The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The Naughty List

I know he means well, but Dave’s go-to choice for that special Christmas gift is never the kind of thing that satisfies a woman’s deepest desires. He tries, but last year’s presents—a toaster oven and a set of steak knives—failed for some reason to stir my feminine soul. And so far, this holiday, I’ve received a deluxe bathroom scale and a tube of skin cream.

He’s a good man, dependable and practical, but I long for the slightest spark of romance, something that will make my heart skip, something that will bring a warm blush to my face and make me feel like I did when I was young—the flirtatious adventurousness of puppy-love or maybe the thrill of something naughtier.

The kids had already torn through their presents, and I had given Dave the cologne, the tie and the Celtics tickets he had asked for. The day was settling into a lazy, holiday routine—the most wonderful time of the year, feeling bloated with eggnog and cookies, the living room floor littered with wrapping-paper shreds and sticky bun crumbs that sooner or later I’ll have to think about cleaning up. I was in a cranky, disenchanted mood.

Once, when I was a girl, my brothers and I got matching red pajamas—the kind with drop-seats that look like big onesies. My family thought it would be cute to take a picture of us around the tree, except they thought it would be even cuter if I posed with the seat of my pajamas unbuttoned and my bare bottom peeking out. I was embarrassed, but they made me do it. Every Christmas, that photo appeared on the mantel. Even when Dave and I were dating, I remember how humiliated I was when my parents showed him that picture. “Rose was on the naughty list that year,” my Dad had said. Part of me, I guess, just finds the Christmas season a bit of a pain.

I was sitting on the coach, admiring my new scale, and musing about Christmases past (it’s a tradition—Dave makes me put the childhood red pajama picture up on the mantel, although this year I made sure to position a decorative elf to screen my butt crack from view) when, with a gesture of bashful excitement, my husband handed me a final gift.

It was a gilt envelope, quality paper, elegantly engraved.

Curious, but prepared to be disappointed, I opened it carefully and tried to make sense of the document it enclosed.

It was a gift certificate for something called the Master Achterwerk Spa and Fitness Club.

Dave could hardly contain himself. He seemed excitedly pleased with his choice of gift. “This a very exclusive club, Rose. You’ve been enrolled in a five-week program. Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays—‘Novice Body Discipline,’ a two hour session, and your trainer will be Master Achterwerk himself.”

I thanked my husband enthusiastically. “Oh, Dave, you always give the most thoughtful gifts!”

Inwardly, my spirits sank. He had bought me spot in an exercise class. I guess he wanted to see me put the scale to use. Dave’s never been that gentlemanly or tactful when it comes to expressing how he feels about my body. If I ask him if a new pair jeans make my butt look big, he tells me my ass is fat.

An exercise class and a scale! He must really think I’ve put on weight. I wish I could think of a way to get out of it. I couldn’t see myself braving the humiliation of going to a gym, changing in front of everyone, shaking my booty to some aerobic exercise, doing a spin class on those god-awful bikes.

“I’ve never heard of the Achterwerk Club. How on earth did you find out about it?

“Mr. Bemis’s wife went there. You’ve seen her, right? Well, Joe Bemis just happened to mention how it was the club’s program that really got her into shape.”

Mr. Bemis was Dave’s boss. His wife, Greta, was a shapely brunette. I remember how he showed her off at the company picnic. Dave couldn’t keep his eyes off her.

“I made a few calls, checked the place out and signed the contract. I’ll let you know, it wasn’t cheap, although I think, if I read the contract right, trainees who complete the program often end up employed at the club. Mrs. Bemis, I believe, works there now.”

The material from the club was certainly impressive—tastefully designed, sophisticated—although it was a relief that the kids weren’t nearby, as the accompanying booklet prominently featured a photo of a female figure, seen from the rear, her body toned and statuesque and naked as the day she was born. It was probably my imagination, but the image bore an uncanny resemblance to Mr. Bemis’s wife.

An hour later I set my new scale down on the bathroom floor and stood before the full-length mirror. Slipping out of my Christmas morning pajamas (no drop-seat onesies anymore for me), I stepped onto the scale, dressed in nothing but my bra and panties, and braced myself. I glanced at the scale and then took a look in the mirror and wanted to cry. Dave was right. I needed to get into shape.

