While her mind was running through the possibilities of who might be standing behind her wielding the whip she remembered she’d been asked a question and replied. “Yes master.”
“You deserved this beating didn’t you?” While he was talking to her the rain of lashings continued and she spoke through narrowed eyes and a clenched jaw. “Yes master. I was very bad.” She smiled inwardly. Her script wasn’t difficult and that helped. She didn’t want to make demanding and difficult conversation. She wanted her mind free to focus on her predicament. She wanted to drift into the sexy dreamlike state known as subspace where time melted away and there was only her sexual desire and the messages of her senses.
As if sensing her need for solitude and silence he shuffled back and cocked his head, his face soft but full of mischief. “I might go and have a little stroll around.” He leaned forward and planted a series of kisses on her upturned face. “There’s a queue back there waiting to give you your punishment. That’s okay isn’t it?”
This was her moment to complain if she wanted to. Just one word and he would untie her and take her back to the safety of their own little flat. It wasn’t a difficult decision, not only did she want the beating to continue she also wanted to know what else the night held for her. “Yes master.” she replied. “I deserve the beating. Thank you sir.” The voice was not quite her own.
Time became blurred. She was beaten with a number of different implements by what she guessed was a number of different people. At one stage she heard a woman’s voice behind her and was interested to note that she was almost as turned on with the attention of a female as she was with a male. Her guest torturers were by and large a gentle group. None were as firm as David. They seemed to explore her skin with their whips and paddles rather than actually try to inflict pain and this was fine with her. The experience was still highly erotic; being so helplessly exposed and so tightly bound in a room full of strangers kept her skin tingling and blood pumping.
She started to fantasize about the crowd at the back of the room taking advantage of her. She visualised a line of erect men waiting to take their turn and although outrageous and obscene she let the idea build and build. The scenario got filthier and filthier in her mind and she soon substituted the blows of the whip for the thrusts of well endowed, muscular admirers.
Finally her master returned. She guessed that fifteen minutes or so had passed but she was ready for a change and was glad when he kissed her and untied her bonds. He gave her no time to forget her place, instantly reminding her to bow her head then taking the chain that hung from her collar and leading her quickly from the room.
He took her down a wide corridor towards the sound of pumping house music. She saw coloured lights flashing on the ground in front of her and moved into a dance floor area. She caught glimpses of high heels swivelling in the flashing lights as clubbers danced around them and as she moved through the crowd she felt eyes on her and knew she was on display again.
The tension on her chain slackened as David moved her to the far side and found an empty bench where he sat and stretched out his legs. Pulling her a little closer he held her hips and turned her to face the DJ. The music was almost incredibly loud, the thumping bass hitting her body with a real physical force. He fiddled with her skirt, making sure that it was rolled up as tight as it would go then thrusting it into her waistband then unbuttoned her blouse and pulled it open. She was exposed to the whole room. Her thin triangle of red pubic hair and her intimate curves open to view above her stocking tops. She could feel moisture drying on her thighs; her own wetness betraying her reaction to her whipping. A slap stung her backside and she jolted. David was spanking her again, slowly but with real force.
“Dance! Come on. Dance slave.”
She understood and immediately started moving, wriggling her hips and moving her feet to the pounding insistent beat. She didn’t dance as she would have done if she was her real self out enjoying a party. She moved like a stripper, focussing on gyrating her hips and belly in a languid provocative way. It was supposed to be humiliating but it wasn’t. Being forced to dance slutishly freed her from her inhibitions and whenever she could she flicked her eyes around the room and caught both men and women watching her admiringly. She’d always loved being the centre of attention but it was something that she’d carefully played down to avoid getting a reputation as a show off. She’d helped out in amateur fashion shows at university and found striding down a catwalk in skimpy clothes incredibly exciting. Now that she was collared and chained and shimmying almost naked in a crowd she got even more of a buzz. She could feel lustful admiring eyes on her and she loved it.
