House of Pain - Chapters 1-4

Author's note:

Hello! If there's ever a time when you get to see a book being written, live, as it happens, House of Pain is it. I've posted Chaps 1-4 on Literotica just to get some kind of reader response. (I love reader responses! Please, write to me! I love comments! You hate my work? You love it? Let me know!)

Anyway, Chaps 1-4 of House of Pain are on Lit, and I thought, as with Teaching Maya, they might as well be on my blog as well. Enjoy the free preview!

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House of Pain (A BDSM Romance Novel)

By Tara Crescent

Text copyright © 2013 Tara Crescent

All Rights Reserved

Chapter 1

It is an unobtrusive storefront in an ‘up-and-coming part’ of Toronto. The shop windows are tinted; the door is painted black. There is a discreet, hand-lettered sign tucked in a corner of the window. “Sex toys available.” It is lettered in sophisticated calligraphy, the elegance of the penmanship not matching the words on the sign. There is no other sign on the store front. Nothing else to indicate what the store sells.

I am fascinated. I bite my lip in slight nervous tension; do a hasty sweep of the street with my eyes. I don’t recognise anyone. It is a bright summer afternoon; everyone is going about their business with the usual bustle of a big city. I am trapped in the moment; a mote dancing in the sunlight. I am the cat that is about to get burned for my curiosity. I push the door and walk in.

Most sex stores are similar. They are seedy; there’s a booth in the back; there are men who shuffle around, carefully not making eye contact. This one? This is a temple.

Discreet spotlights highlight the sex toys on display, and these are not the dildos you find in Victoria’s Secret. The dildos are made of steel and wood, they are displayed on pedestals, and each one is huge. I feel like I’m in a museum; I look around for the ‘Do Not Touch’ signs, and inwardly giggle. A giggle of pure nervousness. I’m reacting to the atmosphere of this place, and it is turning me on.

My eyes are drawn to a huge steel fist. Surely that can’t go inside a person, I think in horror. It has to be at least fifteen inches long, and about three inches of thickness. I gulp. My pussy, on cue, begins to moisten.

I wander around the store in silence. There is a man in the corner who must work in the store. He looked up when I walked in; nodded in greeting, but he hasn’t said anything yet.

Another wall has whips. I can feel my pussy react to the possibility of pain; I am creaming in my panties, and I’m convinced I smell of arousal. Each whip is mounted on the wall; spotlights catching the leather; the leather sparkles under the light. My hand reaches out, mesmerized. I touch a flogger, imaging the leather strands being dragged over my skin, before it is cruelly brought down on my body. My entire face flushes; my lips part very slightly.

The man sitting in the corner eyes me expressionlessly. I can tell he knows how aroused I am. I want to flee. I find myself pulled towards him.

“Do you want to see the back?”

His voice is smooth, easy. Like a fine wine, with hints of depth. Warning bells start to ring in my mind; but that’s the good girl in me. Right now, I’m ignoring her. I am a moth drawn to the flame.

“Yes.” The merest whisper.

He moves out from behind the counter. Walks over to the back, opens a door. I walk in.

It is a small auditorium. Perhaps twenty seats. He flicks a couple of switches, and spotlights light the stage. The place feels intimate, dangerous.

“What happens here?” I ask in an undertone. “Sex shows?” I’m a little surprised; Toronto is an unlikely city for live sex shows.

“No. No sex. Just pain.” His words are direct.

He looks at me; his eyes wandering all over my body. They linger on my breasts. My nipples are erect, visible under the thin sundress I’m wearing.

“What’s your name?” he asks me.

“Sara.” Run, Sara, run, the warnings scream in my head. There is danger here; not in this man, or in this place, but in the way my body is responding to this place. I’m helpless here; this place fulfils some secret hidden longing in me, and I have a feeling that if the man standing in front of me orders me to sink to my knees and suck him off; I would obey. There’s something in the air; something that’s bringing out every secret erotic fantasy I’ve had.

He silently hands me a business card.

House of Pain.

There is a phone number underneath.

“What do you mean, just pain?” I whisper.

“People pay to watch,” he waves his arms towards the seat, “while I whip a girl.” He sees the look in my eyes. I’m mesmerized by the idea of being whipped under the spotlight by this man. He hands me a sheet. “These are the current rates. Call me if you are interested.”

There’s a dismissal in his voice. He’s made his pitch; it is now up to me to act.

I leave. My eyes squint in the bright sunlight outside; the interior of the shop had been dim. The traffic, the city noise, the pedestrians darting about, all feel strange after the feel of the shop. I walk along in a daze, walk into a nearby coffee shop. I need to sit down.

I realize I’m still clutching the sheet he handed me. I don’t even know his name. It isn’t the guy that’s causing the reaction in me though; it’s the place. House of Pain. The words hold a world of promise.

Reading the contents of the sheet, I feel wetness trickle out of my pussy. The sheet reminds me of the slips of paper in most sushi places – you fill in what you want; and how many. This sheet lists acts –bare-bottom spanking, whipping (bottom), whipping (breasts and nipples), whipping (pussy), caning, electricity (breasts and nipples), electricity (pussy), and much more. I feel my face flush again; my forehead has a sheen of sweat on it.

There are also rates. Taking 20 bare-bottom swats will pay out $10. 10 strokes with the flogger on my breasts, and I’ll get paid $30. There’s a footnote at the bottom of the sheet. Minimum order $200. I gulp. That’s four hundred bare-bottom swats; a world of pain.

My coffee cools next to me, forgotten. My nipples brush against my sundress, sending licks of longing running through me. I can feel my pussy quiver, my orgasm faint, but definite. I have come just from the idea of being whipped.

I am on autopilot. I want to call; I hesitate. Doing a sex show in a sex store? This is not me.

“There will be no sex,” a voice in my head reminds me. I’m totally drawn to the idea of being whipped under spotlights.

“You have a real life. Don’t be ridiculous. What if you run into friends there? Or your family? What then, Sara?” Practical, good-girl Sara intervenes angrily. I sigh. This will have to remain fantasy.

Two days later, I pick up my phone and call the House of Pain.

***

“Can my face be hidden somewhat?” I ask the guy. I tell myself that I’m just curious.

“No.” His voice brooks no opposition. “Watching your face contort with pain is part of what my clientele pay for.”

“Oh.” My voice is small. “I’m concerned about being recognized.”

“If you sign up, you’ll sign a non-disclosure agreement,” he says. “The clients do as well. And if you have a non-disclosure agreement, I’ll show you a list of client names for each show. That way, if you see someone on the list that you know, you can opt out.”

