Abigail and the Pole

ABIGAIL AND THE POLE

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She had thought that pole dancing was only for strippers, and that as a feminist she should object to it, but her friends kept telling her that it was great for fitness, a genuine skilled artform, and that it made them feel really empowered.

Sceptical but interested, Abigail searched online, and found an advertisement for “Pole Dancing for Feminists”, which sounded like the sort of thing she was after.

Classes were Wednesdays at 7 pm. She attended her first one, and found herself in a group of around ten attractive professional-looking women seated on chairs in a dance studio. She was surprised to see the instructor was a man, but she decided to wait and see what the course was like.

The instructor told them they’d be watching a video today. Some of the women who had been to previous classes smiled happily at this news. The instructor distributed sets of large headphones to all the women. Abigail put hers on, and discovered they shut out all sounds except a kind of faint, persistent static. Then the instructor dimmed the lights, and started of a film on a large flatscreen.

That was all Abigail remembered of the class. After that it was a blank.

The next day a package arrived at Abigail’s office. It was a stripper pole and stage. She cleared the rest of her calendar and spent the rest of the day erecting the pole in a corner of her office. It was only at the end of the day, when it was set up, that she realised she’d stripped naked at some point in the process. She blushed, and put her clothes back on, and felt very grateful that as a consultant, no one ever entered her office except by appointment.

The next day she started her work day by doing what she thought of as her homework – watching pole dancing videos. She didn’t quite remember when she’d been told to do this, but she knew it was very important. She spent almost an hour browsing the internet and bookmarking videos. She noticed that she felt reluctant to go find videos of girls pole dancing while clothed. Instead she was browsing porn sites, finding videos of nude strippers. The girls in these videos had big fake tits, and they often masturbated as they danced, or started or ended their act by fucking a woman or a man on stage.

Once she’d found a good range of videos, Abigail found it difficult to close them again. For the rest of the day – and for every day thereafter – there was always a nude big-titted stripper dancing or fucking in the corner of her desktop, even when she had a client. She found herself blushing intensely in every meeting she had, and of course never let her clients see her computer screen.

Sometimes, in the middle of the day, Abigail would have an irresistible urge to practice her pole dancing. She’d get up, and begin twirling around the pole, climbing up it, wrapping her legs around it, dropping to her knees in front of it. Usually she would find herself taking off her clothing as she danced. She wasn’t very good at the dancing yet, but she assumed she would get better. When these urges came, she was completely unable to resist them, and each day she thanked her lucky stars that they hadn’t come while she was meeting with a client.

It was on the fourth day that she realised what was triggering her urge to dance. It was coming whenever she had a feminist thought.

She seen a fashion ad in which a woman was kneeling at the feet of a well-dressed man, and had thought, “God, that’s so sexist” – and moments later she had gotten up, stripped nude, and rubbed her tits against the stripper pole.

She had read a news article about male lawmakers legislating women’s reproductive rights, and become furious – and then the next thing she knew she was was naked, her pussy was wet, and she was sliding her dripping cunt up and down the stripper pole until half of it was lubricated with her arousal.

She had seen an ad in her internet browser for a plastic surgeon that said “Be what men want”, with a picture of a pair of fake tits, and immediately closed the browser tab – and gone to kneel naked on the stage and passionately lick the pole with her tongue.

She had a dim awareness of what had happened to her now. She must have been hypnotised at that class. It hadn’t been feminist pole dancing – it had been a trap to lure in feminists and program degrading suggestions into their brains.

How dare they, she thought – and then found herself pulling off her clothes, approaching the pole, and wrapping her legs and tits around it like it was her lover…

Over the next few days, she fought her hypnotic suggestions hard, but it just resulted in her spending most of each day humping the stripper pole while naked.

When Wednesday came, she wanted to scream in frustration as she found herself getting into her car and driving back to the dance studio for another lesson.

It was the same as before – headphones and a video. She tried to shout and throw the headphones away, but instead she just smiled a vapid bimbo-ish smile and thanked the male instructor for teaching her to pole dance. And then her brain turned off, and she went blank.

The next day a stage and a pole arrived for her house, too, and Abigail assembled them that night in her lounge room. Once again, she constructed them nude, and this time she found herself deliberately opening the front curtains of her house so people could see her as she walked. She whimpered at this, but couldn’t stop herself, and blushed each time somebody walked by and goggled at the naked slut constructing a stripper pole in public view. When it was done, she felt the overwhelming need to hump her cunt against the smooth metal until she orgasmed, and then lick her pussy juices from the pole with her tongue until it was clean again.

