****** Wendy's Test ******
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Synopsis: Wendy is working her way through school as a sex object, but she
doesn't want to lose her viginity, so...
   
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!"
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