“Oh.” That could work. There are a thousand holes in his logic, of course – there are a lot of people with the same name, and a lot of people in the city that I know casually, but I don’t always know their last names. Still, there is a safeguard of sorts.

I am drawn. I can’t keep away from the flame, though I know there is a risk of getting burned. “How many shows do I have to do, if I sign?”

“At least one. After that, you decide if you want to come back, I’ll decide if I want you back.”

“What’s the $200 minimum?” I ask.

“I like my shows to be an hour long, that’s to make sure you pick enough things to fill up the hour.”

The warning bells are still ringing. One hour of pain. I’ve never even been spanked before, my boyfriend looking horrified when I suggested it once. This craving for pain, this is a hidden part of me, a part that has never seen the light of day.

I find myself saying, “Yes, I want to do this.”

***

I’ve asked if I can be spanked or whipped before the show, so I can prepare for the pain. John (I finally ask his name) declines. “I’ve been marketing you as a virgin to pain… the clients are really excited about you. Plus, you get a $500 bonus for it.”

I go along with him. There’s an excitement in me, excitement that for an hour, I will be at the mercy of this guy. He’s suggested I just start with the beginner mix of pain – no canes, no fisting. I bite my lip. “Fisting?” I mutter.

“I noticed you were rather captivated by the fist dildo when you first came in.” His voice is amused.

He had been watching me. I flush. “We’ll work our way up to it, not this session,” he says kindly. 

***

I’ve been told I am to obey John without question during the show. “You can moan, cry, scream in pain, all of that is ok. No talking though.”

John promises there will be no sex. He will stay fully clothed during the session. The audience will as well, though they will be in darkness. I imagine some of them will be touching themselves.

I’ve proofed the list; made sure I don’t know anyone. I’m good to go.

***

I’ve reviewed my sushi menu of pain. I’m going to be spanked bare-bottom thirty times, flogged on my butt and thighs, cropped on my breasts, and most worryingly, my pussy. I survey the list. I think I’m insane.

***

It is the evening of the show. I’m wearing an old sundress. “Wear something that can be ripped,” I was told. I’ve also shaved my pussy, as instructed.

I am at in a small room off to the side of the stage. I can hear soft music playing, the shuffling of footsteps as people come in, take their seats. I have been teetering at the edge of arousal all day, but I don’t finger myself. It feels wrong. I want my arousal to come entirely from the anticipation of pain. I want to orgasm as I’m being whipped.

I hear the applause begin. That’s my cue. I walk out under the spotlight.

Chapter 2

I walk to the middle of the stage. My eyes are lowered; I don’t try to look at the audience. Not that I can, even if I want to. The lights are blinding me, making it difficult for me to see the audience at all.

“Gentlemen,” John’s voice booms, “We have something special today in store for you. Sara’s a pain virgin; she’s never been flogged or whipped before; heck, she hasn’t even been spanked before.”

Wolf-whistles fill the room.

“Sara was trying to shoplift a dildo from the store the other day…” John lies with a wink, “the fist of steel. And I asked Sara – should I call the cops, or will she take her punishment like a good girl?”

John’s working the audience expertly. I hear men cheer, whoop, holler and laugh. They are excited by my imminent punishment.

“As you can see, gentlemen, Sara opted not to involve the police…” he laughs, menace in his voice. “Though, of course, she’s going to regret that choice soon.”

My body reacts to the menace; my muscles clench. In fear, I lie to myself. I am not aroused by this.

The words are a lie; my pussy is dripping.

“Turn around.” John now instructs me. His voice is transformed; it is cold, hard and commanding. I gulp a little and obey. My back is now facing the audience; I am still clothed in my sundress. Not for long, I suspect.

On the stage are placed assorted props for use in our scene. John gestures to one which looks like a sawhorse.

“Bend over.”

The sawhorse is at waist-level for me. I bend over, my head upside down, my hair hanging loose towards the floor. The way the sawhorse is built, I have to stick my butt out towards the audience, I suspect that is intentional.

John walks around, takes each of my arms, extends them, and buckles them into cuffs set in the sawhorse. Suddenly my arms are tied down; immobile. I can squirm around, but I can’t straighten. My pussy is wet now; rejoicing in my helplessness. I close my eyes, let the sensations run through me. I allow myself to just feel.

Now I can feel John bring his palm down on my still-covered ass. I feel the blow; he has not been gentle. I bite my lips to keep myself from crying out; feel the heat radiate through me. Every muscle of my body clenches in response.

“What do you think, gentlemen, I can spank her clothed, or I can spank her bare ass.” John asks the question, fully knowing the answer he’s going to get.

I hear laughter; voices voting to see my naked ass on display. John moves to oblige. I feel him lifting my skirt up, pulling it up to my waist. I am naked underneath. I hear whistles as my ass comes into view.

“Spread your legs.” A curt order. I comply instantly. Cuffs are buckled around my ankles, my legs stretched wider, wider, till I feel muscles screaming in pain, and I am buckled to rings on the floor. I wince; but my pussy is dripping now. This firm handling is exactly what I’ve been craving.

I feel John’s hands on my ass. He pries my ass cheeks apart, exposing my naked pussy and asshole to the audience. I can hear murmuring, a couple of wolf-whistles. I flush all over; but I’m also wet. The impersonality of this experience is adding to the eroticism.

“I would like you to count out your spanks,” John orders, not waiting for an acknowledgement from me. I can feel him move, position himself at the side of the sawhorse. It isn’t the ideal bare-bottom spanking position for him; but this way, the audience gets the best view of my red ass. In show business, the audience is everything.

Whack. His hand comes down on the middle part of my right buttock, hard. Despite myself, I whimper as the pain radiates through me. The sound echoes around the room. Oh. There’s a microphone on the floor, near my head. Every sound I make will be amplified, every moan will be heard by the audience. There’s eroticism in this careful planning. My pussy drips, I can feel my juice dampen my spread-apart thighs. I flush in embarrassment; there’s no place to hide under the spotlight.

John is waiting. “One,” I say quietly. I had almost forgotten.

Whack. Another spank, at exactly the same spot. I dance in my bindings, writhing from the pain. My hiss can be heard around the room. “Two,” I whisper.

Another spank, again at exactly the same spot. I yelp this time, as the waves of pain course through me. Is he ever going to spank me anywhere else? My fists clench in their bindings. “Three,” I moan through clenched teeth.

