The Story of Owen: One Man's Submissive Journey

by Claire Thompson

  “Yes, I’ve known Master H. for many years,” Sylvie replied. “Though it’s been a while since I’ve seen him. I heard he’d moved the club to a new location.” Sylvie flashed back to the last time she’d been at Harry’s club. Jacques had been with her, her devoted, loving slave. It must have been only a few months before he’d blithely announced he loved another woman.

  That night Sylvie had given a demonstration with a cat o’ nine tails, the especially wicked one with the metal balls braided onto the tips that Jacques loved so well. She’d become so involved in the scene she’d almost forgotten they were on a stage.

  Owen drew her back to the present. “Apparently my friend Jerry represented Master H. in some legal matter, and part of the payment was two tickets for this Friday night. Alana and Jerry have a conflict and can’t use the tickets so I guess I got lucky. It’s a very special night apparently. Master H. himself will be there and he’s going to put on some kind of demonstration. I know you probably have a policy about seeing clients after hours,” Owen rushed on, “but like I said, this isn’t a date. I would just, um, you know, I would enjoy your company. Your perspective on the scene. Who knows, you might get a kick out of it.”

  The puppy dog hopefulness in his voice caused a sweet, sharp pain in Sylvie’s chest. “It’s not a date,” he repeated into the silence. Sylvie realized her cheeks were actually aching from smiling so hard. This man was utterly adorable, and he was right. It wasn’t a date. It was an opportunity to stay connected with others in the BDSM community. She’d worn the dark cloak of mourning long enough for a man who was never going to return. It would be good to get out again into the scene. It would be fun to see Master H. and his usual crowd of over-the-top gay sub boys that formed his entourage. Still, was she crossing a line by attending with a client?

  “The club opens at eight, but the demonstration doesn’t start until nine. I could come by before. We could go for a drink or maybe dinner first—”

  “Come by at eight thirty.”

  There was a short pause and then, “Great. See you then.”

  ~*~

  The sun hadn't quite set when Owen climbed the stoop to Mistress Sylvie’s townhouse, his cab double parked and waiting on the narrow, cobblestoned street below. The red door opened even before he could press the buzzer, and there stood the heart-stoppingly lovely Mistress Sylvie.

  “Good evening, Owen,” she said, offering a small smile.

  “Good evening to you.” Owen almost added Mistress, but stopped himself at the last second, suddenly not sure of the protocol when they weren’t in a session. He glanced sharply at her, hoping he hadn't offended her by being too familiar. But when he offered his arm, she took it as they stepped together down the stoop and toward the awaiting taxi.

  Before stepping into the cab, Mistress Sylvie lifted her face toward the sky and held out her arms. “It’s so beautiful tonight,” she said, closing her eyes as if for a kiss. I love l’heure bleue. This is when I miss France most of all.” She sighed a small, sweet sigh.

  “I’m sorry, what? Lor Bluh?”

  Mistress Sylvie opened her eyes and looked at him, shaking her head with an amused smile. “L’heure bleue. It means literally the blue hour. It’s that magical time of twilight when the very air seems tinged with blue. There is nothing to compare with the breathtaking beauty of Paris at dusk.”

  “But New York will do in a pinch, huh?” Owen grinned, trying not to ogle the gorgeous woman. She was wearing a slinky black dress that stopped above the knee, a shawl of some kind of gossamer gold material wrapped around her bare shoulders. Her tan, shapely legs were bare, her feet housed in gold sandals that revealed toenails painted a pearly pink. Her makeup was softer than when she was in the dungeon, and her manner seemed softer too.

  It’s not a date, Owen reminded himself. She’d refused the suggestion of a drink or dinner beforehand, making that very clear. Still, when they sat together in the back of the cab, Owen was very aware of her leg touching his, her smooth, bare skin contrasting nicely with the black denim of his jeans.

  When the cab dropped them off at the address Jerry had given Owen, he thought at first there had to have been a mistake. They were in the Lower West Side in the old meat packing district, standing in front of a large metal door. There was no sign or anything else indicating this was the place. There was a keypad beside the door, however. Jerry had told him there would be a keypad, and that he was to punch in the code on the back of the ticket to gain access.

