My application for membership at the Vineyard was eventually approved. The approval process involved a criminal background check, a psychiatric evaluation, testing for STDs as well as intense physical examinations that required me to strip naked and be assessed by a committee of administrators to determine if I met the Vineyard's high standards of physical beauty and pain tolerance.
I was stunned at how difficult it was to get in. I remember hoping that the advantages of membership ended up being worth it after how difficult it was to be accepted as a member.
Eventually, I got a membership card. It had a high-quality photo of my face, my name, my date of birth, my membership number, and my inmate number. It said MEMBERSHIP CARD, up near the top, but didn't elaborate anywhere on the card as to what club I was a member of. It also didn't list the Vineyard's address. The upper-level management were serious about keeping the existence of the Vineyard a secret.
"Congratulations," April said, "You're now a card-carrying submissive. You can't get much more official than that."
As a submissive member of the Vineyard, I'd been assigned a handler. My handler had a file on me that was a treasure trove of information in understanding my physical limits, psychological needs, fetishes, fears, desires etc. My handler was named Karla Nielsen and she understood my submissive fantasies and masochistic needs well enough to know what I would respond to emotionally and sexually.
Now, typically when a somebody like me arrives at the front gate of the Vineyard, they're expected to strip naked and stay naked during their entire visit, but Karla had a much more amusing idea she wanted to try out on me.
* * *
"Ms. Nielsen instructed me to give you this," the receptionist at the counter instructed me when I arrived for my appointment.
She handed me a bag with clothing inside. Upon closer examination, I discovered that it was a cheerleader's uniform. It was white and royal blue, suspiciously like the uniforms the cheerleaders wore in my old high school.
I mean, it looked a lot like the uniforms they wore! Did Ms. Nielsen do research on the minutiae of my high school before assigning me to wear this? Wow! There was even a pair of lycra panties with the white and royal blue color scheme!
"Put that on and a security guard will take you to meet up with Ms. Nielsen," the receptionist informed me.
When I was properly clothed a security guard did indeed take me out to meet with Ms. Nielsen. I looked like a high school cheerleader and wondered why. I suspected that whatever was going to happen to my involved someone else's fantasy. After all, there are plenty of people who have sexual fantasies about cheerleaders.
"Hello, dear," Ms. Nielsen greeted me, "You look quite fetching in that uniform. If I were a teenage boy, I would be spellbound by your beauty and unable to take my eyes off you."
"So, you're not spellbound?" I asked cautiously.
"Oh, don't be offended, dear," Ms. Nielsen advised me, "You're quite alluring, however, I've been around for almost twenty-nine years. And I work with exceptionally beautiful, naked women every day as part of my job. One learns how to focus and maintain control."
"Oh," I said. Ms. Nielsen's words made sense, yet I still somehow felt as if my beauty had been devalued.
Then she put an arm around my shoulders and said, "According to your file, one of your masturbatory fantasies involves you being stripped naked and raped by a lesbian biker gang. It just so happens that I've invited five members of the Chrome Valkyries to the Vineyard today to help fulfill that fantasy."
My heartbeat sped up and my eyes widened. I spun around and searched in every direction for anyone wearing biker boots, leather motorcycle jackets or anything else that might be indicative of being a lesbian biker.
"They're nearby," Ms. Nielsen assured me, "They should be watching you from a distance right now, but rather than formally introduce you to them, we're going to play a game."
My heart continued to pound enthusiastically in my chest and my sex began to throb. I shifted my weight from one foot to another and waited for my handler to explain the rules of her game.
"If you look down that way, you'll see a beech tree," she said pointing to a tree that was approximately three-hundred feet to the east of us, "There is a red sash tied around that tree, with the words "Slave of the Month" embroidered into it. You're going to run to that tree and grab it. Once you have the sash, you shall attempt to return here. Do you understand the rules of the game thus far?"
"Of course," I said. The rules sounded pretty simple.
"If you get the sash, you'll be accorded certain privileges that the other slaves don't have," my handler explained, "however, the bikers will be watching and they will try to grab you before you can reach the sash. You will have to run extremely fast to evade them."
There were a number of other trees on the property. I wondered if the biker ladies were hiding behind them. There was also a groundskeeper's shed they could be hiding behind. I couldn't get to the beech tree without running past these things, so they'd be good places for my adversaries to hide.
"And I expect this to be exciting," Ms. Nielsen added, "If you don't give good sport, or if you give up entirely, I know ways to punish you that you will not like. I believe you know what libidol is."
My ears perked up at that. Libidol was universally hated by slaves. It was a drug that stimulated the libido but made it impossible to achieve orgasm. A slave could be fucked and fingered and licked for hours and have countless agonizing waves of desire flood their feverish bodies, but they could never find orgasmic release until the drug wore off.
"Yes, mistress," I replied.