I patted my tummy. Belly fat sagged over the brim of my underwear (too many sticky buns this morning). Turning around, I surveyed myself from the rear. I had on my red Christmas undies, the ones that said “Naughty or Nice?” on the back. What I saw wasn’t nice. How did my butt get so big? I thought of myself as a girl in those embarrassing drop-seat pajamas. I thought of the figure of the woman whose shapely derrière represented the Master Achterwerk Club. Could my fat bum ever look like hers?

Hesitantly, I peeled my undies down off my backside and took a good look at my bare ass. Was this the body I wanted my husband to see naked?

After three kids and thirteen years of marriage, my body wasn’t what it was when Dave and I first met. No wonder the spark of romance had fizzled.

I thought again about the exercise class Dave had signed me up for—“Body Discipline”—and decided that, if it got my rear end into shape, maybe it was worth a try.

The fitness class started in January, the week the kids went back to school. It was a convenient morning session, 3 times a week, although the information booklet implied that an occasional afternoon or evening meeting might be scheduled as well.

It took some time to find the Achterwerk Club. I was a bit surprised. It looked nothing like a gym. Located in the downtown business district and housed in a sedate brownstone building, the Master Achterwerk Spa and Fitness Club had the feel of a boutique hotel or maybe a high-end nightclub in its off hours. I almost walked out of the lobby, thinking I had made a mistake, before gathering up the courage to address the petite young women behind the front desk.

The woman smiled when I showed her my certificate. “Yes, Mrs. Shields, welcome to the Achterwerk Club. We’ve been expecting you. Please, right this way.”

I followed the woman’s perky bottom (mostly covered by a little black cocktail dress) down the hall, around a corner, up some stairs and into a wood-paneled dressing room. From what I could see, the club’s aura felt classy and dignified, although a bit somber. It looked nothing like the local Y, where the kids took swim lessons.

I started to unzip the bag of clothes I’d brought from home (baggy sweatpants—no skintight yoga pants for me, not with my butt) when the woman in the party dress stopped me.

“You won’t be needing these, Mrs. Shields,” she said, picking up my gym clothes. “The club supplies members with appropriate uniforms.”

She opened a cedar-lined locker and placed my bag inside.

“Please undress fully, and I’ll return with your uniform.”

I stripped down to my underthings.

“Wonderful, Mrs. Shields. Now remove your bra and panties and put these on.”

I hesitated for a moment, eyeing the two small articles of clothing the woman held in her hand.

A little unnerved by the upmarket formality of the club (kind of elegantly snooty—although you’d think I’d have been allowed more privacy when asked to strip naked) I blushed as I stepped out of my undies and pulled on the things she gave me—a skimpy black bra and black Lycra panties.

I tried to hike the tight panties up over my butt (low-rise—these things’ll hang halfway down my hips) and waited.

The woman took my underwear, placed it in the locker along with the rest of my clothes and turned the key.

“Mr. Shield’s provided your size. By the next meeting you will probably remember to shave down there. Now we must hurry. Miss Kusse and the Master are waiting.”

“Hold-on! Where’re the rest of my workout clothes?”

“You have on the appropriate uniform for a novice. Come, the session is starting.”

I was dumbfounded. What I thought were undergarments turned out to be the outfit I’d be wearing to exercise in. I’d never let myself be seen in public dressed in something so skimpy—at least not since I was a little girl.

I was directed to remain barefoot and to pull my hair back into a ponytail.

I began to stammer. I didn’t think I was ready for this. I’d seen women athletes wearing teeny-tiny Lycra things when competing, but on my body, this was ridiculous. With minimum coverage and the shape of my ass, these bikini bottoms will either ride up and disappear between my cheeks or else leave a good three inches of my butt crack hanging out.

“Through these doors, Mrs. Shields, come.”

I felt exposed, almost unbearably so, as I tiptoed nearly naked through the hushed, posh decorum of the club.

“Is there a robe or something . . .?”

The pretty young woman in the little back dress ushered me through a series of adjoining rooms, arriving at last at a closed door, upon which she knocked.

The door was opened by another young women wearing an identical little black dress.

“Mrs. Shields is ready.”

I followed the pair of pert, tight butts into a large, spare, windowless room. The space was brightly lit, and on the every wall either a floor-to-ceiling mirror reflected every angle or a large flat-screen TV was positioned for all to see.

Finding my place next to an unoccupied exercise mat I was relieved to note that the class was small—five other women, all around my age, with various body types, but all carrying a little extra weight on their backsides, and all wearing the same club-issued workout “bikinis” and looking as uncomfortable as I was.

