by Stasia Black
And fuck, I can’t say I’m not curious. If it was anyone else but Jackson who brought me to a kinky sex club and produced this slinky thing for me to wear, I’d have taken the spiky boots that he also produces from the bag, gouged his eyes out, and then been halfway down the street by now.
But it’s not just anyone. It’s Jackson. And he’s not trying to put a collar on me.
“Turn your ass around. If you take even one peek,” I pick up the high-heeled boot, “this heel is landing right here,” I jerk the shoe forward and stop the pointed heel half an inch from the spot on his forehead right between his two eyes.
Jackson’s breath catches at the quick movement and he swallows before backing away with a slow nod. “Got it. No peeking. Scout’s honor.”
I scoff. “As if you were ever a Boy Scout.”
Half of his mouth tips in a would-be smile. “What gave it away? The part where I once spanked your ass in a limo so you came harder than you had ever before in your life? Or bringing you to a sex club where I’m going to put so many fantasies in your head, you’re not going to be able to sleep for a week?”
With that he turns around and pulls his tie loose before slipping it over his head. Next goes his shirt. Then his undershirt. The broad muscles of his back come into view, sinew and muscle stretching—
I pivot and turn quickly away. Fucker. He did that on purpose. I strip quickly, then I frown down at my bra and panties. Then I glance over at the catsuit. Hmm. I’m not exactly wearing a thong. Far from it. These things I’ve got on could almost be qualified as Granny panties.
“Make sure to get completely naked before you put on the suit,” Jackson says from behind me.
I turn in outrage, ready to give him an earful about peeking when he was so earnest in saying he wouldn’t. I don’t pick up the shoe. I’m not really going to take his eye out, but if I can’t even trust him with something so small—
My tirade dies on my lips as I take in Jackson’s ass. Apparently he’s taking his own advice because his boxers are on the floor as he steps into one of the leather pant legs, then the other, before sliding them up his calves.
My breath hitches. He’s got one of those perfect guy asses—rounded but with the divots on the outsides that only the truly toned have. They make you want to just grab on and fucking ride. My mind flashes back to the one and only night that I did exactly that. Well, the night and morning after.
That was all I had of Jackson, really had him. I’d grabbed that ass and felt the contour of it, but seeing it in all its mouthwatering glory, just right there, on display like that—
“Callie? I don’t hear the suit rustling anymore. Did you get stuck or are you done putting it on? Can I turn around now?”
He pulls the leather pants all the way up and over his gorgeous behind. I finally find my voice and swing around, mortified. “No!” I say too loudly. “Don’t turn around.”
I quickly suck in a deep breath for courage and slide my panties to the ground. Then I slip one foot into the catsuit.
And promptly get stuck. “Motherfucker.” I tug hard on the pants of the suit and my foot finally pops through.
“Callie?”
“I’m fine. Don’t you dare turn around.”
The other foot is only a little bit easier and then I work to get the suit up my legs. There’s a little bit of powder inside the suit and that makes it slightly easier to slide up my calves, but only minimally. I jerk at the suit and hop up and down to get the damn thing up. I look over my shoulder to make sure Jackson isn’t peeking. My double D’s are putting on quite the show during all this. He’s being a perfect gentleman, though, standing with his back to me, head aimed at the floor. And damn, he sure does have a fine ass. Putting it in leather makes it almost more delectable. Like now it’s a treat I could unwrap.
Focus, Callie. Christ. I shake my head at myself. Seriously, what the fuck?
Yeah, Jackson is hot. But I see attractive men all over the place and usually the thought of any of them touching me only turns my stomach.
But Jackson. It’s different with him. Maybe because I knew him… before.
All right. Time to get back on track. Putting on the… er… sex suit. I’ve got it up to my hips and slip my arms through the sleeves like I’m pulling on a jacket. It’s not as hard as I expected to get the top half on and soon I’m zipping up the front of the suit.
