“A lot of people coming in to see me as a dominatrix were morbidly obese and apologizing for the way they looked,” Victoria explains. “I figured it was time to do something about it.”

Plus-size men in leather panties aside, a sagging economy has also been a factor in the creation of this unique fitness regimen. “Slavercise lets me reach people for a lower fee,” Victoria says. At just $20 for the hour-long group class, Slavercise allows its participants to take their lumps at a fraction of what it would cost to get slapped around by Victoria in her private dungeon.

Desperately out of shape and not entirely opposed to the idea of a sexy beating, I decided to swing by Slavercise’s weekly session at Manhattan’s Musical Theatre Works for a bit of the rough stuff.

As I waited in the hallway with my fellow Slavercisers for a martial arts class to empty out, it wasn’t hard to guess who showed up to exercise and who showed up to do whatever a beautiful and petite blonde in a leather miniskirt, fishnet stockings and stiletto heels told them to.

Nick, a young copywriter from Manhattan wearing athletic shorts and a tank top, for example, could have easily passed for one of the guys I saw pounding the treadmills at Crunch down the block. Ed, a chunky lawyer from Queens wearing gray sweat pants and black leather work shoes, on the other hand, probably had a bit more than burning calories on his mind. In the brand-new running shoes and nylon pants I had recently bought while suffering from the delusion that I was going to take up jogging, I suppose I had a bit in common with both of them.

Mistress Victoria arrived at the class in pulled-back hair, a light blue jacket, black slacks and sporty slip-on sneakers. She could have easily passed for an off-duty Gap employee. That impression quickly faded when she stripped down to her skimpy black leather ensemble and began calling me a “pussy” a whole lot more than most retail salespeople I’ve encountered.

“You all look so pathetic,” Victoria announced, signaling it was time for the fun to begin.

While the notion of combining a fitness class with S/M may seem horribly misguided at first, I was surprised how much sense it made once the class got underway. The effect is not unlike attending a boot camp run by an especially sexy drill sergeant.

“I’m gonna kick you in the ‘nads,” Mistress Victoria bellowed as I struggled my way through a short set of push-ups. I’m not sure whether it was my strong desire to get into shape or simply my fear of castration at work, but somehow her words inspired me to keep going. Were I not a gentleman, I might also point out that every time Mistress Victoria leaned forward to demonstrate a particular exercise, it was not entirely difficult to see right down her leather top.

Tight outfits, a sultry demeanor and a penchant for name-calling aren’t the only things Victoria brings to the picture. As a licensed personal trainer and group fitness instructor, she has made Slavercise a solid workout. Squats, lunges, crunches, suicide sprints and stretching exercises all factor heavily into the routine. Being forced to plant wet kisses on her ass while doing sit-ups is what made it so different from my high school gym class.

“A whip-wielding woman in heels is a lot more intimidating than a typical aerobics teacher,” Victoria says. “And even if it’s just entertaining for people, if it brings them out to exercise, it’s a good thing.”

A woman with a whip can also get people to do pretty much whatever she wants. It is not uncommon for Slavercisers to be forced to oink like a pig on command or be made to wear a pig snout to enhance the effect. I also found out that if Mistress Victoria decides she wants to ride you like a horse while you’re on the ground doing leg stretches, it’s best to shut up and make like Seattle Slew.

Even an ill-tempered equestrian like Mistress Victoria knows about limits, though. Should either the push-ups or her repeated suggestion that I may indeed lack properly functioning genitalia prove too much to handle, I need only utter the word “mercy,” and she is happy to stop the abuse. Saying things like “Stop, you’re hurting me!” “Heart disease runs in my family!” or “I am not a mischievous pony!” however, will most likely just aggravate matters. When the fitness buff next to me let out a few groans during a particularly harrowing toe-touching exercise, Mistress Victoria reacted by shoving one of her pointy heels deep into his mouth.