The room was divided into two halves. Standing on one side with the class members, I could see what appeared to be stationary bikes and other apparatuses at the opposite end of the room.

I felt as if I should make some polite small talk with my fellow class participants, but everyone seemed to be nervously standing at attention, so I took my place and waited.

A second later, behind my back, I heard whispering and then a brief commotion—what sounded like a sharp slap followed quickly by a stifled cry.

A woman’s voice hissed, “Nanni! You stupid thing! You can expect to receive further punishment shortly!”

I turned around to catch sight of the young woman who had met me in the lobby hastily smoothing down the back of her dress.

A tall, dark-haired woman dressed in a coal-black, formfitting, cinched-waist bodysuit approached me, holding a document in her hand. With a shock, I recognized Greta Bemis, Dave’s boss’s wife.

“I’m sorry Mrs. Shields. Your husband has of course already completed your club initiation contract, but that stupid child at the front desk neglected to secure your personal signature. One final formality—please sign.”

She held out the paper and a pen.

Confused and not totally understanding what I was putting my name to, I took the pen in my hand. Greta Bemis was a commanding presence. I felt it was awkward to ask any questions.

As I put pen to paper I heard Mrs. Bemis direct a comment my way—“If you had worn that outfit to the last company picnic perhaps your husband would have spent more time looking at you.”

I blushed at Greta’s smirk.

The tall brunette strode to the center of the room and addressed the class.

“Welcome, novices, to the Achterwerk Club. Now that all new members have given their permission and agreed to submit unconditionally to the Achterwerk Body Discipline Program, your training can begin.”

I glanced around anxiously. I had no idea what to expect. I used to go to the gym to work out when I was younger, but I was never very committed and never had a personal trainer.

“The Achterwerk Discipline Program demands complete submission to the ideals and policies of the Master’s method. Your training will be hard, but the results will be stunning. Many times you will want to quit, to escape the club and be free of its strictures and burdens, but the Master’s method will not permit you to waver. Discipline of the mind as well as the body is the key to the Achterwerk Program. There will be pain, and there will be pleasure. You will be trained to submit to the control of both.”

Mrs. Bemis paced the floor in front of us.

“Your training has now begun. There will be no personal introductions. From now on, I will be known to you only as Miss Kusse. As far as the club is concerned, you, as novices, have to earn your names. As a reminder, during training sessions, you will remain silent until compelled to speak. Our exercises are rigorous and require complete concentration.”

I took a second to eye the other woman in the class. We all looked nervous, uneasily expectant, with our “love handles” and “muffin tops,” our bellies and our butts squeezing out of undies that were too teeny and too tight.

“To get your bodies warmed up, you will start by jogging in place. Please direct your attention to the video monitor. Begin.”

I started to pump my legs up and down while standing on my mat. For all the talk about the Achterwerk method, this seemed like the beginning of a standard fitness routine.

Mrs. Bemis—or rather, Miss Kusse—moved through the room, keeping an eye on each trainee as we worked out in two rows of three.

“Eyes on the monitor!”

A hypnotic pulse filled the room, and my jogging pace automatically sped up to match the rhythm.

Images of women appeared, jogging as we were, their shapely bodies trotting, legs pumping steadily, buttocks and breasts bouncing. It took me a minute or two to comprehend that the women were naked, undressed entirely, apart from what looked like a collar around their necks, their hair tied back in a ponytail.

A man’s voice sounded through the room (Master Achterwerk’s?), a deep, strong, commanding voice, speaking words that I could at first not quite catch, in an accent that seemed foreign, sophisticated and European (Danish? Dutch?). There was something mesmerizing about the voice, masterful and compelling.

“Eyes on the screen! Raise your knees higher!”

Miss Kusse was walking back and forth behind each row.

The man’s voice continued its hypnotic spell, speaking of discipline and control, pleasure and pain, the goal of physical perfection and the need for strong reinforcement, of mental and bodily conditioning. A fascinated compulsion stirred inside me. I didn’t feel like I was listening to words. Something warm and exciting was starting to blaze in my heart.

I was panting heavily now, working up a sweat.

Oddly, even though my muscles were starting to burn, with every beat of my heart I found myself approaching flashes of euphoria, tantalizing sparks of pleasure—this is what they must mean by the high you can get from exercise, endorphins or something. I’d never experienced anything like it before. I had never imagined it would be so— my face flushed as I felt another twinge, an unmistakable, desirable warmth, right in that special place—so sexual.