John is now running his hand over the anguished spot, testing my reaction. Then, suddenly, his hand rises and falls again, this time at the base of my ass. “Four…” I say, through clenched teeth.

The blows are now coming strong and hard. Each blow has me dancing in pain, muscles tightening, fists clenching. My body is covered in a sheen of sweat. In between the blows, I can feel John grab my ass, pulling the cheeks apart for the audience, kneading them under his cruel fingers. I am moaning now, but I am also floating in a world where I can only feel. I count the spanks out softly; I live to obey. I have never been more alive.

And then, I count thirty. I am done.

My ass is throbbing. It feels red, tender. At the same time, I feel the arousal course through my veins; I wish I could touch myself. But I am tied; and in front of an audience. I cannot masturbate, though I desperately crave the release.

John unbuckles the cuffs holding my arms and legs in place; straightens me. My muscles are screaming in pain; begging for a pause.

“Hands and knees.” His voice is forbidding, his hand points to the side of the stage. “Let the audience see your red, spanked ass.” I do as I am told, crouch down, ass to the audience. I lift my dress up to my waist again. I hear applause; whistles. The audience appears to have enjoyed my spanking.

I can hear John move at the centre of the stage; moving equipment, wheeling stuff off and on stage. I wonder what’s coming next. My sushi menu only tells me what’s coming, not in what order.

“Get up.” Evidently, John’s done setting up. I’ve only had three minutes, maybe four to recover. I desperately hope my ass is spared for a while.

My hands are grabbed by John firmly; they are cuffed, and lifted above my head. I’m attached to a chain hanging from the ceiling. The chain is tightened; I am stretching, stretching, till John decides I’ve had enough.

I evaluate my position. I can either stand on tiptoe to ease the strain on my arm, or I can relax my feet and have my arms scream in pain. Ouch, and ouch.

Pain. Pain is on the menu tonight.

John positions me to face the audience as I stagger for balance. I’m still wearing my sundress, though not for long. John grabs a dangerous looking knife. The steel glows with a subtle sheen under the spotlight. I gulp. There is nothing about that knife that is the slightest bit reassuring.

A swift movement, and my dress is in shards. Another movement, and it is ripped off me. I am entirely naked. The rest of the stage is dim, but the spotlight shines down on me. I close my eyes, suddenly overwhelmed by what’s coming.

John is having none of this. “Keep your eyes open,” he snaps, his command punctuated by a swish of a flogger. Heat sears on my skin; the flogger has hit me on my midriff, with some tails catching the sensitive underside of my breasts. I wince in pain, dancing away, teetering for balance. The audience mutters appreciatively. They like seeing my reaction; they are enjoying watching me flee from the pain.

My pussy is soaked, a fact that hasn’t escaped John’s attention. He catches my eye; winks at me. I give him a faint smile. So far, this has been intense, but John is clearly an expert. He’s reading me well, giving me enough pain to have me teeter at the edge, but never fall.

“Gentlemen, I’m now going to flog Sara’s body…” John announces. He holds up the flogger, showing it to the audience. It is blood red in colour, the long tails made of suede.

“Sara.” John eyes me harshly. He has a piece of chalk in his hands now, and he draws a ring around me on the floor, perhaps four feet in diameter. “See the ring, Sara? You can move, but you must stay inside the ring. Understood?”

I nod quietly.

Slash. The flogger hits my breasts this time. I scream in pain, but at the same time, I can feel my body tingle with arousal. “You will verbally acknowledge my instructions.” John’s voice is cold.

“Yes Sir…” I say quietly. Tears have welled up in my eyes. I concentrate on my breathing. Breathe in. Breathe out. Relax. Let the pain flow through you.

“Gentlemen, what do you think? For each time she goes outside the circle, I think I’ll add two strokes of the flogger…”

Applause. Whistles. They agree with John.

I bite my lips. I am not expecting this; the circle was not discussed; neither were additional strokes. I find that this turns me on even more; the potential for the unexpected serves as a powerful aphrodisiac.

“You will get thirty strokes of the flogger on your body, twenty on your breasts…” John tells me. I nod.

He raises his hand, flicks his wrist expertly. The flogger slashes across my belly. It feels like fire on my skin. I squeak, jump. The noise is amplified across the room by the microphone, now hanging above my face.

The flogger rises and falls again, this time catching the underside of my breasts. I dance away, losing my balance, fighting to stop myself from exiting the circle John’s drawn for me. I barely succeed.

John grins at me. My struggles to avoid stepping outside the circle amuse him. “I like that you are paying attention to that circle, Sara,” he says, laughing. The audience laughs too. I flush in embarrassment, but my body betrays my excitement – my nipples are hard, my pussy is creaming, and I’m holding still, yet again, for John to whip me.

The flogger rises, falls. The blows fall down, without cease or pause. Strokes hit my midriff, the underside of my breasts, my thighs, the top of my pussy. I writhe away from the strokes, or do I move towards them? I’ve lost the ability to tell. I’m in a special place, a soft place, where the pain is all I feel, and the pain feels like pleasure. I hear myself through a hazy distance, I’m whimpering. There are tears running down my cheeks, and red lashes are visible on my skin, where the flogger has etched its path.

I realize that I’ve craved this feeling for a long time.

John’s now rubbing his hands over me, the calluses in his hands feel like sandpaper against my sensitive skin. He’s touching my breasts, kneading them, bouncing them up and down, using his hands to smack them around. He’s pinching my nipples, rolling them between his fingers, stretching them out, causing me to lose my balance again. I feel complete, utter pleasure. I bite on my lips, mewling softly, marvelling at how good this feels.

“Ready for the breast flogging?” he asks.

“Yes Sir,” I say, longing etched in my voice. My assent is picked up by the microphone, the room hears my arousal. Wolf-whistles fill the room.

I vaguely note that the flogger is shorter this time, before the strokes start.

I wasn’t sure what to expect in a breast flogging, but I love this. The flames of arousal blaze into a fire, as I struggle to hold back my orgasm. The flogger rises and falls, and each stroke brings pain, but also, so much pleasure. I dimly find myself pushing my breasts outward towards the audience; silently imploring John to please, please continue. John notices my reaction, and laughs. He obliges, whipping me again and again, continuing that sensation that is torment, but also sweet lust.

The flames rise higher and higher in me. I struggle to hold back the orgasm; I’m suddenly keenly aware there are twenty pairs of lust-filled eyes fastened upon me. A sheen of sweat breaks out on my skin; I’m poised at the edge, and then the flogger curls around my breasts again, this time striking my nipples for the first time, and I come, screaming, writhing in my chains, unable to hold anything back any further, sobbing as the waves of pleasure course through me.