“Suck it!” she demanded repeatedly as I began to ask myself whether I should have signed up for the introductory ballet class next door instead. I was afraid Mistress Victoria might coerce me into doing a little heel-sucking of my own, but in a rare act of benevolence, she simply walked over and smacked my ass a couple of times.

Mistress Victoria’s softer side shone through again when she allowed one wiped-out student to take a break from the action and puke all over his sweat pants. Moments earlier she had forced him to don a pink ballerina tutu as punishment for finishing last in the suicide sprints.

In addition to helping people attain their fitness goals, Mistress Victoria is also quick to point out the romantic benefits of breaking a sweat.

“It’s true what they say about pheromones, you know,” she intimated to me after class. “I have a friend that rubs fresh crotch sweat on his face in order to attract women, and he gets laid constantly.”

I thought about expressing my disbelief at Mistress Victoria’s story. Then I remembered how this was the same woman who threatened to “kick me in the ‘nads” an hour earlier, so instead I just told her that I’d be rubbing nut sweat on my cheeks as soon as I got the chance.

Those not fortunate enough to experience the unique motivation of Mistress Victoria in person have the Slavercise video to look forward to. Available later this year via her Web site, the video features the shapely dominatrix leading the Easter Bunny, a businessman wearing a pig snout, Al Gore and the requisite guy in a leather mask all down the road to wellness. Imagine stumbling upon someone’s home footage of a really creepy costume party while flipping down your cable dial late one night, and you start to get the picture.

“This video is for the really fat losers who haven’t worked out in a long time,” Victoria clarifies with the kind of attitude you’d expect from a woman who works out in five-inch heels. “The classes are definitely more challenging than the video because there’s no wimping out in class.”

A “Slavercise: Beat the Fat” cookbook is also in the works. In addition to low-fat recipes, the book will feature quick workout tips, a guide to table service and etiquette, and — I’m hoping — at least a few clever rump-roast references.

But all this brand marketing doesn’t mean Mistress Victoria has forgotten individual needs. Upon registration, Slavercisers are asked to specify their favorite fetishes as well as to decide how much physical and verbal punishment they’d like to see headed their way or whether they would prefer simply to delight in the misfortune of others.

“A foot fetishist is more likely to get in that extra push-up if he’s kissing feet while doing so,” Victoria explains.

Still, there’s only so much you can do within the confines of a group fitness class. It’s anyone’s guess how Mistress Victoria might handle a Slavercise visit from one of her regular dungeon clients, a trailblazing gentleman with a thing for dressing up in full geisha attire and shoving hard-boiled eggs up his ass.

That, one can only assume, is another class altogether.

As I headed back out onto Lafayette Street after class, I was sweaty and sore. More than anything else, however, I felt invigorated. Sure, I was nearly brought to tears while trying to complete a few basic calisthenics. And sure, Mistress Victoria made me wear that pink tutu after I had made fun of that guy who puked on himself. But if it all means that I get to have a little fun while trying to whip my body back into shape, then I guess Im happy to be Mistress Victoria’s little bitch for a while.

Enter FoxWolfie Galen.

Galen, 39, whom I met thanks to the magic of the Internet, is a self-described computer nerd from Erie, Pa., who counts himself among a unique sect of stuffed-animal enthusiasts known as “plushophiles.” Not to be confused with a “furry” (someone who finds delight in anthropomorphic animal characters), Galen is quick to point out, a plushophile is someone whose affections for stuffed animals — or “plushies,” as they are referred to in this scene — reach a level that some might consider beyond standard. It is not uncommon for plushophiles to engage in assorted sexual activities with their little stuffed friends — and Galen is no exception.

I’ve always held an appreciation for delicate-care fabrics, so I can certainly relate to this on some level. Still, I’ve yet to cross the line with a stuffed animal — or even a down jacket, for that matter — so when I randomly stumbled across Galen’s home page (among a seemingly endless string of Web sites and Internet news groups devoted to plushophilia) during a routine evening of Internet browsing, I couldn’t resist dropping him a line. Soon, phone numbers were exchanged, and before long the amiable Keystone State resident and I found ourselves chatting away like two old friends — one of whom likes to have sex with stuffed animals. My delight was interrupted only by a nagging fear that my mother might pick up the other line at any moment.