  Owen did this and stepped back, shrugging toward Mistress Sylvie with an uncertain smile, praying he hadn’t fucked this up somehow. To his relief, he heard the scraping of a lock and then the door was pulled open. A tall man dressed entirely in black leather, from the cap on his head to the boots on his feet, said brusquely, “Tickets?”

  Owen handed the man the two tickets. He wore small gold hoops in both ears and a snake tattoo curled along the side of his neck. He examined the tickets and stepped back with a nod. “Right this way.” The man led them down wide, crumbling concrete stairs, their footsteps echoing against the walls. At the foot of the stairs were double doors painted shiny black. The man opened the doors and gestured for them to enter.

  The sound of a pulsing disco beat reverberated through the concrete floors of the dimly lit space. The walls were also painted black and hung with sconces shaped like candles that flickered in the gloom. Young men wearing unlaced black leather combat boots, black thongs and nothing else weaved through the crowds with trays of cold drinks. People were mingling in clusters, some on their feet, some on their knees. There was lots of leather and skin, as well as rope and chain.

  There were partitioned areas where private scenes could take place, but there was plenty to see out in the open as well. As they moved toward the long bar at the back of the spacious room, Owen took in the naked man suspended upside down from ankle cuffs, his legs spread wide, angry red lines left by a whip striping his body. Another man was lying on a bondage table, thick rope across his thighs and chest. Two women, dressed alike in red satin gowns with plunging necklines were holding lit candles over the man’s body, dripping wax over his torso and groin.

  Mistress Sylvie and Owen each ordered a glass of iced tea at the bar. Just as the server handed them their glasses, a man appeared beside them. He was tall and thin, his face gaunt with deep set gray eyes and a full head of dark hair. To Owen’s annoyed surprise, the man dropped to his knees and bent his head to kiss Mistress Sylvie’s right foot.

  “Maîtresse!” the man exclaimed, looking up at her with what could only be described as adoration. “How wonderful to see you. It’s been far too long.”

  “You are right, Rick. It has been too long.” Mistress Sylvie touched Rick’s shoulder and bestowed a queen’s smile on the man. Owen experienced a spasm of jealousy he knew was absurd. “I am here with my friend.” She nodded toward Owen and Rick fixed his cadaverous gaze on Owen, giving him a thorough once-over with his eyes.

  “You are a lucky man, indeed, Monsieur, to be counted as a friend of the lovely Mistress Sylvie.”

  Owen was saved from having to reply as another man approached, his arms opened wide in welcome. “Do my eyes deceive me? Is that really you, Sylvie, come back to grace us with your charms after all these years? I had thought perhaps you had returned to France.” The man gripped Mistress Sylvie by the shoulders and kissed her on each cheek, and she responded in kind.

  The man had long, curling black hair that fell to his shoulders. He was dressed in a white shirt and black leather pants, his feet shod in square-toed black boots. “It’s good to see you, Harry, or should I say Master H.,” Mistress Sylvie replied, smiling. “I’m here with my friend, Owen.”

  Master H. turned to face Owen. He had a hawk-like nose and snapping black eyes. Though not especially tall, he had a barrel chest and heavily-muscled arms. He stuck out his hand, catching Owen’s in a strong grip. “A pleasure to meet you, Owen. Welcome to Chains.”

  “Thanks,�
� Owen said. “I’m a friend of Alana and Jerry. They weren’t able to come tonight but they send their regards.”

  After a few minutes of small talk, Master H. turned again to Mistress Sylvie. “Your timing is perfect. Master John was scheduled to do a demonstration with a fabulous new flogger I had custom made. John just called to let me know he’s under the weather and won’t be coming tonight. People still talk about your last scene with that gorgeous French boy you used to have in tow. Any chance of a repeat performance tonight?”

  Owen looked at Mistress Sylvie, wondering about her “gorgeous French boy”, not sure how he felt about watching her whip some other guy, gay or not. But he knew it wasn’t up to him. They were there as friends, nothing more, but that in itself was a major step up from client and pro Domme. He was proud to be there with her, and impressed that Master H. clearly thought so highly of her.

