers up at you and asks if you would like to
have an orgasm before she releases you from the column.  Interpreting your
nod as assent, she warns you that, because of the hook in your bowels, you
will have to exercise great care to avoid injuring yourself.  In
particular, you must prevent your body from responding as it instinctively
would at the onset of orgasm.  She tells you that the discipline this will
require may at first be distracting, but, by focusing your
attention, it will make you acutely aware of the sensations coursing
through your body and thereby intensify the eventual
gratification that they provide you.

Yoko lowers her head and concentrates her efforts on your vulva.  She begins by
running a finger along the seam which lies between your labia.  There is an
enchanting resemblance between your vulva and a flower about to burst into
bloom, and Yoko is willing to patiently wait for the your petals to open on
their own.  When they finally they do, they reveal the nectar that has been
building underneath.  At the same time, the botanical metaphor is becomes
complete when the bud of your clitoris comes into view.  Like a devoted
gardener, Yoko leans forward and runs her tongue over and around your
clitoris as if she were savoring that vulnerable morsel that has just
asserted its presence.  You now know the truth of the words she spoke.
With consummate skill she draws your clitoris into her mouth, supplementing
with her lips the sensations delivered by her tongue.  Every instinct is
telling your body to respond by thrusting your pelvis forward, but as soon
as you do the hook pulls you back.  As your frustration builds, you learn
that the only way for your body to express itself is by clamping your sphincter
muscles around the bulge that has been pressing against the inside rim of
your anus.  You are surprised at the pleasure that you get from this
surrogate penis, especially when, by standing on your toes, you maneuver it
into a position where it stretches your anal ring like a rubber band
around its bulk.

Because of the constraints under which you working, your orgasm is slow in
coming.  Repeatedly Yoko brings you to the edge, but, with the belt digging
into your middle and the hook embedded in your rectum, getting over the
edge requires a concerted effort that takes you several tries to mobilize.
When you do, the orgasm that you have is as different from usual as the
circumstances in which you achieve it.  There is no crescendo, only a
protracted sense of overwhelming relief.  Never before have you thought of
orgasm as an act of total resignation, but that is exactly what this one
is.  At its conclusion, you melt into the column that has held you prisoner
for more than an hour.

Yoko stands up and, holding your head between her hands, lavishes your face
with kisses.  She is pleased that you have responded so well to all that
has been done to you.  After loosening the belt around your waist, she
gently lifts you off the hook, smiling at the muted pop that issuing from
your bowels as the bulge emerges from your anus.  When you are free, she
solicitously helps you walk over to a dining tables where you find a plate
of salad and a of freshly squeezed orange juice.  You have not eaten since
breakfast, but you are not hungry and eat only after Yoko urges you to.
While you are eating, she fetches the tunic that you have recently earned
the right to wear, and when you are done she shows you how it is to be
worn.  It consists of two pieces of thin, white material connected at the
shoulders.  When she slips it over your head, one of the pieces drops down
you back and the other down your front, leaving sizable gaps on either
side.  The piece in front has an elastic strip that runs under your breasts
to prevent the material above from obscuring them.  After making a few
adjustments, Yoko circles your waist with a red rope belt, making it just
tight enough to hold the two pieces together.  She then carefully positions
the rope so that its ends will graze your mons and thighs whenever you take
a step.

Once you are dressed, Yoko tells you that you are to spend the rest of the
day becoming acquainted with your fellow guests and recuperating from your
arduous morning.  You are somewhat disappointed but realize that both your
body and mind need time to recover before they will be ready to appreciate
more experiences of the sort to which they have been being introduced since
your arrival.  Yoko suggests that you begin by taking a nap and leads you
to your bedroom.  As soon as you lie down, you drift off, but, in spite of
your exhaustion, your slumber is filled with images of your morning, images
that reawaken your sexual cravings but do nothing to satisfy them.  Thus,
when Yoko comes to rouse you, you are embarrassed by the evident state of
your excitement.  Your turgid nipples are clearly visible through their
scant cover, and there is a damp patch at the junction of your thighs.
Giving you a knowing look, Yoko gets you up, smooths out the crinkles in
your tunic, spruces up your coiffure, and sends you on your way with a pat
to your bottom.

You wonder aimlessly for a while, but your path eventually brings you to the
common room where your fellow guests are already assembled.  The occupants
have gathered into groups of four or five 
women.  Eavesdropping on their conversations, you conclude that
the organizational principle apparently is based on sexual
orientation.  All these women have come to the spa seeking the sexual
gratification that only another woman can give them.  On the other hand,
their tastes run the full gamut of possibilities, including some that you
have never considered.  There are those who have nothing but disdain for
the male sex.  Others have more catholic tastes and see sex with other
woman as only one source of pleasure.  In both categories, there are
those who are dominant and others who are submissive.  Feeling more at ease
in the company of women who, like yourself, are open to sex with both men
and women, you join a group that is discussing the differences between sex
with a man and sex with another woman.  Although all of them agree that only a woman
can fully understand the female psyche and anatomy, they enjoy the
challenge of teaching a man about the female psyche and guiding him in the use
of his distinctly different anatomy to provide her pleasure in ways for
which a woman's anatomy is not equipped. You join this group at dinner, at the
end of which you bid them goodnight and retire for the night.