“No slowing down! Keep up the pace!”

To my left I heard a sharp smack and a pained, shocked cry.

“Eyes on the screen!”

Another slap and another surprised cry.

I could sense Miss Kusse looming behind me.

“Move that fat bum, you naughty girl!”

Suddenly, a biting swat stung my ass. Mrs. Bemis was spanking us!

The tall brunette swayed her hips with her tightly cinched waist as she passes in front of me. In her hand, Miss Kusse carried some sort of switch or riding crop. Odd, I hadn’t noticed before that she was wearing such high heels. That didn’t seem right for a workout in the gym.

“Pump those knees! Stick out that chest! Keep up the pace, you stupid pig!”

Miss Kusse gave the woman in front of me a stinging slap on her bouncing bottom with her switch. The women made curt cry, almost like a stricken moan.

All the while, the Master’s voiced filled the room, a sonorous cadence that followed the beating pulse of video’s hypnotic rhythm. I realized that on the screen were images of women being spanked.

After striking the last trainee Miss Kusse ordered us to stop. The video ceased as well. I was shaking, sweaty, panting, and I noticed that my crotch was embarrassingly wet.

I can’t tell you why I thought it correct that Miss Kusse was spanking us. It just was. My mind accepted it. We deserved it. We needed discipline. How else were we to get in shape?

I hadn’t been spanked in years, not since I was a girl. Taking a deep breathe, my bum still slightly tingling, I felt young again. For a moment, I was the girl in drop-seat pajamas, the one with her bottom peeking out. I had that funny feeling that I’d done something bad—like an uneasy, awkward sense of arousal. My God! The shame of it—I wanted to be spanked!

Looking at the other women, I sensed that they were all having a somewhat similar experience. What was the Achterwerk Club doing to us?

After a few minutes to catch our breaths, Miss Kusse ordered us to begin the next exercise.

“You will jog again in place, this time holding in each hand a plate of cake raised to shoulder height.”

The two young women in party dresses handed each trainee a small plate on which rested a massive slice of a heavily frosted layer cake along with a scoop of rapidly melting ice cream.

With a swat across my backside, I heard Miss Kusse order us to begin.

The insistent, hypnotic pulse again filled the room, and the voice of the Master droned commandingly in my head.

“Keep your balance, you slut! You are responsible for every crumb and every drip.”

It was nearly impossible to keep the plates level. My arms, bent at the elbows, soon ached from holding the plates aloft. I was exhausted. My legs were shaky and rubbery from the constant joggling.

“Keep up the pace! Pump those knees higher!”

Miss Kusse paced back and forth behind us, giving each of our bottoms a slap with her crop.

I heard a plate drop and a woman cry out in despair.

“Heads erect! All eyes on the monitor! Do not slow down. Any bit of cake that falls to the floor you will have to lap up like a dog!”

I felt a puzzling sense of devotion to the tasks I was being commanded to fulfill. The extremity of effort excited me. I tried not to spill even a crumb. I tried keep up the pace, to lift my knees higher, back erect, face forward, trotting proudly, faithfully.

A pleasant warmth deepened between my legs. The Master’s voice touched me. Probed me. I was open to his will. I wanted to meet his ideals of discipline, to loyally obey him, to offer what I could, my body, my soul . . .

“You’re spilling crumbs, you lazy, fat-bottomed cow! Can’t you perform even the simplest of tasks, you spoiled brat!”

Two sharp spanks struck my ass. A nasty feeling of shame welled up inside me. I almost started to cry. Miss Kusse was right. I was an indolent, bratty child. I couldn’t do anything properly. I deserved to be spanked. I was such a baby. I should be wearing diapers.

“All eyes on the screen! Keep up the pace!”

I hadn’t noticed it before, but the images of naked women had changed. The women were still naked, but they were preforming various tasks. Some were riding bicycles, with a look of pain mixed with unspeakable pleasure flashing across their faces. Others women were being penetrated by objects, their legs spread wide and held open by some device. One woman was being whipped across her rear end while restrained by a cruel-looking apparatus. Her face resembled someone I once knew, someone connected with my husband’s job—the wife of a coworker, the wife of Dave’s boss?