  Mistress Sylvie said nothing for a moment and Owen felt sure she was going to refuse. Then she turned to Owen, though her answer was to Master H. “I will do it, but only if Owen agrees to be my subject.”

  “Wait, what?” Owen blurted, his stomach dropping like an elevator moving too fast.

  “Perfect!” Master H. clamped a firm hand on Owen’s shoulder, squeezing hard. “I’ll have someone show you to the stage and give you a few moments alone to prepare.” He glanced at the solid gold Rolex on his wrist and then back at Mistress Sylvie. “Say in ten minutes?”

  “Owen? Will you do me the honor?” Mistress Sylvie regarded him with thoughtful eyes.

  Though he had never engaged in any kind of public scene, and until this moment never thought he would, Owen found himself mesmerized by her sudden radiant smile, which warmed every muscle and bone in his body. “The honor,” he found himself saying, “is mine.”

  Chapter 8

  A man named William with metal studs in his eyebrows, nose and beneath his lower lip, led them to the stage. It was a small stage, really more of a platform, extending only about four feet from the wall.

  William gave Sylvie the flogger, which had lots of thick, soft leather strands hanging from a braided handle. At the end of the handle there was a round red ball made of glass. Sylvie balanced the whip on her palms a moment and then gripped the handle in her right hand. It was perfectly weighted and beautifully made.

  “Very nice,” she pronounced.

  William nodded. “That’s made by Adam Elderkin, one of the most respected whip makers in the world.”

  “Yes.” Sylvie nodded. “I recognize the crystal ball that is his trademark.”

  William gestured with his chin in Owen’s direction. “You can secure your boy to the whipping post, or we have chains hanging from that beam there.” He pointed toward the ceiling. “We have extra cuffs if you didn’t bring your own.”

  “That’s all right,” Sylvie replied. “My boy won’t need any restraints. He’s very well trained.” She smiled toward Owen, wondering how he felt to be called her boy in public. His expression was difficult to read, but she couldn’t help but notice the bulge in his jeans.

  William shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  When he had descended the stairs on the side of the stage, Mistress Sylvie turned to Owen. “You should know I would never have agreed to do this if I didn’t have complete confidence in you. I have seen your grace and courage in my dungeon. I am certain you can find that same grace tonight. You will remove your shirt and stand with your face to the wall.” She pointed toward the back wall against which the stage was built.

  “You will place your palms flat against the wall to provide support while I whip your back.” She ran her fingers through the flogger’s thick strands as she spoke, inhaling the rich scent of fine leather. “Or, if you feel comfortable, you can strip completely and get a more thorough flogging.” She laughed, adding, “From the look on your face when I said that, your choice is pretty clear.”

  “It’s just I’ve never—” Owen began.

  “Not at all—” Mistress Sylvie said, placing a hand on his forearm. “I completely understand. What we share in the privacy of my dungeon is different from this public setting. I am proud that you are willing to be a part of this with me. We will do it in a way that feels comfortable and safe for you.”

  “Thank you, Mistress,” Owen replied, the relief evident in his tone.

  Sylvie watched as Owen unbuttoned his shirt and removed it, silently admiring his broad, muscular shoulders and back. She realized she was looking at him with different eyes than when she was in the dungeon. There she kept a stricter control over her emotions, always striving to be professional in what she gave her clients, keeping her own feelings and desires out of the equation.

  But tonight something was different. Tonight their relationship had shifted from strictly business to something more. She had introduced him as her friend, but was it in fact more than that? When she’d crossed the line in accepting his invitation, had the way back to business-as-usual been closed to her?

  Focus, she warned herself. It was important to be on her game tonight. It was her first reentry in the public scene after so long away. She would need to concentrate, and to pay attention not to her own confused emotions, but to the man she would lead in this delicious dance of erotic pleasure and pain.

