by Deena Ward
Instead I was met with a wide hallway that could be found in any modern business complex. The walls were covered with a beige textured wallpaper that would be at home in a nice office. The carpeting was deep blue and of the sturdy variety you see in public places. A pleasant citrus aroma filled the air.
I could have been walking down this hallway to visit an accountant, or a doctor.
We made a left turn and came upon a young woman seated at a desk pushed to one side of the hall. She was a sweet-looking girl, with short bouncy brown curls and freckles scattered across her nose. She wore a demure cotton dress, white with a print of tiny yellow flowers. She was painting her nails a garish purple, though she stopped immediately when she saw us turn the corner.
She glanced up at us, then immediately back down to the desk, where she quickly put the top back on the bottle of polish.
She stood as if she were at military attention. “Sir,” was the only word she said once we were standing in front of her. She kept her eyes on the desk and did not look up at us again.
Michael said, “Are the Hoytes in a session?”
The woman replied, “Yes, Sir. They’re in room seven.”
“I’d like a viewing room, then, if one’s open.”
She answered with another, “Yes, Sir,” then reached into a desk drawer and came up with a card that reminded me of the kind you get at hotels, an electronic door key.
“Room 7E, Sir,” she said.
Michael took the key and thanked her. The girl’s posture relaxed. She stiffened again when Michael said, “By the way, Sarah, I didn’t ask what room the Hoytes were in. I’m not a big stickler on these things, but there are others who wouldn’t appreciate your presumption.”
She looked aghast. “I’m sorry, Sir. I didn’t mean to offend. I should have been more careful. I know I shouldn’t presume.”
Michael blew out a bored-sounding sigh. “I said it’s not about me. Go back to your nails.”
“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.” And she dropped back into her chair and grabbed the bottle of polish as if her life depended on it.
We walked off. When we were far enough away that I figured Sarah wouldn’t be able to hear my whisper, I asked, “What was that about?”
Michael waved off my question. “It was nothing. The owners like using trainees to man the desk and we’re supposed to do our parts in their training. It’s a bother.”
“Training?”
“It’s a formal thing that some Doms do. It’s not important right now.”
We took several more turns down some lengthy hallways and past many doors until we came to number seven, and then past number seven to a door with a sign that read, “Viewing Rooms,” and underneath that, “7A - 7E and 8A - 8E.”
Michael opened the door and we entered into another hallway, this one narrower and lined with doors on both sides. We went to the one labeled 7E, where Michael used his card key and ushered me inside.
It was a very small room, only large enough to hold an oversized recliner, a cushioned bench, a small end table, and of all things, a chaise longue. The furniture was covered in a sturdy, black vinyl. I thought it was a good choice, that it would be easy to keep clean. This was not a strange thought to have, considering one of the odors in the room.
Mostly, the room smelled of some exotic Asian blend of incense. But under that smell was the barely perceptible tang of disinfectant, an obvious declaration of the purpose of the room. I should have been comforted and reassured by this sign of cleanliness. Instead, I was becoming a tangle of nerves and anticipation, a condition that had worsened the closer we came to the room.
The room was as brightly lit as a kitchen, the walls and floor shining pristine white under the glare. The huge curtain was white, too, stretching from sidewall to sidewall and ceiling to floor on the far side of the room. I assumed the curtain covered the window into Room 7.
In all, it reminded me of some sort of surgical viewing room, not comforting in the slightest.
Michael gave me a reassuring smile. He took my purse from me and put it on the little table, then turned a knob on the wall, a dimmer for the lights as it turned out. As shadows took shape around the furniture, the softer light soothed the harshness of the room.
“Better?” he asked.
I nodded.
He said, “I know, the decorating scheme is austere. In its defense, it’s intended to let you know how clean it is, so there’s no doubt.”
“Mission accomplished,” I said.
He opened a door in the base of the side table. It was a mini fridge. He asked, “Are you thirsty? Water, juice, soda?”