As I find awareness again, I can hear the applause in the room.

***

We are not done. I am unbuckled from the shackles, told to kneel at the side of the stage again while John gets the next set ready. I obey; this time facing the audience so they can drink in my flaming skin, see the welts the whip has raised. My head is bowed, my eyes are shut. I feel like I’ve run a marathon; I’m utterly drained.

“The final act, gentlemen.” John’s voice fills the room. I look up; I have not been paying attention. There’s a screen now at the back of the stage; a large desk in the middle of the room. John gestures to me, I get up and come towards the desk.

John pulls me on top of the desk, has me lie back with my legs spread wide. He buckles my legs and arms into a spreader bar, and has me raise my legs and arms in the air. The spreader bar is hung on a chain from the ceiling; the chain is tightened till there is no slack.

My arms are spread wide, my legs wider. My ass is open for the audience, my pussy on display. I try to visualize the sushi menu of pain, try to remember what’s left. Ah. My ass is now going to get flogged, and my pussy cropped. The dessert, if you will, in tonight’s menu.

There’s a camera hanging above me, along with the ever-present microphone. I stiffen. I don’t want to be recorded. “Relax,” John soothes, his voice low so only I can hear. “It’s a feed to the screen, so that the audience can see your face. Nothing is being recorded.”

I am bound, helpless; there isn’t anything I can do to protest, but I find I believe John. He has no reason to lie to me. I nod my consent. 

“Now gentlemen,” John laughs, addressing the audience. “Sara thinks I’ve forgotten about how many times she stepped out of her circle. You guys counted though, didn’t you? How many times did Sara step outside the circle?”

Crap. I had forgotten about the circle as I navigated the pain. How bad is this going to be?

“Six!” “Five!” “Ten!” The voices cry out. I’m not sure if they are relaying the count of how many times I stepped out of the circle, or if they are just expressing how many additional strokes they’d like me to have.

John grins at the range of numbers shouted out, but finally raises his hands for silence. “I counted five…” he says. There are a couple of boos in the audience, but they subside quickly.

“Twenty strokes on the ass, Sara, plus your extra ten.” John’s voice brooks no dissent.

I gulp. In the aftermath of my orgasm, I’ve forgotten that my ass was pretty heavily spanked at the start of the evening. Flogging on my already reddened ass will be, to put it mildly, intense.

John swishes the flogger through the air. It makes a sound that can only be described as ominous. I clench every muscle in my body; writhe a little in my bonds. The audience chuckles.

Again, John swishes the flogger in the air; drawing out the moment, building the anticipation. I am tense; every nerve in my body is on edge.

Finally, when I think I’m going to break and beg John to please, please just flog me, the flogger swings down on my butt. I struggle in my bonds, my body writhing as the pain flows through me.

“Assume your position, Sara.” John’s voice is implacable. It takes me a few seconds, but then the words register, and I move to obey.

“Good girl.” There’s approval in his voice as the flogger comes down again, and then, again once more. He’s striking me carefully, avoiding my pussy. I clench my teeth, but a moan escapes me as the blows rain down. My flesh feels like it is on fire.

John pauses; strokes my ass. His fingernails graze my cheeks; causing me to whimper as the sensation courses through me. I moan; my pussy is once again creaming in response, and because of the way I’m positioned, my response is very, very visible.

“Looks like she likes it, gentlemen.” John laughs, the audience laughing with him. He resumes the flogging; I moan, writhe, shudder, but I feel myself drift into my special place again, the place where I can’t tell what is pain, and what is pleasure.

He stops. He must be done. I can feel the tracks of tears on my face, but I don’t remember crying. I am floating.

“Ten crops on your pussy, Sara.”

This forces me to pay attention. All evening long, this particular item on the sushi menu of pain has been the one that has given me the most anxiety.

The first stroke falls on my pussy. Whap. My nerve-endings explode in pain, my hips writhe, almost lift right off the table. I feel an orgasm start to build again instantly, my traitorous body unable to distinguish between pain and pleasure. 

And again. I scream this time; my voice filling the room. John is unrelenting though; the crop makes contact again and again with my pussy lips. I moan; shudder; flinch. My pussy leaks, I can feel the wetness drip down towards my asshole.

John pauses; the half-way mark. He spreads my pussy lips open; shows the audience the wetness in my pussy. “I think you are enjoying yourself, Sara…” he says.

He turns towards the audience. “Gentlemen, we are almost done. Would you count down the final five strokes with me? Let’s start with five.”

The crop falls sharply on my pussy. I hear the audience collectively yell “Five!” as my body struggles in my binding, and the flaming pain flows through me. My pussy feels red, painful, very, very aroused. The strokes and the shouting audience are all pulling me up, raising my arousal, taking me to the edge.

Crop. “Four!” I dance in my bindings, jumping as I react to the pain. My body shudders; I am so close to the edge.

Crop. “Three!” There’s cheering now, as the waves of pleasure start hitting that point of no return. I feel my orgasm build; expertly controlled by John’s crop.

Crop. “Two!” There’s steady applause now, whistles. I don’t hear any of it though; I am at the edge of a massive, shuddering orgasm.

Crop. “One!”

And that’s it. I explode hard, fists clenching, body dancing, as if I was waiting for that last stroke before I gave myself permission to come. There’s loud, sustained applause; I don’t hear any of it. My awareness has narrowed; my clenching pussy is all I am conscious of right now, and I am in my private world of pleasure.

John is uncuffing me; helping me on my feet. I bow; he walks me off the stage, escorts me into the antechamber, and leaves me alone to process the last hour.

Chapter 3

I am huddled in my dressing gown, sitting in the antechamber. My body is criss-crossed with red marks; the proof of my recent flogging. I have orgasmed twice while being whipped, and I am drained.

Possibly twenty minutes later, there’s a knock on the door. It is John.

“How do you feel?” he asks me.

“Okay.” I am not able to form coherent sentences.

“Take off the robe, and lie down,” he orders, gesturing to a massage table in the corner. I obey. He has a tub of cream in his hands, and he massages it into my body, expertly soothing the reddened skin. “This will help the healing…” he explains.

His hands feel good. Not a sexual kind of good; I am not attracted to John. But his hands are strong and steady, and they soothe my muscles.

“You are good at this,” I murmur, as I turn over, and his hands move over my breasts, midriff, and pussy.

“Mmm. Spread your legs.” Another order. I do.