In the next scene, the same woman was shown satisfying a large group of men who took turns using her body, taking advantage every hole that could be opened. How proud that woman must have felt, submitting herself to the pleasures of so many men.

When Miss Kusse finally ordered the class to stop I collapsed panting, my body utterly depleted. My panties were soaked through.

Looking down, I saw in horror that the entire contents of one plate were scattered at my feet, while only half a piece of cake remained on the second plate.

“Novices, get down on the floor, on your hands and knees!”

I obeyed.

“Using only your mouth, clean up the messes you have made, you sloppy pigs! Lick up every crumb, every bit of frosting, every drip of ice cream!”

I obeyed.

How shameful, to be lapping the floor with my tongue, pressing my lips to the trodden smears of sugar and cream.

Miss Kusse strode around us, slapping our asses with her switch.

“Raise your bums up! Faces to the floor! Lick up every crumb, you messy little puppies!”

I could hear the other women in the room choking back sobs and sniffling.

I don’t really know why, but the act of abasing myself, sticking my ass up in the air and crawling like an animal, excited me. The humiliation I felt, sliding my tongue across the floor, only served to reinforce my desire to dedicate myself fully to the Achterwerk Program. I secretly wished that Miss Kusse would spank me again, and spank me harder on my exposed bare bum, so that the Master might know how I understood what a naughty girl I was, how respectful I was, submitting to the punishment I deserved.

Miss Kusse walked to the center of the room and spoke up.

“Remain on your hands and knees, Achterwerk trainees. You have completed the first steps in your initiation to the club program. Crawl to me, one and a time, and discover what your club name will be.”

One by one, my fellow classmates crawled across the floor, each woman’s face covered with traces of frosting and cake crumbs, low-rise panties hanging off her ass, showing off her butt crack and two reddened butt cheeks. They crossed the room like dogs.

At Miss Kusse’s feet, each trainee picked from a bin and retrieved what looked like a black dog collar. One of the young women in a black cocktail dress buckled the collar around each woman’s neck and read aloud a name printed on it.

“Sika!” A redhead with pale skin.

“Kolba!” A chubby woman with mousey hair and big breasts.

“Stena!” The youngest woman among us, with a pear-shaped body and thick thighs and a terrified look in her eyes.

“Lalka!” A small woman, with blond hair, doll-like features and a flat chest.

“Slyna!” A dark-haired, curvy woman, who was sweaty and panting.

Having arrived last to the room, I received the final collar and name. I felt an odd combination of pride and abasement as the young woman read out my new club name: “Lanie!”

While the rest crawled back to their places Miss Kusse indicated that I should remain with her in the center of the room.

“Achterwerk trainees, your first session is nearing its end. For the remainder of your life at the club you will be known my no other name than that which is inscribed on your collar. You are novices. Your collar is a mark of honor as well as a sign of shame. You will never forget that you now belong to the Achterwerk Club. You are starting at the bottom, and your training has far to go.”

To me surprise, Miss Kusse produced a leash and attached it to my collar.

“Lanie, stand up!”

I obeyed.

“Remove you panties and put them to your nose!”

I obeyed.

“Tell me and the class what you smell!”

My own underwear, damp with my sweat and the musky scent of my crotch—I smelled my own dirty, animal desire.

“I smell my own pussy,” I stammered.

Miss Kusse slapped me hard across my naked ass.

“Address me formally!”

I whimpered, “I smell my own pussy, Miss Kusse.”

“Lanie, you naughty slut, does it excite you to be spanked!”

“I—I don’t know,” I sputtered.

She gave me another swat.

“Turn around, Lanie. Show the class your buttocks!”

I turned to present my bare butt.

“Doesn’t Lanie have a big bottom!”

Miss Kusse spanked me with her hand.

“Come class, look at the size of Lanie’s rump! Look at those meaty cheeks.”

She spanked me again.

Singled out in front of everyone, standing exposed while a person of authority made comments about my body, brought back an embarrassing memory from my youth.

I was a teenage girl, attending gymnastics camp, when the instructor (a short, butch woman with a Slavic accent) took me in hand and made the whole camp gather around. She wanted to use me as an example. I had, she said, “too much fat on my bum” to be true gymnast. From then on, at camp, I was known as Fat Bum Rosie. Teen girls can be so cruel. How I cried those nights at camp. How I wanted to cry now.