She continued to strip and dance whenever she had a feminist thought, and she was at least pleased to see that her dancing was getting better. But she had a new compulsion now too. Whenever she had a degrading thought about herself, she would immediately write it down on a notepad. Her eyes would drift to this list of thoughts during the day, reading them again and again, and then when she did her next pole dance she would find herself saying them out loud.

“I’m a slut,” she said, as she rubbed her tits against the metal pole. “I’m a stupid bimbo. I’m a whore who can’t stop herself from fucking a stripper pole. I don’t deserve respect. It’s my own fault that this has happened to me. Intelligent women don’t cum from humping a stripper pole. I was always a slut and these lessons have just brought it out.” She hated that her pussy was so wet as she said these degrading things.

Eventually, the inevitable happened – she had a feminist thought while meeting a client. A large, wealthy heavyset businessman turned up for an appointment, and said, “Nice to meet you, sweetcheeks.” She bristled at the term “sweetcheeks”, and was about to coldly tell him that she was nobody’s “sweetcheeks” – but instead she found herself taking a few sexy steps backwards, and peeling off her shirt.

“I’m really a slut who can’t control herself,” she heard herself say. “If I didn’t secretly want to be raped, my pussy wouldn’t be so wet.”

The businessman’s eyes bulged out of his head. “This is unexpected, sugar,” he said.

Abigail turned red, and willed herself to stop, but instead she just smiled and said, “I’m a silly little bimbo who does stupid slutty things. I’m a traitor to my gender, really.”

And everything after that was predictable. She stripped nude in front of this man she didn’t even know. She flashed him her fuckhole, and cupped her tits for him, and then danced on the pole, rubbing it against her cunt, between her tits. She climbed up the pole, and then went upside down on it, her legs spread, her gaping pussy on full display. All the time she was saying, “If I deserved respect, I wouldn’t be doing this. Spreading my pussy for a stranger is all I’m good for. No girl who had rights and was allowed to say no would act like this.”

When it was over, he raped her – if you could call it rape. You probably couldn’t, she thought, for while she definitely didn’t want to be fucked, especially by this man, her pussy was sopping wet, and she didn’t resist, and in fact she kept saying things like, “This is what I deserve. This is all I am good for.”

When it was over, and he had ejaculated in her pussy – after Abigail, to her shame, had orgasmed herself no less than three times – he walked around her to wipe his cock clean on her face.

And as Abigail stared at the hard, thick, bouncing phallus, a funny thought came to her – that this cock was more important than anything she had ever thought or done. Every “intelligent thought” she had ever had was just a fiction next to the reality of this penis. This man had raped her – but a man with a penis like this should be able to rape whoever he wanted.

The penis, she realised, was her god. It deserved to be worshipped. And her stripper pole was the temple where she made her prayers.

She numbly let him make another appointment with her – for “more of the same” – and when he was gone she didn’t clean his cum off. That would disrespect the cock she now knew was her master. She had to just let it drip out of her, naturally.

A thought flashed through her mind – “How can you do this? You’re a feminist…” – and then of course she had to dance again. In the process of dancing, and humping her cunt against the pole, she smeared the man’s sperm all over the metal, and then at the end she lovingly licked every last sticky drop off again with her tongue.

When she went back to the class on the following Wednesday, they moved her to an “advanced class”. Here, all the women were naked, and Abigail stripped obediently to join them. The instructor took out his cock and let every woman have a few quick sucks on it before he gave them the headphones. Each and every women – Abigail included – looked bitterly disappointed when he pulled his cock away from their lips and moved on.

Abigail welcomed the blankness that followed.

The next morning Abigail went to a plastic surgery clinic. When she came out, her tits were two sizes larger, and visibly fake.

She found herself experiencing new sensations when she felt objectified – which, with her new bulging fuckbags, was very often. When she became aware people were seeing her as a sexual object, she simultaneously felt overwhelming shame and humiliation – and intense and urgent arousal – and a deep feeling of happiness and satisfaction, like this was the way things *should* be. At one trip to a shopping centre to buy new clothes to fit her oversized new fuckballoons, she felt like so much of a ridiculous whore that she couldn’t even make it to the bathrooms before she had to masturbate, and ended up fingering her pussy desperately to orgasm while facing a wall and hoping no one could tell what she was doing.

She went to a sex shop and bought a range of big fake cocks. The salesgirl tried to sell her some traditional vibrators and a Hitachi, but Abigail was clear that they had to *look* like cocks. As soon as the transaction was complete and the cocks were paid for, Abigail jammed one into her mouth. It felt so good to have her mouth around a cock.