He’s checking my pussy for signs of damage from the crop. There isn’t any. Before the session, he has assured me there will be no bleeding, and there isn’t any. There aren’t a lot of welts either; John has caused plenty of pain, but the effects are transient.

“Good,” he says in satisfaction. “You won’t have too much soreness, you can even have sex tonight, if you want.”

With Colin? My boyfriend has reacted in shock and horror when I told him I wanted to be spanked; I shudder to think of Colin’s reaction if he sees my body now.

I dress as John waits. I glance at my phone; it is late, 1.30am. John hands me an envelope of cash. I look; there’s $1200 in there. I raise my eyebrows in surprise; this is almost double of what I was expecting.

“There’s the $500 first-time bonus,” John explains, “$100 for the extra flogs we added on the fly, $200 you earned, and the remaining money there is a tip from the audience.” I flush. I’m mortified, really. I didn’t do this for the audience; I did this because I wanted to be whipped.

The whole evening has been magical. I want to blurt out that I want to do this again; but there’s a small voice of caution in my head that stops me. I have a real life, a boyfriend who would be appalled if he ever found out what I did tonight. This behaviour is insane.

John’s watching me. He can probably tell what’s going on through my mind; after all, I’m not the first girl who’s ever been whipped at the House of Pain. “It’s a lot to process, I know…” he says, his voice gentle. “Take your time to decide what you want to do next.”

I nod. Now, his voice turns fatherly. “It’s late, Sara, I’ll put you in a cab, okay? Don’t take transit at this hour.”

I laugh silently at this; John’s whipped me for the last hour, but he’s concerned about me taking transit? I don’t say anything though; I nod again.

I fall asleep as soon as I get home; I sleep well and deeply.

***

It’s a busy week at work. There are rumours of layoffs; I resolve to get my resume ready. Our department is well regarded; but in the brave new world we live in, there’s never any certainty about employment.

When I’m not working; I’m pondering what to do. I’m torn; I want to go back to the House of Pain. But I know how risky it is. And, there’s Colin.

***

I’m having dinner with Colin. We’ve only dated for three months; but I like him. He’s funny, kind, easy to hang out with.

And he won’t spank me at all.

This is a cliff I’ve reached. I cannot lie to Colin about the House of Pain. It isn’t technically cheating, but that’s a technicality. I know that what I did was wrong; and the worst of it is that it set my pulse racing, and my body aching to do it again.

A great sadness comes upon me – Colin deserves better than me. He deserves someone who doesn’t wake up moaning as she dreams of a flogger descending on her pussy. At the end of the day, no matter how much I like him; Colin doesn’t meet my needs, and I don’t meet his.

We break up.

I apologise, but Colin is genuinely a nice guy.  He reaches out, holds my hands in his. “Whatever you are looking for,” he says softly, “I hope you find it, Sara.”

The tears start falling on the subway on my way home. I cry myself to sleep. Right now, I’m hating myself for craving the pain; for ruining my relationship with Colin.

***

A month passes. I focus on work. I’ve applied to a couple of jobs I find online that seem in my wheelhouse; I get a call back from one of them. I have an interview scheduled.

I find my interview suit and dry-clean it; I interview for the job. The first interview goes well; the second interview goes better.

I’m excited about the prospect of this job; it is a promotion, which will be good financially; I’m reaching the point where I’m exceedingly tired of my tiny studio apartment, and would like to move somewhere a bit nicer. Plus, I’ve learned everything I can from my current job, and promotion opportunities don’t seem too likely, given we might all get laid off. I keep my fingers crossed.

***

My sadness over the breakup with Colin has receded; I know I did the right thing. I want to be able to explore my sexual fantasies with my partner. I don’t want to hide a part of who I am. As I process this, my thoughts go back to the House of Pain. John’s whip on my breasts… I bite my lips; clench my thighs. A powerful shudder of arousal flows through me.

I’ve managed to go five weeks without calling John; without setting up the next show. I don’t last six weeks. That Friday afternoon, once I’m done with work, I call John.

***

John’s words are a curveball.

“I’ve had a cancellation – one of my regular girls is sick; she has the flu. She just called me. There’s a show tomorrow night. Do you want to do it?”

I hesitate. “So I don’t get to pick what’s in store for me?” But as I speak, I’m checking my calendar, trying to see what I have planned to do tomorrow. Not a lot. My pussy is moistening; my nipples perk up. I realize I’m clenching my thighs in arousal.

Who am I kidding? I want to do this.

“No…” John’s voice is level. “The audience’s expecting certain things… I’ll go easier on you, but the program’s basically set. Want to do this?” He’s slightly distant, impatient. If I say no, he’ll call the next girl on his list, and then the next one. He’s running a business here.

“Okay.” My voice is the merest whisper.

“The show’s at midnight. Show up at 10.30pm at the store, and I’ll prep you for what’s coming…”

“Okay,” I say again. We quickly go through the names of the audience; none of them are familiar. I’m going through the motions, and I know it. My pulse is racing; anticipation surges through me.

***

As John goes through the details of the show with me, I only have one thought in my head.

This is going to be interesting.

***

There’s some music playing; it is some kind of dystopian trance/electronic music that softly pulses in the room. The music fits the scene well.

I’m already on stage when the curtain is raised. This time, I’m hanging suspended from the ceiling, facing the floor; my breasts are tightly bound together, and they are rapidly reddening and ballooning under this treatment; my arms are drawn back in a cruel tie; my hair has somehow been woven through the bindings so that I can’t slump my head; my calves are tied tight to my knees, and my legs are spread open, and tied in place.

There are cameras on the floor, ready to project my every quiver and moan on the screens off the side.

I’m already in a bit of pain; the rope is cruel, and my body is contorted for the viewing pleasure of the audience.

I am utterly helpless, and I love it.

The music increases in volume; it is now filling the room in a stormy crescendo. And then, silence.

Utter, perfect silence. The eyes of the audience are upon me, and though I can’t see them; I feel their hunger in the air.

The feel of this show is different. In the last one, John was joking with the audience; the audience was hollering, whistling, cheering. This show will be different; John has said. This one will be more solemn; there’s a sense of ritual in the air. There is a spotlight on me; and the screens off to the side are lit as well, but the stage is otherwise dark.

Crack.

Out of nowhere, the flogger has struck my ass. I jump involuntarily; I feel a line of fire beginning to rise on my skin. The force of the stroke sets the suspension spinning; I slowly start to revolve.

The strokes come steadily. Music has started playing again, softly; something with a pulsing drumbeat. John times his strokes to the drumbeat, keeping the pace slow and deliberate. Every stroke is hard though; and I’m flailing in pain. I concentrate on breathing.

