Cheryl's Passion

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.

"Alright then," she said, "don't screw this up, or I shall inject you with a large dose of that horrible drug and you'll spend the next eight hours with your legs bound indecently far apart and your vagina being licked and fingered, and no matter how much you beg and protest, my people shall keep you painfully on the edge of orgasm for what seems like an eternity."

"Oh," I replied, my voice filled with far more emotion than before.

Then she lifted my skirt, smacked me on the ass and sharply commanded, "Now, be off with you! Bring me that sash!"

I took off at a sprint, my submissive nature demanded that I seek out the acceptance and approval of dominant women like Ms. Nielsen, so I ran as fast as I could towards my goal.

Now, I was never a track and field athlete, however, I endured years of rigorous ballet training. Such training left me with exceptionally strong legs, coordination, balance and almost superhuman endurance.

I sprinted across the verdant lawn, and as I suspected, my adversaries were using the other trees as cover. One of them jumped out from behind a tree just as I was running past it. She reached out to grab me, but I darted away and pushed myself to run even faster.

I put some distance between myself and my first pursuer, but soon, other lesbian bikers gave chase. And as I worried about evading the chasers behind me, I failed to notice a member of the Chrome Valkyries emerging from a hiding place in front of me and I ran right into her.

Strong arms grabbed me around my waist and within a moment, someone had grabbed me by the leg as well. I struggled, but the women who had caught me had strong hands and they held onto me easily and wrestled me to the ground.

The women turned stripping me into some sort of fiendish game where they took turns tearing articles of clothing from my helpless body. One woman ripped off my shoes, another my socks, a redheaded woman used trauma shears to cut through my uniform top and my skirt, a blonde woman grabbed my panties and pulled them up tightly, wedging them painfully between my delicate labia and spanking my ass before tearing the stitching and ripping the panties completely off my pelvis. Finally, naked, frightened and embarrassed, I was forced to stand up and held by outstretched arms between two tall women in motorcycle jackets and biker apparel.

"This one is part rabbit," remarked a female biker with a boyish haircut, "I didn't think we'd catch her at first."

"No more running for you, rabbit," said the redheaded female biker, "We brought rope. We're going to tie those exquisite legs far apart."

I faced the one who spoke of rope and bondage and felt my face heat up with embarrassment. She was tall, broad-shouldered, and looked more like an athletic, teenage boy more than a woman. Even though this was a game, my heart pounded, and my blood pumped hot, as if this woman was a real threat to my life and physical well-being.

She openly scrutinized my naked body while I panted and my breasts heaved. I trembled in shame and I struggled reflexively against the strong hands that gripped my wrists. I was no weakling, however, no matter how much I strained and pulled against the hands that held me, they seemed to have no difficulty keeping me helpless and exposed.

Another biker forced my mouth open and jammed a rubber ball into it,. I was stripped naked, spanked, gagged, and then tied down to the ground. I was tied spreadeagle, stretched out to four pitons that had been pounded into the ground. And then, they gathered up the tattered remains of my clothing, tied it into a bundle and shoved it underneath my ass, forcing me to raise up my pelvis and put my pubic lips lewdly on display.

"Mmmmphhhh," I protested. I wasn't used to being gagged, and being forcibly stripped by strangers and then bound and gagged all within the course of a few seconds had left me feeling panicky and set my heart to racing.

My protests were ignored and then the biker-women double-checked the ropes they had used to make me helpless and tugged the knots even tighter. There were plenty of smug smiles and wicked laughs as they worked and when the last knot was tightened, my entire body was exposed, naked and vulnerable to the gaze and whims of my female captors.

My exposed pussy throbbed at the thought of how helpless and on display I was and I whimpered and squirmed, while my abusers admired my nudity. The one with the boyish haircut was kneeling between my legs and while I was focused on her, the blonde one came at me from the other direction, grabbing my breasts and pinching my nipples in her vicelike grip.