The following morning, Yoko appears bearing a tray with your breakfast.  As
soon as you have finished, she takes you into the bathroom, where she
oversees your ablution's, including another enema, in the same way as she
did yesterday.  Once your body is again glistening and fragrant with oil,
she leads you naked to a small room.  Most of the room is filled by a table
similar to the one on which you were tied the day before, and the rest of
it is crowded with an assortment of apparatus whose function you will soon
learn.  Before having you climb onto table, Yoko asks you to bend over with
you elbows on the table and your legs slightly spread.  You feel her insert
tubes into both portals that your position makes available.  The tubes are
less than half an inch in diameter, but each of them penetrates deep inside
you.  After giving you a minute to become accustomed to their presence,
Yoko tells you straighten up and runs an elastic band around your middle.
There is small device on the band, and this she pokes into your navel
before securing the band with a clasp in back.  With a friendly pat on your
bottom, she indicates that you are to now get on the table.  Sitting on its
edge, you lean back and immerse yourself into its molded surface.  This
time your entire body fits inside the mold.  It encompasses your torso as
well as your arms and legs, making you think of the Egyptian mummies that
you have seen at museums.

Yoko next starts attaching some of the apparatus to your supine body.  She
begins by connecting the already installed tubes to complementary tubes
coming out of one of the machines, and another tube is attached to the device
in your bellybutton.  She next turns her attention to your breasts.  After
applying a viscous substance around their base, she places cone shaped
plastic bowls over them.  Using her fingers, she prods your breasts so that
they rise into the cones and the rims of the cones adhere to the substance that
she applied to your breasts for that purpose.  Two more tubes are then connected to 
sockets that lie less than an inch above your nipples.  Finally, Yoko moves
to your head.  Staring down into your inquiring eyes, she tells you that
you will be spending the next hour having your body pumped.  Every
available orifice, including some, like your navel, that you never thought
of as orifices, will be involved.  She then asks you to open your mouth and
introduces into it a large rubber object that seems to be a hybrid cross
between a nipple and a penis.  She smiles at the startled look on your face
and tells you to let your instincts be your guide.  Having given you your
instructions, she completes your isolation from the outside world by
inserting cotton plugs into your ears.

You have no idea what to expect, ``pumping'' is not a term that you have
thought of in this context.  All that you know is that you feel as if you
were lying in a cocoon, totally cut off from any source of stimulation other
than that of the devices attached to you, and, as yet, you know not what
sort of stimulation they will give.  Your first hint comes when the object
in your bellybutton begins to swell, pressing against the walls of your
navel and borrowing into your tummy.  The resulting sensation borders on
pain but never crosses that border.  Instead, it is a sensation not unlike
that you experience when a man enters your body.  Just as you are learning
how to enjoy the invasion of your belly, you feel your breasts being sucked
into the cones that adorn them.  Looking down at them, you watch them
expand to fill the empty space between them and their plastic brassiere.
When you nipples reach the top of the cones, your aereolae spread and
become plastered to the surface.  At the same time, your nipples themselves
disappear into the holes at the tips of the cones.  Although you cannot see
them, you feel a tug on them that produces a satisfying sensation, one that
you have always imagined a woman must have while her baby is nursing.  The
last pieces of apparatus to be activated are the ones in your vagina and
rectum.  In a synchronized pattern, the tubes lodged in your interior
expand and contract: one expanding while the other is contracting.  You
would have guessed that, in unison with all the other sensations coursing
through your body, the effect would be close unbearable.  However, quite
the opposite is the case.  Your body has become a passive bellows to be
filled and emptied by forces outside your control, and you are
unaccountably content to accept its role.

Cut off from all other sources of stimulation, you are acutely aware of the
sensations that the pumps are producing.  About half way through the hour,
you become convinced that, in response to the pressure of your breasts
against the cones combined with the suction on your nipples, your mammary
glands are filling.  Even if it is not milk, some kind of fluid seems to be
moving through the ducts leading to your captive nipples, which feel
engorged.  At the same time, you notice that your belly has begun expanding
and contracting in unison with the expansion and contraction taking place
in your navel, rectum, and vagina.  What surprises you about all this is degree
to which your body and mind have acquiesced to what is happening.  You are
as sexually excited as you have ever been, but you feel no need to have an
orgasm.  Instead, you are content to remain suspended in this wonderfully
tranquil state of deferred fulfillment.  In fact, when an hour has passed
and Yoko removes the pumps from their stations, you experience a sense of
loss.  