Suddenly, I jump in surprise. John has shoved a vibrating dildo into my pussy; he does something with the ropes to keep the dildo in place. Tremors are running through me now, fuelling my arousal.

The flogger continues its work.

Pain; pleasure; pain. It’s a confused whirl; am I jumping in pain? Or am I flinching because the vibrations in my pussy are causing me to rise, higher and higher? I ache for a touch on my clitoris; I am so, so close.

Through the haze, I realize what John is so cleverly doing. He is expertly blending the boundary between pleasure and pain, and I’m not sure which side of the line I am.

And now, John moves towards me, two nipple-clamps in his hands. A quick pinch of my nipples, and they are on, and… wow. My breasts are already red, sensitive because of the rope, and the nipple clamps are painful, and oh-so-intense. I feel my nipples start to throb. I bite my lip, moan a little. The microphone sends my moan around the room, a counterpoint to the pounding drums.

A chain connects the clamps, John adds some weights to the chain. Then, he sets me spinning through the room.

As I spin, the weighted chain swings, and I shiver as the sensations roll through me.

I’ve lost track of where I am; I’ve forgotten there’s an audience watching me. That’s the beauty of being whipped; there’s an intimacy to it, the room shrinks, and it’s just me and the whip and the clamps and the vibrating dildo, and I’m entirely in John’s mercy.

John resumes whipping me. Each stoke sends me swinging, causing my nipples to stretch painfully as the chain connecting the clamps sways. I clench my thighs; try to push down harder on the vibrator; I am so close! – but I’m pretty well-immobilized; and I’m in John’s mercy.

He is in control of my body; I will orgasm if he wills it; and if he does not, I will not. I find this control strangely, hugely arousing. My body is not mine tonight; and I revel in my surrender.

I’m spinning again. I come to rest facing the stage; my face clearly visible under the lights.

And… then, a well-placed crack. Right at my clitoris. Pushing me over the edge. I scream; my face contorting; every muscle clenching, as a powerful orgasm rolls through me.

The curtain is lowered. Dimly, I hear applause.

Has it been an hour already?

***

I’m in the antechamber, recovering. John’s simply cut through the ropes to release me; he massages me, applies the cream on. I put on a robe, process the experience.

I realize I love the feeling of surrendering control probably as much as I like the actual pain. Interesting. I’m learning all kinds of things about myself from this experience.

John hands me $500.

“You’ve made quite an impression on the audience…” he says.

“Why?” I ask. I’m not sure how I’m different from any of the girls who perform at the House of Pain. Not that I’ve met any of them, so really, how would I know?

“Every single emotion runs through your face… it’s fun to watch.”

Oh. Mortifying. I’m far more embarrassed by the idea that my emotions are on display that by the fact that I was naked in front of twenty men, being flogged.

***

Two things happen Monday.

The first thing in the morning, I get a call from the place I’ve interviewed at. They want to hire me. They make me a generous offer; aside from a significant raise, I will also get an extra week of vacation. I’m thrilled, I accept on the phone.

The second – at about 10.00am, I get a call from a woman. I glance at the Caller Id: Maija Jones. It’s an internal number, I pick up.

“Is that Sara White?” Her voice is competent; professional.

“Yes…” Mine is distracted. I’m trying to find her on the company directory at the same time.

“I’m Doug Patterson’s admin,” she says. Am I supposed to know who Doug Patterson is? “Doug asked me to set up a meeting - can you meet with him today? He’s only open at lunch though.”

“Umm, sure.” Is this about the new marketing program I’m supposed to be working on? Why wouldn’t he just talk to my boss? I’m entirely confused.

“I’ll send you an invite.”

She hangs up, I look up Doug. I whistle silently. Doug is the Vice-President of Strategy. I vaguely remember meeting him about a month back, just after I’d broken up with Colin, at a work meet-and-greet. He reports to the COO – he’s a big deal. I wonder what the heck he wants to meet with me about.

I’m distracted all morning. I’m oddly uneasy, though I should be jubilant about my job offer.

I walk to the restaurant I’m supposed to meet Doug Patterson at. It isn’t far, and it’s still lovely and warm in Toronto, summer just easing into fall.  

I recognise Doug, he’s already seated. He gets up when I walk in; shakes my hand.

“Sara, thanks for meeting me here at such short notice.” His voice is nice. Confident, but not arrogant. The voice of someone who has a very good idea who he is, what he wants, and is totally comfortable with it. He’s about 6ft tall; short dark hair; he’s good looking, but in a normal guy kind of way; and more importantly, no wedding ring.

“Focus, Sara…” I scold myself. He’s a Vice-President at my company. Not in my league.

“I’m in back-to-back meetings all day, I have a hard stop at 1.00pm,” he says. “Do you mind if we order right away? The waitress has promised to get the kitchen to hurry with the food.”

“No worries,” I mutter. I quickly order the lunch special of the day; Doug does the same. The waitress sets our drinks down, and leaves to put in the order.

“This is a bit of an awkward conversation…” Doug says, looking at me, once we are alone. “You see, I was in the audience last night at the House of Pain…”

I am in the act of taking a sip of my water; I stop, mid-sip. My mind goes blank. I am completely, utterly horrified.

I speak, and my voice is the merest whisper. “Are you trying to blackmail me?”

Chapter 4

“Blackmail you?” Doug looks a little astonished. “What on earth?”

Okay, maybe that first thought was a stupid one. I flush. I keep silent. I’m waiting for him to continue.

“I don’t generally need to blackmail women…” he says mildly. Now I’m mortified. He’s good looking; he’s a fancy corporate executive; I feel like an idiot.

He takes a deep breath. “I’m looking for a sex partner, and judging by yesterday’s performance, we have a lot of interests in common. I was wondering if you were single, if you’d be interested in giving it a try?”

“What?” I gape at him.

He looks at me. He’s trying not to look annoyed. I’m unfazed. The entire thing is too bizarre. “Explain, please,” I say. “Give what a try? What do you want from me?”

He looks less annoyed in the face of my genuine confusion. He smiles; he’s got a really nice smile. “Sorry,” he apologizes. “I’m not doing this well…”

“I’m looking for a partner that would be interested in doing some of the same kind of things you did at the House of Pain, but with sex being part of the package…” he says. “In privacy, with me, not in front of an audience.”

“You want me to sleep with you?” Clarity slowly emerges.