I screamed into my gag, but all anyone could hear was, "Mmmmphhhh". The painful abuse of my nipples increased my panic, but it also increased my sexual arousal. I'd had rape fantasies like this before. The lesbian bikers looked different from the ones in my fantasies, but they were behaving in much the same way. They were rough, abusive, they'd overpowered me and tore all my clothes off. The ball gag was never part of my fantasy, but I had to admit, it fit the theme of me being helpless and abused.

Reflexively I struggled against the ropes that held me. It was a normal slave reaction. I always do it, not so much as part of an attempt to get free as an analysis of my predicament. I struggled frantically against the ropes, but the knots were secure, and the ropes were sturdy. I had no hope of getting free, I could barely even twitch.

I watched wide-eyed and panting while my captors pawed at my naked, helpless body. My nipples were rolled, my breasts were roughly groped and kneaded, my labia were stroked, my vagina was fingered, and my thighs were stroked and slapped.

Just when I thought the worst of it was over, Ms. Nielsen showed up and handed out toys for the lesbian bikers to use on my body. There were riding crops, clothespins and silicone dildos that looked far too large. I squirmed and attempted to insist that those things would never fit inside me, but the gag in my mouth prevented me from speaking.

Before I was raped with the imposing phallus, my vagina was explored with intrusive fingers. My intimate orifice was probed and explored, eliciting muffled moans from my lips, and causing me to squirm. When I was soaking wet and desperate for sexual release, the fingers were withdrawn.

I was still whimpering from sexual frustration when the clothespins were brought into play. Attaching them to my nipples was a group effort. Two of the women grabbed my breasts and proceeded to take my nipples into their mouths. They sucked on them greedily, urging my nipples to become as hard and erect as possible.

"Mmmmphhhh," I protested as I deduced what was planned. But no matter how much noise I made, they ignored me. The wooden jaws of a clothespin bit down on my left nipple and then my right. The pain was agonizing, and I screamed into my gag and strained against the ropes that held me.

The blonde one finally acknowledged the noises I was making, but rather than take pity on me, she came up with an idea how she could make my pain worse.

"You know what?" she said in a playful tone of voice, "You're right. They're not symmetrical. The tail ends of those clothespins should be pointing away from each other. I'll reset them."

The blonde biker removed the cruel jaws from my nipples allowing the blood flow to return to normal. As the circulation returned, the pain multiplied, then the clothespins bit into my tender nipples once again.

I whimpered, tears welled up in my eyes and I strained against my bonds. The biker with the boyish haircut decided that playing with my breasts after they were decorated with clothespins would be fun, so she grabbed them, fondled them and pushed them together, her every movement causing the pain in my nipples to intensify horrifically.

I moaned into my gag and sobbed as the pain became unbearable. And then two of the leather-clad bikers used their riding crops on my helpless, naked body. The way I was tied, with my breasts, inner thighs, belly, and genitals blatantly on display made it almost inevitable that those three parts of my anatomy would become targets of the crops. I screamed every time my naked body was whipped, but my screams were muffled by the gag and were mostly ignored.

The crops hurt the most when they struck my breasts and my indecently exposed pubic lips. I shed dozens of tears and cried out in pain as they whipped me and when the whipping finally stopped, the redhead was in between my thighs with an imposing fake cock.

My poor, abused pussy was fingered again. The redhead took me right to the edge of orgasm, but not over. My eyes widened in outrage every time she cheated me out of the orgasm I so desperately needed, and the redhead got a triumphant smirk on her face, obviously enjoying my suffering. Even in my most detailed fantasies I never envisioned that my rapist would delight in denying me orgasms.

I struggled wildly against my bonds, reflexively rebelling against the torturous orgasm denial. My heart pounded madly in my chest and I writhed in helpless bondage as I was kept in sexual torment on the brink of orgasm. I had become so focused on the intensity of my sexual need that I became completely unaware of the wicked clothespins attached to my nipples.