The zipper goes all the way up to my throat, but I stop at the top of my cleavage. Then I looked down and bite my bottom lip. I lower the zipper and adjust my boobs in the suit.
“Is there a mirror somewhere?” I ask Jackson.
“Can I turn around now?”
“Not yet.” My voice bites in the quiet room. “Is there a mirror?”
He sounds only mildly impatient as he tells me to open the door to the cabinet in the corner of the room. I hurry over and pull the door open, revealing a long mirror on the inner door.
Ok. Wow. I hardly recognize myself.
But fuck. I look hot as hell. Like, give-me-a-whip-and-bow-down-before-me kind of hot. That’s when it clicks. Because I bet that’s not so far off the mark. As in, literally. I’m not completely culturally clueless. Fifty Shades and all that.
But women are always submissive in those stories. Aren’t they?
Then I remember what Jackson said before he handed me a suit. This outfit sends a message and what you wear gives certain signals.
Because of course women aren’t always submissive in kinky sex. There are other images in my head even if I can’t pinpoint how they got there. Strong women in getups not unlike the one I’m wearing. Dominant women. Women in control.
And suddenly I can’t wait to see what Jackson brought me here to show me.
“You can look.” I don’t do a great job of masking the giddiness in my voice.
When Jackson turns toward me, his eyes widen and his pupils dilate. He nods like he’s trying to play it cool, but I see him swallow hard.
“You look good.” Then he laughs, a hand gesturing in my direction. “I mean, very good. Great. Beautiful.” He cringes on the last word, like maybe it’s not appropriate here.
But I look at myself in the mirror again and I nod. “Beautiful,” I agree quietly.
Then I fully take him in, top to toe. He’s only wearing the leather pants. No shirt. Muscles for days. And to my surprise, no shoes or socks. It’s a helluva strong, sexy look. It suits him.
The no shoes thing is hot on him, but I need armor if I’m gonna do this. I look over at the spiked stiletto boots. “Help me with my heels?”
* * *
When we walk into the main part of the club, I’m not sure what I’m expecting. A big stage maybe? Instead, there are a bunch of equipment stations that funnily enough remind me of a gym.
Except for, you know, the naked bodies.
And the understated elegance to the whole place. To be honest, I expected glazed concrete floors with gaudy red and black walls. Something with an underground-grunge-industrial-warehouse vibe. Instead, the walls are a varnished wood so dark it’s just a shade lighter than black. The black tile floor gleams in the ambient yellow light given off from chandeliers studded throughout the ceiling. They’re not the only things hanging from the heavy beams running the length of the room far above our heads, though. I visually follow chains linked to pulleys connected to the beam, tracking the chains as they come back down on the other side to… cuffs and swings and other… equipment.
Many of which are in use. Naked and half-naked bodies are strung up in one corner, spread-eagle over a pommel horse in another, bent on their knees in yet another. A blindfolded naked man with a ball gag in his mouth stands handcuffed to a large wooden X. Another man dressed similarly to Jackson brings down a flogger on the first man’s back. He spasms and an inflamed pinkish spot joins other similar marks on his reddened shoulders.
Holy— I mean, just, what—
There’s too many fucking places to look at once. Too much to take in. I d
on’t realize that my hands are trembling until Jackson tries to take one in his. I yank away immediately. He inclines his head a fraction and doesn’t say anything.
“Do you need another moment?” His voice is cool and almost monotone.
Whether I do need a moment or not, I shake my head no. I’d rather not keep standing here watching Naked House of Pain anymore.
“Follow me then.”
I hold my head high in spite of the sheer craziness going on around me. We pass by a woman strung upside down. She’s strapped into a pair of boots that are chained to the ceiling. Her hands are also cuffed and chained to the ceiling so that her back is parallel to the ground, stomach up. Her head hangs backward, mouth open.
Another man dressed like Jackson steps in front of her and then without ceremony, grabs her blonde braid, adjusts her head slightly, shoves his cock into her mouth and down her throat. She chokes on it and spittle almost immediately starts to pour out the sides of her mouth, rolling down and into her hair.