He nods. “It is a lot harder than you’d think to find someone who’s interested in the same sexual kinks as you are, especially if you want to stay clear of Internet dating…”

“So, I’d be your submissive?” I ask.

“I don’t like labels. But, for the purposes of this conversation, yes.” The waitress arrives with our food; we both stop talking as she sets the plates down.

I eat; with my thoughts on his offer. I’m startled to realize I’m actually considering it. This is my chance to find out if this is what I want in a sexual relationship. And his comments about Internet dating are spot-on; I’ve dated online before, but I don’t think I’d ever go about trying to find someone to dominate me on the Internet. Too much potential for serious harm.

“Let me think about it…” I mutter.

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Of course,” he says smoothly. We finish eating; he pays, waving off my attempts to reach for my wallet, and we head back to the office. He writes his cell phone number on the back of a business card; hands it to me. “Call me if you are interested…”

I ponder his offer all week.

***

In the end, two things make me call him.

The first reason is that I’ve signed my offer letter; I’ve given work my two weeks of notice. I would have never called Doug otherwise; that’s just too complicated. But we will not work in the same company in two weeks.

The second reason is cruder. I come back home late Saturday night, and I masturbate to the thought of Doug’s eyes on me as John was whipping me. As my powerful, shuddering orgasm dies down, I resolve to call him. Just one time, to see what it’s all about.

I call him Sunday mid-morning.

***

“Doug?” I ask hesitantly, as his voice says hello. “It’s Sara White. Umm, we had lunch last week?”

“I know who you are, Sara…” His voice is amused. I flush.

I’ve rehearsed what I’m going to say to him a couple of times, but now, in the moment, my brain goes completely blank. “Umm, I’d like to discuss your offer…” I finally blurt out.

“Are you busy today?” he asks.

“No, not really.” The only thing I have to do today is clean my apartment.

“Ok, why don’t you come over to my place? We’ll discuss, and then, if all goes well in our negotiations, we can get going right away.”

Whoa. Too fast. Entirely too fast. “Umm. Maybe. Ok. Where do you live?” I sound like a babbling idiot. I take down his address, tell him I’ll meet him at 1.00pm, and hang up.

Yikes. I look down at his address. We live in two very different worlds, Doug and I. His address indicates he lives in Rosedale, one of Toronto’s Old Money neighborhoods. I, on the other hand, live in rough-and-tumble Parkdale, where the rents are low, but the neighborhood is definitely, well, colourful.

I get ready quickly, reaching for my prettiest bra and underwear. I make a face as I look at myself. I confess; I’m intimidated. Doug’s miles out of my league, and my simple black panties and bra don’t lend me a ton of confidence. Still, they fit well, the bra has that magic ability to lift my breasts just enough to look make them look utterly touchable. Over the bra and panties, I pull on a simple black dress – another personal favorite – it shows the perfect amount of cleavage and leg, but is still daytime appropriate.

I grab my purse; head out. Summertime in Toronto means the transit system is near-constantly under construction, and delays are inevitable. I don’t want to be late.

Just before I leave, I make a quick call to my friend Amanda.

“Hey,” I greet her. “I just need to tell you I’m going on a date, okay?” I give her Doug’s name, address and phone number. Just in case.

“Internet date?” she asks.

“Someone who works with me; but I don’t know him at all.” I don’t reveal more than that; I’ve told none of my friends about the House of Pain.

“And you are going to his house?”  I sense the disapproval in her voice.

“He seems fine, I’m just being cautious,” I mumble. And that’s the entire truth. Doug seems fine, normal; but he also wants to tie me up and beat me. It seems wise to let someone know my whereabouts.

“Well, have fun,” she says, a certain amount of resignation in her voice. “I want to know all about the date next week, okay?” Amanda and I are in the same French class; I’ll see her tomorrow evening.

***

It takes an insane amount of time to get to Doug’s. I read on the streetcar; try not to fidget in nervousness. My emotions are a strange mix of anticipation and fear. I read an entire page of my book; realize I don’t have any idea what it said, and give up the reading as a lost cause.

Instead, I focus on the fear. I like being spanked, it isn’t the pain I’m afraid of.

No, I’m afraid of the entanglement. Doing a show at the House of Pain is easy. I show up, do a show and go home. It puts my deep craving for pain and submission into a nice, tidy box. The rest of my life proceeds, unaffected. But having sex with Doug has all the potential of getting messy.

I make a silent resolution. I’m going to do my best to keep Doug in that nice, tidy box. I’m about to start a new job in a couple of weeks; I’d like to move; I have hobbies and interests that keep me busy. I don’t need this to become complicated.

***

I find my way to Doug’s place. It’s a nice house; not too large, beautiful landscaped garden out front, a small front porch with an armchair on it. I’m quaking with nerves. I walk up, ring the doorbell.

A dog starts barking inside the house. “Shut up, Alia,” Doug’s voice yells out. There’s a certain wry resignation to it. The door opens, I’m nearly bowled over by the golden retriever. She’s friendly; her tail wagging. Doug has his hands on her collar, trying to hold her back. My lips twitch. This is very different from the cool, controlled executive who had lunch with me the other day.

“Come on in, Sara…” Doug gestures, still trying to keep Alia down. She’s threatening to bowl me over. I start to laugh, helplessly. Doug laughs with me.

“Sorry, she’s a handful, and I indulge her shamelessly…” he says, looking at Alia ruefully. “Alia, down.”

Alia finally listens, she settles down, tail wagging, in the hallway. I’m still laughing; I like this version of Doug much better. Doug follows me into the living room.

I look around. Not what I would have expected. His house is warm; comfortable. The leather couches are clearly chosen for comfort; throws are scattered about on them. There’s a lot of warm tones; reds and oranges mixed in with the browns of the leather. The house looks lived-in. I settle myself on an armchair in one corner; perched on the tip of the chair.

“Want a drink?” Doug asks me. “I have beer and wine, coffee and tea…”

“Just water, please…” I say. Doug nods, disappears into the kitchen. When he comes out, he’s holding my water in one hand; a beer in another. He hands me my water, sprawls on a couch opposite me.

Today, he’s dressed casually. He’s wearing a red t-shirt, faded shorts. His hair is damp; he smells faintly of soap and aftershave. He looks good enough to eat. 

“Have you eaten lunch?” he asks politely. “Pizza should be here any instant…”

“Pizza sounds great…” I say. I realize I’m starving. Breakfast was a long time ago, and in any case, I was too busy rehearsing what I was going to say to him to actually eat.

“What did you want to discuss?” he prompts. Ah. We get to the topic at hand.