“It started probably when I was 6 or 7 years old,” Galen tells me, diving into the topic. “I guess when you’re in your early years, … you’re trying to figure out what works and what doesn’t, [and] I just discovered that plushies worked.”

I can’t help being impressed by his resourcefulness, but now I’ve really got some questions. I think back to my early years in elementary school and the endless string of crushes I had on my female classmates. I assume Galen has similar memories. I am wrong.

“Women didn’t faze me,” Galen says of his formative years. “I just figured I was into something better.”

I try my best to maintain a methodical, “Yes, I see” kind of approach to our conversation, but there’s a voice in the back of my head that keeps reminding me that this guy — to use street vernacular — fucks stuffed animals. I decide I just can’t wait any longer to get the real lowdown.

“So, um, how do you have sex with a stuffed animal?” I ask, as my last shred of innocence crawls from my body and storms out of the room. I had been looking forward to my conversation with Galen for several days now, but there’s no way I could have anticipated the feeling of genuine excitement that washed over me after saying these words out loud for the first time.

“Well, none of mine have an SPA (plushophile-speak for “strategically placed appendage”), Galen begins. “It’s been thought of a couple of times, but part of the difficulty would be constructing one and not having it fall off the plushie. That’s a problem people have dwelled on for a long time.”

Stuffed animals with dildos? He has my attention now. I’m hanging on Galen’s every word while simultaneously straining to hear anything that might suggest the rustling of synthetic fur on the other end of the line.

“It’s usually just cuddling and rubbing with me,” he continues matter-of-factly. “There’s usually no need for the penetration.”

I find myself oddly disappointed with Galen’s erotic strategies at first, but then I quickly remember something I had read on his Web site about a “strategically placed hole.” I decide to investigate.

“Um, I’ve read something about an ‘SPH,’” I tell him, dropping some plushie parlance of my own.

“Most of mine don’t have an SPH, but some do,” Galen explains, as my face settles back into stunned mode once again. “It’s not a requirement for me — if it’s there I’ll use it and, if not, I’m just as happy without it.”

I admire Galen’s happy-go-lucky attitude, but picturing all of this in my head, I can’t help feeling concerned about the messy cleanup all of this plushie love must involve.

“It all depends on what you allow to happen to them,” Galen tells me, in a sentence that speaks volumes about stuffed-animal maintenance. “Some people wear condoms for complete protection.” I don’t ask.

“I’m not meticulous at all myself,” Galen says of his own approach to post-coital plushie cleanup.

This last comment is only mildly unsettling, until Galen reports that he owns more than 1,000 stuffed animals, some as large as 4 feet tall. That’s a lot of matted fur!

And 1,000 stuffed animals is pretty impressive no matter what you’ve got planned for them. Were we better acquainted, I might start calling him “Loverman” or “Wilt Chamberlain” or something — or maybe ask him if the fact that his roommate’s stuffed-animal collection tops out at a mere 400 is the source of any tension around the apartment. But all of this strikes me as inappropriate at the moment.

Lest I get the wrong idea, Galen is quick to point out that not all of the stuffed animals in his collection are sexual partners. “It’s basically the same as with people,” Galen says in explaining how he chooses his lucky winners. “Some you’re attracted to sexually and some you’re not.”

The majority of Galen’s plushie collection is fair game for erotic encounters, however. “I really don’t have too many that I would prefer to leave on a shelf. If they’re just for that, what’s the point in buying them?” he says. I don’t argue.

Topping Galen’s list of preferred partners is the Mattel-made “Meeko,” a cuddly stuffed-animal version of the winsome raccoon film buffs might remember from box-office smash “Pocahontas.” Meeko, Galen tells me, is the stuffed animal of choice on the plushophile scene.