  “Place your hands flat against the wall,” she repeated. As Owen assumed the position, Sylvie nodded her approval. “Yes, that’s perfect. I will start slowly, and I’ll be talking to the audience, explaining what I’m doing as I go. Your job is to stand still and keep your back straight. What I really want from you is to experience the flogging with your entire being. Don’t pay attention to what I’m saying to the audience. Don’t try to be stoic in front of the crowd. It’s all right if you moan or cry out. Forget that they are there. What I want from you is the total acceptance of what is happening. I want you to embrace the pain, to become one with it, to move into that special place where nothing matters, nothing exists save for you and me and the leather that connects us. Can you do that for me, Owen?”

  Owen turned his head, meeting her eye. She felt something sparking between them. He was worrying his lower lip with his teeth and Sylvie could feel both his apprehension and his desire. She had to squelch the nearly overwhelming desire to kiss him. She found herself taking a step toward him, but stopped, startled by the sudden chiming of bells over the loudspeakers, and then Master H.’s strident voice.

  “Ladies and gentlemen. For those of you interested in a public flogging, please go to the rear stage. Mistress Sylvie will be doing a demonstration in approximately two minutes.”

  Sylvie stroked Owen’s bare back, enjoying the feel of long, lean muscles beneath her fingers. “Relax,” she urged softly. “You were made for this.”

  Master H. climbed to the stage and introduced Sylvie to the crowd of about forty people that had gathered to watch. Once he left the stage, Sylvie addressed the audience.

  She started slowly, demonstrating technique to warm the skin, as she talked about how crucial it was to pay attention to the body and the reactions of your subject. Owen stood still, his palms flat, his bearing proud. Some people called out questions, and she answered them, going over technique, wrist position and stance.

  When she began the flogging in earnest, the crowd quieted and stilled. Sylvie felt them dropping away from her consciousness as she focused on the swish of leather moving over Owen’s back and shoulders, the twitch of his muscles, the way he held his body, the gasp of his breath. His skin was reddening nicely, a crosshatch of marks left by the deceptively soft strands of leather.

  A particularly cruel stroke, the tips curling around Owen’s side, pulled a grunt from his lips, and she could see the sheen of sweat starting on his back. “Accept it,” she said softly. “Embrace it.”

  She struck him harder, flicking the leather against the bunched muscles between his shoulders. “You’re fighting me, Owen. Stop fighting and give yourself to me. I want it all. Hold back nothing.”

  He was breathing h
ard, his chest heaving, his eyes squeezed tightly closed, tension making his body rigid. Maybe she’d made a mistake, forcing him too soon to a public display. Maybe she should back off—end the demonstration now, instead of holding out for what she knew he could do, where she knew he could go, if only he could get past this bit of purgatory.

  That’s how a masochist had described it to her once, telling her that in order to soar, you had to first descend into the depths of hell, let the flames of the pain lick you until you were nothing but that pain—it consumed you and absorbed you, and then… And then, just when you were sure you couldn’t bear another stroke, came the transformation.

  Sylvie never tired of being a part of that, and always thrilled to be the one who could give such an experience to another person. It was the ultimate triumph, she felt, knowing it was her whip, her cane, her touch, that wrought such sublime magic.

  “Owen, let go. Let it take you where you need to go. Do it. Do it for me.”

  And then it happened.

  Owen’s head lifted slowly until his face was to the ceiling. His breathing slowed, his lips parting. His eyes, while still closed, were no longing squeezed shut. Sylvie could feel all the tension easing from his body as he fully embraced what she was offering.

  “Yes,” Sylvie cried, elated as she struck him again and again. “Yes!”

  A collective murmur moved through the watching crowd. They could see it too, and no doubt many of them knew just exactly what they were witnessing. Sylvie continued to flog Owen’s back and shoulders, her rhythm steady and hard as Owen soared. She let him fly as long as she dared before finally easing the tempo and the force, until the leather was only a whisper across his heated, marked flesh.

  “Stay where you are,” she said softly, placing her hand gently on his shoulder. “Take your time to come down.”

  Though they hadn’t discussed how to end the scene, Owen turned slowly to face her, his eyes burning with a fervor that bordered on the religious. He sank slowly to his knees in front of Sylvie and lifted his head to her. Sylvie lowered the flogger toward his face and Owen, as if they’d choreographed it beforehand, kissed the handle.