It is only a little after ten, and there are still a couple of hours before
you are scheduled to leave the spa.  In your dazed state, you are not
exactly sure how you are hoping you will spend those hours.  On the one
hand, you would like consummation of the sexual excitement that the pumps
produced.  On the other hand, you are in no hurry to leave the dreamy world
to which they have introduced you.  Thus, you are glad that the decision is
not up to you.  Without consulting you, Yoko leads you back into the room
where your visit began.  When you enter, you find several women who seem to
be expecting your arrival.  They are gathered around a large pulley hanging
from the ceiling.  What makes the scene more than a little ominous is the
fact that each of women is nonchalantly stroking a leather thong which she
holds in her hands.  Giving you little time to contemplate the implications
of what you see, Yoko asks you to lie on your back on the floor directly
under the pulley.  Working rapidly, she wraps bandages around each of your
lower legs, starting just below your knees and proceeding down to your
ankles.  The bandaging material is wide and very sturdy, and she applies
three layers to both sides.  She next attaches your legs to a three foot,
steel rod that it is fitted at each end with cuffs.  The cuffs run from the
top of your ankles to the bottom of your calf muscles, and is lined with
soft looking, well tanned sheep skin.  After lowering the pulley chain, she
hitches its hook to a large eye bolt at the center of the rod.  Finally,
she signals to a woman who standing next to a wall-mounted winch, and your
legs begin to rise.

Yoko has worked so quickly that only after your buttock leaves the floor do
you realize what is happening.  For the second time in two days, you are
being hung up like a slab of beef, and apparently this time the beef is to
be tenderized while it hangs.  You continue to ascend until you head is
about three feet off the ground.  Suspended as you are, you feel completely
disoriented.  Strangely, your first concern is about your hands: where are
you to hold them.  You are almost grateful when Yoko relieves you of
responsibility for them by first tying your wrists together and then
constructing a rope harness that holds your arms in the same position that
they would be if you were standing with your hands clasped to the back of
your neck.  Having solved that problem for you, she stands in front of you
and addresses your up-side-down face.  She explains that unless you are
kept moving, blood will rush to your head and you will become faint.  To
prevent this from happening, she has enlisted the assistance of the women
whom you saw when you entered the room.  They will use a combination of
techniques designed not only to keep you moving but also to keep you
wondering whether you are suffering or receiving exactly the stimulation
that you most desire.

Shortly after Yoko finishes, you feel the first lash circle your waist.
Instinctively, you flex your torso, performing what amounts to a sit-up
without benefit of any support.  The second lash strikes before you drop,
scouring the undersides of your breasts.  Once begun, your lashing is
systematic.  No individual blow is intolerable, but the cumulative effect
is devastating.  You are soon in tears and pleading for mercy, but the
mercy you receive is accompanied by a new form of torment.  All but two of
the women step back and stop striking you.  One of remaining ones stands
directly in front of you and the other directly in back.  With deadly
accuracy, they take turns applying their thongs to your vulva.  Each blow
is aimed at the slit between your labia, and each one hits its mark.  Again
the blows are light, but that hardly matters when the target is as
sensitive as the one they have chosen.  In addition, when the one in front
strikes, the far end of her thong enters the crack between the cheeks of
your buttock, sometime penetrating all the way down to your anus.
Similarly, the blows from the back curl around your mons and deliver a
stinging slap to your tummy.  Even in your confused state, you understand
how diabolically clever is the program that Yoko has designed for you.
Your hour of pumping softened your body, leaving it exquisitely vulnerable
to the harsh treatment is receiving now.

You make a strangely beautiful and highly erotic image.  Even though you
realize that there is no way for you to move your body out of harm's way,
you continue to flex your torso in a way that causes you to rock back and
forth in an arc whose grace belies its origin in pain. In the brief
intervals between lashes, one sees that your labia have swelled and
acquired a hue several shades darker than the unblemished, succulent flesh
in their vicinity.

The flagellation of your vulva lasts for several minutes, minutes during
which your state of mind undergoes profound changes.  At first you are
certain that you will not be able to stand the punishment of this most
tender portion of your anatomy, one which should be a source of pleasure
and not pain.  You then learn that you can tolerate, if not, enjoy the
systematic excoriation the flesh of that intimate region.  Finally, toward
the end, you actually relish the torment to which your vulva is being
subjected.  Thus, you have mixed emotions when your whipping comes to an
end.  Before you have time to devote much thought to these emotions, Yoko
stands in front of you and threads a band under your arms and in back of
your shoulder blades.  She then connects the band to the pulley system and
has the winch raise your upper body to the same altitude as your hips.
Moving to your rear, she asks a petite, pretty young woman to come stand by
your head, drop her tunic to her waist, and lean over so that her bare
breasts are within inches of your face.  The next thing you know is that
soft, knowing mouths are at work on your most susceptible erogenous zones.
The pretty girl is sucking your turgid nipples deep into her soft mouth and
Yoko is subjecting your sore vulva to the same treatment down below.  It
takes little time for your swollen labia to spread and give Yoko access to
your inflamed clitoris.  You would have liked this divine torment to
continue, but your body refuses to cooperate.  Within seconds you are
performing a marvelously lascivious serpentine dance, while suspended
horizontal to the floor.  After your climax, you collapse like a sack that
has been emptied.

When you have recover sufficiently to prepare for your departure, Yoko
guides you to the entrance and bids you a demure goodbye as if nothing out
of the ordinary has occurred since your arrival.  Lounging in the taxi,
your mind is filled with the images of your recent experiences.  You know
much more about both your body and mind than you did before the weekend
began, and it will take you sometime to assimilate what you have learned.