“It’s shaped in a way that it can be used as a pillow, so right there you got a pillow,” Galen offers enthusiastically of the artificial rodent’s overwhelming popularity. I’m listening.

“It’s the softness, the shape and the expression on his face. Also, for those that do put SPHs on him, the seam on the stomach is lined up real well, so the modification is easy,” Galen continues. “It’s the perfect plush!”

(Note: When I called Mattel to inquire further into Meeko’s high standing in the plushophile community, an anonymous Mattel customer service representative explained simply, “Well, he is a cute little guy.”)

Naturally, with all this talk of erections in the presence of stuffed animals, the topic of bestiality eventually wriggles its way into our conversation. And much to my relief, Galen — like the majority of the plushophile community — doesn’t “go that way.” No, when it comes time to getting down to business with Meeko or one of his several stuffed bunny rabbits, Galen has something else entirely on his mind.

“I look at it like if there was a plushie that was 4 feet tall, it would come to life — or sometimes I think of the plushies as miniature people in fur suits [mascot uniforms],” Galen says of the lovemaking dynamic. “But it’s not like I’m thinking of miniature people really,” he adds, beating me to my next question.

Even a guy with 1,000 potential sexual partners at his disposal gets bored every once in a while, though. Occasionally, Galen likes to up the ante by slipping into one of the aforementioned fur suits when it comes time for romance. Having spent the afternoon in a furry dragon costume once during my years in undergraduate study, I can imagine how this sort of thing might spice up a relationship. But the dry-cleaning bills would kill you. What’s more, Galen tells me, a really good mascot uniform can easily cost several thousand dollars. Think about that next time you find yourself bitching about the price of a nice dinner for two.

Hot mascot uniform sex or not, there’s still the issue of that awkward headgear to consider. Mild discomfort is only to be expected when leading a few cheers or navigating through crowded bleachers, but gearing up for a bit of the nasty with one of these things on is another thing entirely.

“Everybody into fur suits finds out it gets hot very fast, especially if you have the kind with full head — you just don’t last very long,” Galen laments. “Some people have fans in their suits.”

Galen isn’t blind to the importance of compromise in such situations. “It would be nice if you could keep the head on, but sometimes it’s just as good with the head off,” he tells me. “It’s generally preferable to have all the parts on, though.”

And mascot uniform sex is not without its hazards.

“You can’t ever go up to a professional mascot at a sporting event and make an assumption that they’d be into that sort of thing because there’s a chance you could be very wrong,” Galen warns me, as if I had told him I was about to make a beeline for the nearest ballpark, armed with a pair of box-seat tickets and a pickup line involving some clever reference to a “double-header.” Then again, where’s my batboy uniform when I really need it?

It seems foolish to ask at this point, but I can’t help wondering whether other humans ever manage to work their way into Galen’s more private moments.

“I’m not interested in just human-human [sex]; it’s gotta be human-plushie-human,” he says. “The person would have to be interested in plush.” True, it is important for lovers to have something in common.

Galen and I end our conversation with a few parting pleasantries, and as soon as I hang up the phone, I find myself drawn into the attic of my boyhood home. As I reach the top of the attic stairs, my eyes settle on an old friend. There, nestled between piles of dusty old books and a handful of forgotten unmentionables, sits the companion of my youth, a stuffed yellow dog named Petey.

I quickly grab Petey and cradle him in my arms, doing my best to shoot him a come-hither glance while adjusting my trousers. “Will Petey understand how much my needs have changed after all these years?” I wonder to myself. I try to set the mood a bit by winding up the music box lodged in Petey’s back, only to be disappointed that the muted calliope music emanating from beneath his fur isn’t even close to the funky, wah-wah guitar I generally require at such intimate moments.

I set Petey back in his place, resigned to the notion that we’re better off remaining “just friends.” And if we’ve learned anything from this brief flirtation, it’s that — given the possibilities we now know exist in our relationship — that missing eye of his was never really such a big deal after all.