“Everything,” I say. “I’ve only done a couple of shows at the House of Pain; before that, I’d never been spanked. I’m totally new to all of this.” I’ve decided to just be honest.

He nods. I notice he’s not entirely too comfortable either; his grip on his beer bottle is tight. I relax slightly. It’s good that he’s nervous; it makes him more human.

“It’s a bit strange to me too…” he says, his eyes on me. He takes a sip of his beer. “Approaching you was a total impulse… But, like I said, it is hard trying to find a partner who is interested in the same kinks as you.”

“What do you want from me?” I ask.

“I’d like to tie you up; spank you; have sex with you.” He doesn’t mince his words.

“Once?” I ask.

“Well, let’s see how it goes…” he says. “You might hate it; I might hate it; the chemistry might just not be there…”

“I’ve never done this before…” There. I’ve said it.

“You’ve never had sex before?” He looks obviously surprised.

“No, I’ve never had tied-up sex before… I don’t know how submissive I am.”

The doorbell interrupts whatever Doug was going to say, setting Alia off again. Doug grabs Alia, opens the door. “Hang on…” he says to the pizza guy; trying to restrain Alia. “Come on, Alia, cut it out… Sara, can you grab the pizza?”

I bite back my smile. He clearly adores Alia. I grab the pizza from the guy, as Doug wrestles with Alia, finally shoving her out of the back door. He comes back; pays the pizza guy.

“Pizza?” he asks me.

“Yes please…” I say. Our conversation was interrupted at the most inopportune time; I want to know what he’s thinking.

He takes the pizza from me, gestures for me to follow him. We go to the kitchen; I gasp. It is beautiful, light and airy; it is L-shaped, and opens out to the backyard. Alia is in the backyard, basking in the sunlight.

He grabs plates, opens the box. We help ourselves to slices, the food momentarily pausing the conversation.

“Did you like getting whipped at the House of Pain?” His words pull me back to our conversation.

“Yes.”

“Did you like being tied up?”

“Yes…” I whisper again.

“So, what concerns you?” There’s no impatience in his voice. He’s trying to understand.

“I don’t like the idea of being obedient, submissive.”

“Are you submissive in bed?” he asks bluntly.

I flush. “Sometimes… but I’ve always had a choice; I don’t have to be submissive.” I’m explaining myself badly. I think I’m afraid I’ll lose my ability to choose; that my submission will not be a choice I make; but the expected behaviour from me.

Doug listens as I try to explain this. Finally, he raises a hand, interrupts me.

“As I see it,” he says, “you are trying to run before you can walk. These things, everything you are worried about – the nature of submission, the boundaries of the submission, they are complicated things that every couple negotiates over time.” He takes a sip of his beer, eyes me, continues... “Right now, I think we should be more concerned about the hard rules – things you have no interest in doing in bed; things you definitely want to do, that kind of thing.”

He’s right. Besides, as he said, this can be a one-time thing.

“No blood…” I say. “No permanent damage. No caging.”

“Ok.” We quickly agree on the basics; set me up with a safeword. Red.

“I really have only one rule, Sara…” Doug says. “One that applies to both of us, really. Open, honest communication. If something isn’t fun, say so. I’m pretty sure that we can find enough things that we will both enjoy.”

“Ok,” I say, softly. I am once again a bundle of nerves. I can’t believe I’m actually going to do this.

He senses my nervousness. “Sara, it’ll be fine, I’m not a jerk…” he says wryly. “Look, do you want to do this some other time?”

“No…” I don’t think I’d have the courage to go through this again. Besides, I broke up with Colin because of this dark chasm in me; and here’s my opportunity to explore it a little bit.

“Can I get a glass of wine?” I ask him.

He raises an eyebrow at me. “Liquid courage?” he asks with some amusement. “Red or white?”

“Whatever’s easier,” I say. Doug opens the refrigerator, pulls out a bottle of white wine; pours me a glass. I take a sip; it is light, refreshing; a perfect summer wine. I take another sip.

“Let’s go back to the living room…” he says.

***

In the living room, Doug sits on the couch; pulls me onto his lap. He pulls me close; one hand encircling my waist, the other traces a gentle line down my cheek. He runs a thumb over my lower lip; an incredibly erotic touch that has me shifting restlessly in his lap.

“Want to do this?” he whispers in my ear; catching my earlobe between his teeth; nibbling it lightly. Little tendrils of arousal run through me; replacing the nervousness. I shift in his lap again; I can feel his erection against me, and I bite my lip. His body feels good, really, really good.

I nod. Yes. I want to do this.

He pulls me closer, kisses me. His mouth is initially gentle on mine. I sigh softly. I haven’t been kissed in over five weeks, and I miss it. My mouth parts, slightly, lets him in. That’s the signal Doug’s been waiting for. His lips are suddenly more insistent, his tongue pushes into my parted mouth, dances a delicious duet with mine. His free hand traces idle lines on my bodice.

I moan. Doug’s hands are, in their own way, creating a fire as insistent as the whip. My body tingles in pleasure; lust. I move into him; bring my hands around his head to draw him in, still closer.

“No…” he says softly, pulling away from my mouth for an instant. “Let me set the pace, please…”

Aah. The first demonstration of control. But he doesn’t order me, this is a request; not a command. I nod; I can do this for him. My hands remain at my sides.

He bends his head again, pulls my mouth onto his. He’s nibbling my lower lip now, softly, and the feeling of his teeth on my lip is awakening a deep hunger in me. I moan; shift restlessly.

“Keep still, baby…” he mutters. Again, not an order, but again, I obey.

His hands are now running lightly over my breasts. I want to shrug off the straps of my dress, lower the bodice so that his hands will caress my bared breasts; but I hold still. His fingers are dancing a little waltz on my bared arms; tracing a pathway along my exposed cleavage, running a fiery line along my thighs.

I part my thighs. Doug chuckles… “Keep still, baby…” he says again.

His mouth now is trailing little kisses on my neck. I love being kissed on my neck; it’s my secret erogenous spot, one with a direct line to my pussy. I feel the familiar stirrings as he kisses me; the familiar dampness. I bite my lower lip; moan.

The sunlight is streaming in through the windows in his living room. Doug groans. “The dungeon is in the basement…” he says, a little ironic inflection when he says dungeon. “The bedroom is upstairs. Which way, Sara?”

It is tempting to pick the safe path; to gesture towards the bedroom. I don’t do that. Instead I gather up my courage. “Downstairs…” I say quietly.

We walk towards Doug’s dungeon.