All the breath leaves my chest in a sudden swoop as I come to a full stop. What is going on here?
Without breaking stride, the man fucking her mouth signals with his hand to another man. The second man, in black latex chaps with a cutout where the crotch area should be steps forward.
No. Oh God—
His dick’s only slightly smaller than the first man’s, which means big. Too big. He moves calmly to the other end of the woman and grabs her hips. He’s clearly about to penetrate and I go completely cold.
I’ll wear out your every hole.
“Stop it!” I step forward. I’ll kill them. I’ll take those chains, wrap them around their thick necks and strangle the fucking life out of—
“Callie,” Jackson puts his hand on my arm, something he usually knows better than to do, while the two men glance over at me, expressions I can’t read on their faces.
“They aren’t doing anything wrong,” Jackson steps close so that he’s speaking in a low whisper in my ear.
I pull back, about to argue vehemently when he pulls me close again by my arm. “This is a BDSM club. Nothing goes on here that isn’t consensual. Completely consensual. Do you understand what I mean? They aren’t doing anything except what that girl has expressly given them the go-ahead for. What she wants them to do.”
“She can’t even talk!” I yank against Jackson’s grip as I nod toward the man who has the girl’s head in a vice grip, roughly forcing his cock down her throat. Over and over again. The other guy starts fucking her too and my head about explodes.
Over and over and over and—
She loves it, look how the dirty bitch is deep throating me. I was choking and he wouldn’t stop. They held me down and it wouldn’t stop and I was gagging, gagging all around his— his— and they wouldn’t stop.
They wouldn’t stop.
But I can make the fucking bastards stop now.
I look up again and am about to charge when the man force-feeding the girl his cock calls out, “brake light,” and pulls back out of her mouth. The man on the other end pulls back immediately as well. It’s only then that I notice the strung up girl is snapping her fingers rapidly.
“Brake light, brake light,” she gasps as soon as her mouth is free. The man who’d been using her mouth signals with his hand and the next moment, the chains holding her up start lowering to the ground.
He catches her in his arms when she’s almost to the floor, cradling her body. He immediately starts undoing the cuffs at her wrists and the man in chaps comes to her feet, working at the combination of chains and cuffs there.
Tears stream down the girl’s cheeks. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she repeats several times, “I failed to please you.”
The man is shaking his head adamantly. “Don’t ever say sorry for using your safe word.” His voice is commanding and the girl looks up into his eyes, her own large and luminous. “That would displease me.”
A gentle smile breaks across her face and she nods.
“I told you our motto is safe, sane, and consensual,” Jackson whispers. “Nothing that happens here will ever violate any of those three cardinal rules.”
Safe. Sane. Consensual.
My mind flashes back to what I’ve been doing in the dark corners of clubs or once in a skeezy bathroom. I always make sure to get the last one covered—consensual—but safe, or even sane? I think about the knife I held to the guy’s throat last week as I rode him to orgasm.
The girl in front of us nestles into the man’s chest. He places a kiss on top of her head, slipping the tie off the end of her braid. Then he runs his fingers through her hair as he continues soothing her.
I stand there beside Jackson and something inside my chest starts to crack like a long frozen iceberg meeting the sun on a warm day after a long, uninterrupted winter.
Except that’s not supposed to be possible. My chest is empty. Hollow. There’s nothing left inside me to be warmed or cracked open.
I turn away from the scene and start walking in the direction Jackson had been taking us before I stopped. “What did you want to show me?” My voice is hard. Caustic. Why the hell did I get into his car back at the office? Why can’t I ever think straight around him?
“This way.” He starts forward and I let him lead. I don’t care what kind of message that might send in this place of clearly-delineated roles. I’m not in the mood for chitchat. I’ll see what he wants me to see, then get the hell out of here and let this be one of those strange experiences that I can look back on some day far, far in the future, and say, hey, remember the crazy thing I did one night?
