The pony

Okay, so I don't normally do the whole scene report erotic memoir post thing, but it turned out to be mad hot and I hardly ever end up with a mad hot story, so here it is.

So, me and a friend – I'll call her A – ended up at another friend's place – who I'll call B, (the friend, not the place). Just to hang out, nothing else implied. I knew B had constructed a wooden pony (or something like it) and I had been jonesing to go for a ride on one, ever since I'd seen one in a wax museum at age ten and thought why is my school taking us to a sex fantasy exhibition and oh, okay it's just me then.

Eventually it was late in the day and we figured we should start to head home, but I didn't want to go without even checking it out, so I asked B about it. He obliged and we went to his play room. When I saw it... well, it wasn't what I expected – basically just a thin metal bar suspended horizontally. Now what I meant to say was something like, “Wow, it's such an elegantly simple design!” But because I had been bratting-up in anticipation, what I actually said was, “is that it?”

Pro tip: If a Dom shows you their fancy new torture device never, ever say “is that it?”

Thirty seconds later, A is cuffing my hands behind my back and B is locking the device in place. Now, in my head I'm thinking we've only got twenty minutes until I have to get dressed and leave, so I can't get myself into too much trouble. B adjusts the height of the bar so I have to stand on my toes. Just for curiosity's sake, I rest some of my weight on it to see what I was in for. My first thought is, that's a lot more painful than I thought it would be. A lot more painful. Still, time is on my side, I figure. I'll be fine.

So A and B are having a discussion about all the different ways you can use it to make vainglorious little brats cry. Then A asks, “does using a spreader make any difference?” and, would you believe it, B has one right here! A few adjustments later, I'm standing with my legs wide apart. (For the curious, the answer is – yes, it does make a difference. It's also really hard to stand on your toes with your legs spread. Try it sometime.)

So I test a bit of my weight on it again, and now we're into this is actually really painful territory. That twenty minutes is starting to sound like a long friggin' time right about now. Then B says “actually, what makes the biggest difference is this.” And he wraps a rope around my waist and pulls it forwards, then hoists my wrists behind me, strappado style.

And now I'm worried. My centre of gravity is way off, my legs are starting to give out and my shoulders are bending how shoulders should not bend. But, somehow I manage to maintain a fraction of an inch's grace from potentially mind-melting pain.

This is probably as good a time as any to mention that I have shit all stamina. I do not handle stress positions well. At this point, I figure I've only got a few minutes before I collapse like a drunken rag doll. I don't even dare test my weight on it for fear I'll never get back up again.

This is when B says something like “Of course, in the middle ages, they would raise the front end to make it even more painful.” And so he does just that. He pulls the front end up high so it's pressing hard, right into – you guessed it – my poor, innocent clit. By this time I could feel my muscles failing. The pain is so far beyond what I was prepared for, and getting worse every second. My heart is about to break out of my chest like Alien and I'm thinking this can't possibly get any worse.

And then I cum.

Just like that. I don't how, I just did. Both A and B insist they had nothing to do with it. Sadly, it's not a gentle euphoric rush. It a painful, convulsive orgasm that robs me of all my strength. I feel my weight crushing my clit into the bastard metal and I have a vague memory of yelling something along the lines of “Gaaaaaahhholy cuntbusting FUCK*!”* Seriously, I can't impress upon you just how painful this fucking thing was.

This is around the point where things start to get fuzzy. I remember dropping onto the horrible metal bar in absolute fucking agony, yelling “getmeoutgetmeoutgetmeoutgetmeoutgetmeout...” My recollection is that neither A nor B were in any particular hurry to release me, but I later learned this is wrong. Whilst it had taken slightly longer to free me (I was a dead weight, apparently) I probably spent less than a second with my whole body resting on the Unholy Bar of Infinite Pain. (I refuse to call this thing a pony because ponies are lovely and this thing was forged from the tormented souls of dead South American military dictators and c***d-m*****ing clowns.)

And as quickly as it had started, it was over. Both A and B were super apologetic about letting it escalate so quickly, but I couldn't be too mad at them because I knew I had been the one pushing the idea. I made the executive decision to blow off the thing we were all planning to go to and after some recovery cuddles, B bundled me into an Uber and sent me home.

By the time I got back, I was feeling fine. Exhausted, but not in any pain. I was actually really annoyed at myself for flaking so quickly. I had nothing to show for my ordeal – no blood, no broken bones, not even any bruises or broken skin. I was quite disappointed in myself. I'm starting to wonder what would have happened if it had been one of these No Limits™ scenes I'm constantly fantasising about. What would have happened if, instead of being rescued, I had just been left there to suffer?

Of course, all I want to do now is get back on the fucking thing. You'd think I would have learned something, but apparently not.

Anyway, thanks for reading.