“Attention, class! Here we have the gluteus maximus—the thick, fleshy muscles that form the buttocks. How delightfully self-conscious girls are when puberty begins and their hips start to fill out, their bottoms getting big and round and fat. The posterior, the fanny, your tail, your seat, your keister: in other words, the common bum—such an awkwardly sensitive part of the body. You will discover that it is the foundation of the Achterwerk Method.”

I felt Miss Kusse spank me again.

“Lanie is a very naughty girl, the kind of girl who lets her bottom get big because she wants people to spank it.”

I saw Miss Kusse gesture, and the woman in the party dress carried over a chair.

I felt a yank on the chain attached to my collar and realized that Miss Kusse was ordering me to lie across her lap.

“Achterwerk trainees, look at Lanie’s plump, pale tushy, just asking to be spanked.”

I felt the first slap from Miss Kusse’s hand against my naked cheeks and winced. How embarrassing, to be treated like a spoiled child, spanked over the knee, bare-bottomed, while the whole class looked on.

Smack!

“Lanie is a naughty girl who likes to be spanked.”

Smack!

Each spank stung. My bum must have been turning brick red, as red as those old drop-seat pajamas. One more smack, and I burst into tears, bawling like a baby, ashamed at myself, and wanting Miss Kusse not to stop.

“There, we’re done. You’re getting too wet. Stand before the class and show us what you bum looks like now!”

I turned my freshly spanked rear end to the room. The skin of butt cheeks smarted.

“Look how sore and red Lanie’s bottom is! Stena! Crawl forward and inspect Lanie’s backside.”

Behind my back I couldn’t see what was happening, but I imagined the young woman was on her hands and knees, trembling, as she approached.

“I bet you can smell Lanie’s sex from there, Stena. Her ass is red and her pussy is dripping. Come, Stena, bring your face up close.”

Now I could feel her behind me, her breath on my skin.

“Go on, Stena, kiss her bum, lick her, taste her!”

Suddenly, I felt something wet touch my backside. Stena’s lips, Stena’s tongue, were exploring my rear end, pressing in closer, deeper between my cheeks.

“Go on, Stena, you dirty little bitch, get your snout right up there and sniff her tail! Use your tongue, Stena. Where is the most degrading place you can stick your tongue!”

I couldn’t believe it! Another woman was licking my ass! I felt one, tentative flicker of her tongue around my anus, like a gentle, moist kiss, and then she thrust it in, her mouth pressed to my butt hole, her tongue inside me.

No one had ever done such a thing to me. I was thrilled and humiliated. My most private, intimate, shameful place was being opened and licked by a stranger. I was a dirty girl, a naughty, dirty girl.

“As you are by now all aware, the discipline achieved by the Master’s method can force your body to do things you could never have imagined—psychical things, painful things, degrading and perverted things. Even as she sticks her tongue with relish up another woman’s ass, some part of Stena’s mind, the part that still remembers that she had another name before she became Stena, rebels at the task, is disgusted by it, is tortured by what her body is doing. Go on, Stena, clean that dirty girl Lanie’s filthy hole. We all know what you do with that hole, Lanie. What do you think class? I imagine that Stena is finding out that Lanie is too lazy to wipe herself properly.”

The sensation was unbearable. How could humiliation be so pleasurable?

I understood precisely what Miss Kusse meant. When given a command, I couldn’t help but obey. I was ordered to lick food off the floor. I was compelled to crawl on all fours and wear a collar and leash like a dog. I was told to remove my wet, sweaty panties and to breathe in the scent of my own body. I allowed my bare bottom to be spanked like a misbehaving child. I did all without the least hesitation. Shame burned within me, intermingled with a nearly all-encompassing desire to be submissive, to be disciplined and to obey.

I couldn’t imagine what it must be like for the young woman with her face in my bum. The thought of it—another person’s backside, the smell, the taste—I shuddered in disgust when I thought of my own body. Only a few hours before I was at home, rushed, getting ready, making breakfast, seeing the kids off to school—I sat on the toilet, then threw on some clothes—no time a shower (why clean up, I told myself, I was only going to the gym). Miss Kusse was right. I was lazy. I was ashamed at my naughtiness.

“Enough, Stena! Leave Lanie’s ass alone. Before you crawl back to the other trainees, please pick up her damp panties with your mouth. You will take them home with you, to remind yourself of your new girlfriend’s scent.”

Miss Kusse gave Stena a slap across her buttocks, and then took my leash in her hand and walked me to the far end of the room.