After that, Abigail found herself sucking on the fake cocks around the clock. She sucked on them as she walked, at her desk, and even on the bus. (The sense of disgust and shame she had felt from people staring at her as she fellated a rubber cock on the back seat of the bus had been so overwhelming that she’d had to masturbate right there, in front of all the passengers, while crying with humiliation.) At night, she fell asleep suckling happily on a fake penis.

Her obsession with the cocks started off as merely oral, but soon she was also stuffing them into her pussy and anus. They were ludicrously large and thick, and it felt pleasantly uncomfortable and painful to have them stretching her cunt and ass, particularly if she walked around with them inside her. She couldn’t remotely fit the entire length inside her, so while sitting she would end up in a kind of awkward half-crouch with the base of the cocks against the chair and her pussy suspended a few inches above it. If she left them in her while walking around – which she often did – the bases pushed her panties out so far that it was obvious to anyone that she had something in her cunt and ass.

Whenever she could, Abigail would rotate the cocks, bringing one from her pussy or anus to her mouth to savour the taste of it, while moving the one she had just been sucking on to take its place.

She stripped and danced in front of another five clients that week. Three of them raped her. She orgasmed every time. Each of them booked another appointment for “more of the same”.

“I’m a worthless slut because I cum from being raped,” she would tell them as she rubbed her huge fake tits on the stripper pole. “I take off my clothes for people I don’t even know. I suck on rubber cocks like a brainless fuckdoll. I can’t think of any reason why I deserve to be respected or listened to.”

At night she danced nude in her lounge room with the windows open and the lights on, and then masturbated to orgasm in front of the crowd that gathered to watch.

Another Wednesday came and went. She loved it when her mind when blank. When she was blank she didn’t have to think about what a stupid slut she was and how she was a traitor to her gender. She had the vague feeling that during her blank she had fucked some of the other girls in the class, and that the instructor had filmed it. She didn’t care.

She stopped wearing clothes at all. “Getting dressed” meant high heels, stockings, earrings, lipstick, make-up and nothing else. If she absolutely couldn’t get away with being nude – such as on the bus – she would wear a skimpy micro-bikini, taking care to ensure that the crotch went between her pussy lips rather than over them, and that her nipples were visible through the fabric.

Boxes started arriving at her home and office, full of bottles of white fluid. A note informed her it was human semen. She didn’t ask where it came from. She knew the dance class had sent it. And she knew what to do with it.

She smeared it on her stripper pole before she danced, so she’d feel the cum on her pussy and tits as she danced, and be able to lick the delicious substance off afterwards. She smeared it on her cocks before they went into her mouth or pussy or ass. Sometimes she just squirted some up her pussy and let it drip out over the following hour. If she had a meeting with a client who she thought might still respect her, she’d smear a little on her face and tits before he arrived, although usually just the fact that she was nude would deal with that issue.

Her repeat clients from last week came back, and raped her again, and made new appointments. Her existing clients either raped her, or stopped making new appointments. Soon she was able to look at her appointment book and see that all her appointments into the future were all men who didn’t care about her professional skills and just wanted to rape her. She had become a prostitute.

When she didn’t have a client, she just spent her time sucking on her plastic cock and watching porn on the internet. When she came across a sex act that she found particularly frightening or degrading, she would make a note of it. The next time she was raped, she would thank the man for raping her – staring adoringly at his cock, which her world revolved around – and then she would suggest that next time he do whatever sex act that she secretly least wanted him to perform on her, thus ensuring that over time her rapings became steadily more painful and degrading.

All of this behaviour led to her falling out of touch with her old friends. When she received a social media message from Jenny – a girl she had been friends with since primary school – asking if she was okay, she didn’t know what to do with it. She stared at it dumbly, still sucking her rubber cock.

She was a bimbo fuckdoll. Jenny was a nice girl. They couldn’t be friends. If Jenny saw what she was today, Jenny would kick her in the cunt and the tits and spit on her and call her a whore.

Slowly, she typed, “I’m doing okay – how about you?”

“Doing well,” replied Jenny. “I’m hoping to get fit, though. Need to lose some weight! Just for myself – don’t care what men think.”

Abigail stared at the screen again, and sucked on her rubber cock.

Then she typed, “You should come to the pole dancing class I go to. It’s incredibly empowering. I’d love to see you there. Please?”

She stared at the screen, waiting nervously for the reply.

“Sure! Give me the time and date!” came the reply, finally.

“I am stupid. I am a cunt. I am the reason women deserve to be raped,” Abigail whispered to herself as she sent Jenny the details. And then, like the slut she was, she orgasmed.

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Author’s Note: If you enjoyed this story, you can support my writing – plus get e-book story collections – at my creator site at AllTheseRoadworks.com!

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