Turning the wheel

The chamber we enter is as dimly-lit and dingy as the corridor outside, dirt and grime spattering the floor, the air feeling as hot as a sauna. In the very center of the room, a sturdy metal pole travels from the ceiling to the floor. Four equidistant two-meter-long bars stick out from the pole at waist height. A tall man waits for us, brandishing a leather strap in his hand. He's almost completely naked--only wearing an executioner's hood over his head and a skimpy loincloth that does little to hide his raging erection.

"These are the bitches?" he asks.

"Yep," says the lead security guard. The four men remove Tracey and me from the coffle, shackle our wrists, and attach the shackles to two of the bars. I'm trapped in position, leaning forward, my hands resting on the bar.

"Don't spare them," says one of the security guards as the three of them take their leave, exiting the room through the same door we entered.

"Right!" says loincloth man. "Get moving, scum!" I push forward on the bar. There's a lot of resistance, but it does move, turning slowly, rotating the pole. Tracey starts pushing as well--from her position directly opposite me--and the whole contraption begins to spin more easily, the two of us tracing a circle in the dirt. My bare feet and shins are becoming filthy, spattered in mud and other foul substances, but that's the least of my concerns right now.

"Come on, bitches! Pick up the pace!" The man brings the leather strap down on my ass, hard. I yelp and push harder on the bar, really putting my shoulders into it. Tracey is not spared either, when she comes into whipping range on the next cycle.

"What's this pole do?" she grunts after several minutes of exertion. The man whips her ass three times in quick succession, eliciting a sharp cry.

"Dumb cunts don't get to ask questions! Shut your mouth and push!"

"Yes, master," Tracey says, her voice breathy--and a little aroused? I look over at her face suspiciously. She's glowing. This abuse, this backbreaking, demeaning labor... Is it turning her on? Some recent memories rise unbidden to my mind--me lying in bed, late at night, trying to ignore the muffled sounds filtering through the apartment walls--slaps, screams, moans--from those "sessions" she and Robbie like to practice in her room. It seems the assessment has pegged her desires pretty well.

Unfortunately, I've been dragged along. I'm pretty sure this is not my greatest sexual fantasy.

The work continues, interminable, miserable, minute after minute. The sweat pours off my body, further dampening the dirt beneath my feet, turning everything into mud. I hope someone remembers to give us water. My mind starts to turn feverish. Is this really pretend? Will it end after a few hours? Is it possible...I've walked into a trap? That I'm now a slave for real, sentenced to be trapped in this hell for days, weeks, months, years? I can almost believe it.