I shook my head no.
He closed the door and walked over to me. The demeanor of polite cordiality dropped away as he reached out and ran his fingers down the length of my bare arm.
He said, his voice low and warm, “It’s okay if you’re nervous, and a bit scared. It excites me.”
He put his arms around my waist and gently pulled me close to him. He said, “Remember, you can always walk away. The door is only locked to the outside. You’re free to leave if you wish.”
“I’ll remember,” I said, my voice sounding strange in my head, a reedy thinness.
He was tall, my head reaching just shy of his chin. He lowered his head and whispered near my ear, “You don’t have to do anything. I know what needs to be done. Trust me and let me guide you. You’ll be fine.”
He soothed me with more honeyed words, and pressed soft kisses on the lobe of my ear. He told me to relax, to enjoy the moment. I put my arms around his neck and did as he said. It was easy, with him. Apparently, we were here to do more than watch, but then I was no fool. I had figured as much. And Michael was handsome, and thrilling in a new way. It was no difficult task to enjoy what he was doing to me.
His warm breath played across my neck and his hands caressed my back. Then he kissed me, his lips light and gentle on my own. His scent was a masculine musk.
Then his tongue reached out to taste me. We tasted each other. He tasted of fresh oranges, rum and a hint of mint.
He unbuttoned my shirt, kissing me all the while. He slipped it from my shoulders, then he unclasped and whisked away my bra as well. He cupped my breasts, lifting them, feeling the weight of them. When he had touched me earlier in the evening, I had hoped there might be more. Here was more.
He tasted my breasts with lips and tongue and made a sound that might have been “yes,” but I couldn’t be sure. My breath was growing ragged.
I wanted his skin next to mine, so I reached out and tugged at his shirt. He stopped nuzzling me long enough to let me remove his shirt, then he returned his attention to my breasts. I ran my hands over his smooth chest, my palms playing over the defined muscles of his torso.
While he sucked my hard nipples into his mouth, his hands moved to my skirt, and in a moment, the skirt was unzipped and pooled around my feet.
I reached for his belt, wanting to see more of him, but I had no more than touched the buckle when Michael grabbed my wrists and said, “No.”
He pushed my arms behind my back and restrained them with one of his large hands clamped around both my wrists. With his other hand, he grabbed the hair at the nape of my neck and pulled my head back until I was looking up into his cold blue eyes. I felt a shiver of delicious fear rush over me.
He said, “Time to lay down some ground rules for you. This is not what you’re used to, I know, but I bet you’re a quick learner. Are you?”
I said I was. I hoped I was.
He said, “I allowed you to take off my shirt. That was the only boon you’ll get from me tonight. Anything else that happens, and I do mean anything, will be at my direction, my command. You’ll do nothing without my permission. Do you understand?”
His gaze bore into mine. I wanted this. Strange and unfamiliar as it was, I wanted it, like I had wanted The Businessman to have his way with me in that other hallway. I wanted to give myself over to something bigger and stronger than
myself. To give myself to him.
I said, “Yes, I understand.”
He claimed my mouth, his tongue thrusting into me.
He released my hair and grasped one of my breasts, squeezing more tightly than before. He kneaded my flesh between his fingers. Pleasure. Pleasure to be taken by him.
Then he stopped kissing and massaging me. He let go of my wrists.
Stepping back from me, he said, “Put your hands behind your head. Yes, like that. Kick away that skirt. Now spread your legs. A little wider. Yes, like that. Put more arch in your back. I want your ass and tits out. Do it!”
I complied with his orders as rapidly as I could. He moved various parts of me around until he had me in the pose he wanted.
He slowly circled me, eyeing me up and down. It was embarrassing, but sensual too, standing here in front of him, wearing only panties.
He said, “Look at the floor, or the ceiling. I don’t care which. Just don’t look at me unless I tell you to.”
I did as he asked, staring at the floor, and though I could no longer watch him directly, I could see what he was doing well enough from my peripheral vision.