"Mmmmmmmphhh," I screamed, my sexual need caused my entire body to tremble uncontrollably and tears to well up in my eyes. I raised my head up off the ground as high as I could and gave the blonde woman a pleading look. And then she took her fingers out of my pussy and began to press her thick, silicone cock into my me instead.

One of the other biker women painfully ripped the clothespins off my poor, abused nipples as the blonde woman proceeded to force her massive cock into me as far as it would go. She pumped it in and out of me and I screamed into my gag as I strained to close my widespread thighs.

I was completely helpless and that just added to the excitement of my orgasm. I had been stripped naked, gagged, bound with my legs lewdly far apart, pinched, whipped, teased and tortured and when I was finally fucked with that impressively large fake cock I screamed into my gag for what seemed like hours. The orgasm seemed to go on and on forever. Every muscle in my body went rigid and strained against my bonds as I screamed inarticulately and I threw my head back.

The wicked blonde kept fucking me, and just as it seemed it was all over, another orgasm began to build on the tail end of the first one. I rode the intensity of the second orgasm just as the first one was ending and I screamed and panted and strained ineffectually against my bonds.

And then it seemed as if a miracle had happened and the second orgasm gave birth to a third and my whole body twitched uncontrollably as I was roughly fucked until I lost consciousness.

* * *

I have no idea how long I was unconscious, however, when I awoke, the lesbian bikers where no longer looming over me and I was no longer tied spreadeagle or even lying in the grass.

"Where am I?" I asked as I realized I could move my arms and legs. I was still naked, however, I noted with interest that I was no longer tied up.

"You're in my office," Ms. Nielsen replied. I sat up and realized that I had been lying on the floor.

"One of those lovely motorcycle women carried you in here," she explained, "Impressively strong, she picked you up and carried you as if you weighed no more than a kitten."

My pussy felt as if it had been fucked by a tree trunk. I'd never been stuffed so full before. I was used to getting penetrated by a woman's tongue or a woman's fingers. Getting impaled on that dildo was like having a timber beam shoved inside of me.

"Are they gone?" I asked. I wasn't sure if I could handle getting fucked like that again. As things already stood, I was going to be walking funny for a few days.

"They're on their way back to San Francisco as we speak," said a female voice.

I looked up and saw a young woman. She looked to be about twenty-six or twenty-seven. She had a cute, layered pixie haircut and had a slender, enticing body, although much of it was concealed under her tweed skirt suit, I suspected that she had a beautiful body underneath all those clothes.

"Cheryl, this is Cara, my new assistant," Ms. Nielsen explained, "I expect you to be nice to her."

I looked up at Cara and she looked down at me like I was the hot new item on the shelves at Christmastime. Then she got down on her hands and knees and kissed me on the forehead.

"I saw you when Aurora carried you in," Cara said, "You're adorable."

Ms. Nielsen laughed and told her assistant, "If you're smitten with her, you can do more than kiss her. She's a sex-slave. You can do pretty much anything you want with her."

"I have some ideas," Cara said as she grabbed me around the waist and torso and pulled me to a standing position, "but she was already raped by those biker chicks. I'm sure she'd appreciate a break before being abused again."

"Cara," Ms. Nielsen said admonishingly, "If you're going to keep your job here, you're going to have to adapt to proper BDSM protocols. Slaves are supposed to be abused, humiliated and overwhelmed. You can't be friends with her. You're supposed to be making her feel helpless and subjugated."

"Sorry," Cara said timidly.

"Don't be sorry," Ms. Nielsen said, "Show me that you can be ruthless and domineering when dealing with the slaves. If you can't do that, you might as well get a job at the Motel Las Fuentes."

I had no idea what the Motel Las Fuentes was, but Cara quite clearly didn't want to apply for a job there. She removed her hands from my waist, turned to her boss and declared, "I was thinking I'd like to spank her. She has an extraordinary bottom."

Ms. Nielsen sighed and then proclaimed, "Don't talk about your feelings. If you want to spank a slave-girl, you just order her to get over your knees and swat her ass until she's crying like a little girl."