“Achterwerk trainees, rise and join me. Your session today is nearly at an end. You will return in two days, when we will begin the club’s special body discipline program using the stationary bikes. As a taste of what is in store for you, two club members will now demonstrate the proper use of the bikes.”

To my surprise, I saw one of the young women in a cocktail dress leading the other by a leash.

“Miss Nanni has been a naughty girl. She forgot to ask a club novice for her authorization signature. Miss Nanni will now be punished.”

Miss Nanni, still wearing her short black dress, positioned herself next to one of the bikes. As she stepped onto the machine, I noticed two things. Firstly, I saw that the young woman was not wearing any underwear. Secondly, and more shockingly, I perceived that this was no ordinary piece of exercise equipment.

As the young woman attempted to settle onto the bicycle seat, two perverse modifications made her task uncomfortably pornographic. A pair of penis-shaped sex toys, pliable but thick and long, were positioned at the seat’s front and back. With some difficultly, the young woman lowered her rear end gingerly down upon both obscene objects simultaneously, impaling herself through both her holes. I couldn’t believe her body could accommodate the sizes of both, but with a pained expression she slid her butt and vagina onto them, until each disappeared deep inside her, leaving her bum resting on the seat.

I couldn’t image the sensation she must be feeling, penetrated fore and aft, about to be forced to work her loins pedaling the stationary bike. In her eyes I noticed trepidation. I could tell she was dreading the moment she had to start moving her hips. What a shameful position to be in.

“As you can see, these bicycles provide Achterwerk club members with the perfect body discipline routine. A month of exercising on these machines, novices, and your flabby backsides will be firm and round. And now, to show you how even a clumsy newbie can benefit from the experience on these bikes . . .”

I felt a sharp tug on my leash.

Oh, my God! Miss Kusse was making me ride that wicked machine as well!

“Lanie is also a very naughty girl. Let’s see if her fat ass can fit on this seat.”

In my mind, I was terrified. I had never used sex toys like that before. Dave once stuck a finger up my butt, but I told him I didn’t like it. I was mortified. I didn’t want either of those things inside me. But I also knew I couldn’t disobey, and knew that I needed to be punished. I needed to prove to everyone in the room what a shamefully naughty girl I was.

Straddling the machine next to the already impaled Nanni, I positioned my ass over the two erect appendages and attempted to ease them into my pussy and my ass.

With a gasp I realized the spectacle of my humiliation. My vagina was already well lubricated, but the effort to open my tight anus was excruciating.

I felt Miss Kusse lash out with her switch against my butt cheeks.

“Try harder, you spoiled brat! Show us how you like to use that fat bum of yours.”

I tried, but I couldn’t make it fit.

“Enough! Start pedaling! Soon you’ll be riding those shafts like the dirty-ass slut you are!”

I began to move my feet, pumping the pedals. I could feel my hips working as my thighs thrust up and down. With each step, I was pushing myself onto the sex toys, back and forth, in and out, plunging them deeply into each of my holes.

“Keep up the pace! Don’t slow down!”

Miss Kusse struck my naked ass with her switch. I could hear that, on the other side of me, the second woman in the black dress was beating Nanni’s ass as well.

“Class, consider the contrast between these two bums. Nanni’s, on the left, is well rounded and perky. On the right, look how Lanie’s fat ass is laboring flabbily. What a lazy, naughty girl she must be, sweating like a pig!”

She gave my behind another hard slap.

Video monitors set in front of each bike suddenly came to life.

I heard the familiar pulsing beat and the Achterwerk Master’s hypnotic, commanding voice. Once again, images of naked women filled the screen. I soon noted that it was a video of a woman riding a stationary bike. A close-up shot revealed that the bike on the screen was also equipped with two obscene sex toys attached to its seat.

I saw a woman’s anus stretched wide to accept a thick dildo, while her butt cheeks pumped up and down, thrusting the object back and forth into the depths of her bowels. The woman on the bike had a big butt. The woman was me.

Cameras must be placed somewhere that I hadn’t noticed.

“As your husbands probably already know, the Achterwerk Club website provides convenient, high-definition live-streaming and archived video access to all of our most popular exercise sessions. I believe we are currently entertaining over five hundred users worldwide who have chosen to view Lanie’s chubby bottom impale itself on an eight-inch dildo in real-time. These videos often appear on porn sharing sites, being viewed tens of thousands of times.”