He stood beside me and said, “This is position number one.” He reached out a hand and began rubbing my ass cheek. With his other hand he cupped one of my breasts then ran his hand down my abdomen, pausing over the flimsy triangle of white silk between my legs.
He said, “Remember this pose.”
“Yes,” I said, breathy, wanting his hand to slip lower, to stroke between my legs.
“Don’t move,” he said.
Then he was gone behind me. I kept my eyes on the floor until I heard a loud sound behind me, a scraping sound. Without moving my body, I turned my head a fraction to see what he was doing. He was moving the cushioned bench into the center of the room. I returned my gaze to the floor in front of me.
When he was finished, he slipped an arm around my waist from behind and pulled me against him. His other hand roamed freely over my breasts. I arched my back as far as I could, a subconscious push of my breasts into his hand. We were both breathing harder. I had thought this was because of what he was doing, but I was wrong, about him, anyway.
With menace in his voice, he whispered, “I told you not to move, and you have already disobeyed me twice.”
I shivered and said, “I didn’t mean to, I ...”
He interrupted, “Don’t make it worse with excuses, Sweet. If you weren’t a beginner, this might have gone very, very badly for you. But as it is, your punishment will be light.”
I thought, my punishment? Oh, hell.
“Now listen very closely, because I won’t repeat this warning,” he continued, still using that menacing whisper. “Do not disobey me a third time. If you do, the repercussions will be ... severe. Do you understand?”
I nodded, my head feeling big and wobbly on my neck.
“Words,” he said.
“Yes,” I managed to say, somehow.
“Good,” he said, and abruptly released me. “Now go straddle that bench.”
I moved as if I were in someone else’s body, someone else’s dream, maybe. It seemed as if the more demanding Michael became, the more I wanted to obey him. My reaction to him flew in the face of what I thought I knew about my character, defied who I thought I was. I felt much the way I had when I was with The Businessman. I would think, why am I doing this? And then I would do it anyway.
Michael instructed me on how he wanted me to straddle the black bench. He had moved it into the center of the room, lengthwise with one end facing the curtained wall. I was forced to spread my legs wide to straddle the bench and did not feel wholly secure on my feet when Michael nudged me to move up more.
Attached to the end of the bench was a raised bar which I had originally thought was an arm rest. Perhaps it was an arm rest, but that was not the purpose for which it would be used tonight. Michael instructed me to bend over and grab the bar with both hands. He adjusted the position of my feet and the arch of my back and neck, the straightness of my legs, until he had me where he wanted me.
It was a position of intimate exposure. I was not tied or restrained in any way, but he made me feel as if I were. The muscles in my calves and thighs stretched taut from the angle of my heels conflicting with my bent torso and arched back, from the extreme spread demanded by the width of the bench. My ass jutted out, my pussy and anus covered only by the thinnest of silk.
Michael made a grunt which I assumed meant he was satisfied, then stood in front of me. He said, “Don’t remove your hands from that bar unless I tell you to. Do you understand?”
I told him I did then watched, fascinated when he began to unbuckle his belt, his crotch mere inches from my face. I felt a rush of wetness between my legs.
He pulled his belt from the loops of his jeans. He didn’t drop the belt as I thought he would, nor did he begin to unfasten his jeans. Instead, he doubled the belt between his hands.
After walking around behind me, he massaged one of my ass cheeks.
He said, “Before we can watch the show in the main room, there’s something you have to understand.”
He squeezed and rubbed each of my buttocks in turn, like he was testing my flesh, testing the spring of skin and muscle over bone.
He continued, “You’re going to see a woman getting whipped. Have you ever been whipped, Sweet?”
I managed to say no, not easy since I was practically holding my breath.
He said, “To have any chance of understanding what the woman in the other room is feeling, you need to have some experience. Not a great deal, but some. I’m not going to whip you, of course. It’s too soon for that. A few rounds with my belt, however, might be of some use to you.”