Jackson leads us past more couples, threesomes, even one complicated-looking foursome, to a hallway in the back. There we pass by several windows that reveal even more private scenes being enacted.
Jackson glances through each window as we pass before finally stopping at one. The room we stop at is dark inside except for a single spotlight highlighting a naked man bent over one of those pommel horse-things and a dark-haired woman in a red bustier and latex skirt that barely covers her ass. Blood red thigh-high boots complete her outfit.
Jackson knocks twice and the woman looks to the window before waving at him to come in. Jackson opens the door and we step inside.
“Hello, Mistress Nightblood.”
She inclines her head toward him. “Master Sin.” Wait, did she really just call Jackson, Master Sin? Did I hear that right? She’s a fuller figured woman and her ample breasts spill out the top of the bustier. They’re all I can stare at but Jackson somehow keeps his eyes trained only on her face.
“May I introduce my potential apprentice, Mistress…” He looks at me.
Aha. So secret monikers are the way here. I get it. This is fantasy and using your real name can heighten that, not to mention that I get not wanting strangers knowing your real name, especially when meeting them in this context. I think fast.
“Mistress Lee.” It just pops out, but it feels right. The second half of my shortened name, Callie. It’s strong. A good, dominant name.
“Nice to meet you, Mistress Lee.” Mistress Nightblood smiles at me and she seems very genuine. “Always good to see new Dommes-in-training. We need all the help we can to keep these dicks in line, don’t we? Speaking of—” She averts her attention and I follow her gaze.
Right. The guy under the spotlight. He’s chained spread-eagled, ass up. He’s also completely butt-naked except for a thick leather collar around his neck and some kind of device strapped to his balls with a little weight dangling at the end that’s dragging them toward the floor. I’m not even a dude and… ouch!
“Had enough yet, slave?” Mistress Nightblood picks up a brown flogger with a ton of little leather straps coming out the end. Is she going to—
She flicks his ass with it. Once. Twice. Three times. Okaaaaaaaaaaay. Guess that answers that question.
He barely flinches and his ass only turns a very light pink as opposed to some of the angry red flesh on the butts
I saw outside.
The man lets out a groan but it doesn’t sound like he’s in pain.
“Don’t you dare come,” Mistress Nightblood says in a warning voice. She reaches between his legs and tugs on one of the weights that’s attached to his balls.
“Please, Mistress.” He sounds agonized and I’d swear there are tears in his voice. “Please, please.”
She smacks him on the ass with the flogger again, this time harder.
“Please, what?”
Like before, I feel the protective instinct to go forward and help the person who’s chained up. But then he speaks and I pause before I can take a step.
“Please let me come, Mistress. I can’t take any more. I’m a nasty, bad, bad little slave.” His ass wiggles slightly. Well, as much as he can, constrained as he is. “But please, please let me come.”
He wants to come? So he is totally into this. I look closer at his face and… yeah. That’s pleasure contorting his features. Whoa.
“Oh, you can’t take any more?” Mistress’ voice takes on a dangerous edge. “Since when do you think you’re the one who gets to determine how much you can or cannot take?”
Jackson leads me a little further away from the couple so that we’re unobtrusive, but still close enough so we have a clear view of what Mistress Nightblood is doing.
She grabs the head of the man’s cock and he lets out a groan as his whole body shudders. My own breath hitches at the sight and I swallow hard.
This has just gone from some bizarre Hollywood set I stumbled onto and is becoming something more like a fantasy come to life. Now that I know both of them are completely into it, that what Jackson said is true, this is consensual… I swallow again even though my mouth has gone completely dry. I’m riveted to the scene before me.
Mistress rubs the skin of the man’s cock up and down over his shaft, all the while hissing in his ear, “don’t you dare come. If you come, I’ll be very, very disappointed in you. What happens when Mistress is disappointed in you?” She rubs her cheek against his, her hand still firmly on his cock. With her other hand, she reaches down and pulls on the weight so that his balls are dragged down. He squirms against his cuffs and his face twists in a mixture of bliss and agony.