I couldn’t stop pedaling, but inwardly my heart skipped a beat and a sickening sense of shame spread through me. Thousands of men will see my fat sweaty rear end bob up and down on an artificial cock. They’ll see me work my sodden pussy towards a degrading burst as passion as I shove my crotch onto the toy between my legs.

I didn’t want to orgasm, but I couldn’t help it. The pressure in my crotch was intense. With each pedal, I felt like I was probing a secret nexus of pleasure and pain. Panting, trembling, exhausted from the exertion, I suddenly felt like I had lost control of my body. A humiliating extremity of pleasure ripped through me as I ground my crotch and buttocks like a sow in heat against the already sopping wet bicycle seat. I shuddered and screamed like an infant as Miss Kusse whipped my ass repeatedly with searing hot flashes of her switch.

I collapse the moment Miss Kusse ordered me to stop.

“What a lazy, spoiled child Lanie is, class! She can’t complete the simplest task without breaking down in a fit of tears. Look how strong Miss Nanni is, though! I’m sure if we whip her ass hard enough, she can continue her workout for another twenty minutes.”

Slyna and Kolba had to lift my spent body off the bike, the two sex toys sliding nastily out of my gaping holes with two wet slurps.

“Stena! Since you like the taste of Lanie’s ass, clean off the seat of her bike with your mouth!”

Miss Kusse took my leash.

“Our workout session for today is dismissed. In the dressing room, you will find a list of commands for you to fulfill before Wednesday’s meeting. These involve instructions for the control of your diet, dress, activities and exercise habits. You can expect to satisfy your husband with whatever act he desires—cook his breakfast, suck his cock . . . . You will also find that the clothes you brought with you are no longer available to you. From now on, the Achterwerk Club will provide your wardrobe.”

Miss Kusse tugged my leash and walked me across the room.

“You will find the club’s choice of clothes for you to be rather more formfitting and revealing than what you would generally wear—just look at the low-rise bikini panties now barely covering your sorry butts. Over the next few days, you will notice yourselves being compelled to expose your bodies in public—while shopping, for instance, or at some function at your child’s school. You will not be able to resist wearing that low-cut, cleavage-revealing top, or sitting in such a way that those low-rise yoga pants let all eyes see your exposed butt crack. This will embarrass you, knowing that people are snickering behind your back at how you let your fat bottom hang out. Teenagers with smartphones will take pics of your butt crack and post them online. Ridiculous exhibitionists, have you no shame!”

I pictured myself at my oldest kid’s upcoming basketball game, how I’ll be sitting in the bleachers, pants slipping down my hips, everyone behind me staring at my butt.

“Oh, Stena, you may now stop sucking on the dildo that has been up Lanie’s ass.”

I started to return to the dressing room with the others when I felt Miss Kusse restrain me with the leash.

“Not you, Lanie! I’m afraid you neglected to read your club contract closely enough. Achterwerk Club trainers may, at their discretion, demand that novices undergo additional, individualized instruction, if the need arises. You have proven to be a very naughty girl, Lanie, bratty and ill-disciplined. I know exactly when your children will return home from school. Until then, our nannies have plenty of time for a feeding and an afternoon nap. You will now be visiting the club nursery. It’s time to treat you like the big baby you are.”

I was shocked. The nursery! What did that mean? I wanted to go home, to clean myself off, to be normal again. Still shaking from my ordeal on the bike, I started to break down into hot, sniffling tears. Still, no matter how hesitant, uncertain and frightened I was in my mind, I knew that I had to obey. I am a big baby. Miss Kusse is right—Lanie is a very naughty girl, a big-bottomed, willful brat.

Miss Kusse gave me another hard spank.

“Hush, you spoiled child! Quiet yourself with this.”

She plugged a pacifier in between my trembling lips.

Leading me forward at the end of a leash, Miss Kusse brought me to the door to a room that smelled overpoweringly of talcum powder and baby-wipes.

“You will be amazed, Lanie, at the kinds of perverse things men like to watch online. I am afraid that by Wednesday’s session you will be riding your bike with an irritating case of diaper rash on your big lazy bum.”

With a smart, encouraging slap on my ass, Miss Kusse opened the door and led me in.

Before my body completely crumpled into a full-blown, screaming tantrum, I heard Miss Kusse exclaim, “Look, Lanie, we have the cutest onesies for you!”