And with that, he snapped the belt across my ass. I tried to bite back a cry, but made a grunting noise all the same. Fire flashed across my ass, gone again in a moment.
Michael rubbed where he had hit me. Then ... smack! The belt struck again. Smack! Again. I grunted with the blows.
He rubbed me and said, “Her ass will be bare, of course. And she will feel so much more pain than this, you can’t imagine, not now.”
He struck again. I clenched my stomach against the growing burn. My ass was becoming more sensitive with each strike. Then Michael began rubbing me again. His hand slipped under my panties, skin on skin, and he slid his fingers down the crack of my ass, then lower to my pussy, my embarrassingly wet pussy.
He stroked me and I squirmed under his touch. I forgot about the belt.
I shouldn’t have. In a quick motion, his hand was gone and once again the belt struck my ass, but this time lower, where the bottom of my buttocks met the tops of my thighs. I barely controlled my cry.
Michael chuckled and said, “That one was for turning your head when I told you not to.”
Then he struck again, the same spot, with greater force than he had yet used. I was unable, finally, to restrain a yelp. My skin stung and burned from the blow.
Michael said, “That was for arching your back when I told you to hold your position. Just think, you never would have gotten those two blows if you hadn’t been disobedient.”
“Of course,” he said, “I get my greatest pleasure when you obey me. But, I also get pleasure when you don’t. I enjoy the cries of beautiful women. For me, it’s a win-win. Now, sit down. And remember, don’t take your hands from the bar until I tell you to.”
I sat down with relief. My legs had grown increasingly trembly from the stress of holding my straight-legged position under the shock of Michael’s blows. I made certain to keep my hands clasped around the bar.
Michael straddled the bench behind me, and snugged up against my back. The warmth of his smooth chest against my back soothed me, unlike the stinging heat still plaguing my butt.
He said, “Time for the show,” and pushed a button on a remote control he was holding.
I didn’t know if I was ready, but no matter, the curtain was opening.
T
he window was huge, encompassing almost the entirety of the wall. The window provided an unimpeded view of the room beyond. And quite a view it was.
The room was large, with white ceiling, floor and walls like our viewing room. In the main room, the whiteness was broken by shelves, rolling carts and various equipment of unknown purpose that neatly lined two of the walls.
Some tall lamps were scattered about here and there, but weren’t being used at the moment. All the lighting came from recessed fixtures in the ceiling. Plenty of hooks of various sizes and shapes adorned the ceiling as well. From one particularly strong and thick hook hung what I thought was a block and tackle. I didn’t think it prudent that I ponder its use, and moved on. Indeed, most of the equipment in the room left me wondering what purpose it might serve, but as with the block and tackle, I didn’t spend time contemplating it.
The real display, anyway, was in the very center of the room.
There were three people, two women and a man.
The man was massively huge in every way, thick and burly, like a professional wrestler from long ago, or a muscled dockhand. His barrel chest and meaty arms were bare. Dark hair covered his arms and torso and led down to a good-sized stomach which protruded more than a little, yet appeared tight and hard. No one would ever dare to suggest the man was fat.
His black leather pants fit him nicely and not too tightly. He wore studded black leather boots.
As if all of this weren’t intimidating enough, he wore a black leather hood that fit around the entirety of his head and neck, so there was no way to know what he looked like. The only holes in the mask were for his eyes, ears, nostrils and mouth. Nothing suggested expression of any kind, leaving him devoid of the usual signs of humanity.
He resembled an executioner from another age. Instead of an axe, he held a thin black rod of some sort. He was frightening, indeed.
A woman kneeled on the floor not too far away from the man. She seemed miniscule in comparison to the bulk of the masked man. Her head was bowed and she had medium-length brown hair that fell forward and shielded much of her face. I guessed her age at around 40. She had a ripe figure that swelled out of her tightly-cinched corset and hip-hugging skirt. The outfit was made of black leather, like the man’s. Her feet were bare.
