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.