As she moved her lover slapped her backside with relentless precision. Her tenderised skin quickly started to burn and her cheeks became flushed again. She had no idea how many people were watching, or whether she’d become the main attraction on the dance floor but the whole situation was deeply erotic. She had become an object. Her dancing was to titillate her master and the other clubbers. She was naked below the waist and was being slapped on the backside like a piece of meat.
She lost track of the time she spent on display but just as she was getting uncomfortably hot and breathless on the dance floor her master decided to move on. He must have felt the need for a cigarette break because it was then that he led her out to the smoking area on the balcony. There was to be no rest for her. He kept her in role and when he’d found an empty space ordered her onto the floor near his feet. She knelt on the wooden decking while her fellow clubbers sat chatting, smoking and drinking around her. She knew that there was a stunning city sky line to appreciate but it was way beyond the range of her lowered gaze. Had she been allowed to stand up and look around she would have seen the spectacular array of lights twinkling down the river bank. Just on the other side of the road was the MI6 building, a huge hulking castle-like presence that housed the country’s James Bonds. There was probably a night shift at work who, had they taken a pair of binoculars to the window, would have been able to watch her holding her submissive position so obediently. They, or any other observer who caught sight of her, might have struggled to understand what they were seeing. Some might have been appalled at the sight of the beautiful young woman kneeling, half naked on a chain. They might have objected to the revealing outfits and atmosphere of threatened violence that permeated the club but they would have missed what was going on in her head. At that precise moment she was feeling insulted and degraded because the dominants and clubbers who had gathered outside for a smoke were discussing lighters. David’s petrol fuelled Zippo had drawn some comment and its flame and reliability were being compared to various other models that she couldn’t see. It was infuriating. How dare they discuss such pointless trivia when she was kneeling just a few feet away with her body so beautifully exposed?
A calming voice in her head slowly explained the situation. The smoking terrace was a break spot and domming was hard work. While she had spent the evening slipping away into an indulgent and quite trippy subspace David had been working hard on a number of levels. He had to think for two as just moving around the club with her on a chain meant he had to prepare a path for her. He was responsible for making certain that she was sure footed and didn’t bump into anything. When tying her he had to make certain that her bonds were tight enough to feel sexy but never threatened to cut off her circulation. Even when it came to the beating she could squirm around and enjoy it but he was doing the physical work. While the sensations were building on her skin he had to make sure that he was hitting the right places at the right time with the right strength.
The other thing that many casual observers might not be aware of looking at the selection of male and female slaves with their owners was how much the submissives were actually in control of the situation. Many, like her, had sought out partners with the capability of being dominant and then subtly trained and encouraged them into the part. Even more startling to the uninitiated was the amount of flexibility and
role swapping. Within a lot of BDSM relationships the doms and subs frequently changed positions. This gave them both a break and the chance to see what it felt like on the other end of the whip.
The conversation at the table came to an end and just when her exposed skin was beginning to cool and her knees were beginning to ache she heard her master make a few brief farewells to his companions and stand and give her chain a gentle tug. She stood and followed him to the doorway where he stopped in the space between two sets of curtains and then turned to put a hand assertively on her shoulder. They were alone for a moment. She could hear the distant chatter on the balcony and the constant thumping of dance music from inside the club but they had their own small pocket of privacy. Still keeping hold of her lead he stepped up and pressed himself close against her. His strong arms grabbed her waist and she felt him pushing against her bum, then his mouth was suddenly pressed close to her ear. “Are you enjoying yourself slave?”
“Yes sir,” Her voice was quiet and meek with a breathy girly quality to it that she must have added unconsciously.
His hands move up to cup her breasts and she found herself squirming. She had loved the kneeling, bondage and whipping but it had all lacked one thing. She had not been held or pulled close to someone and the sensation of his body pressing hard against hers made her tingly all over. She wanted to be smothered by him, to be wrapped up in hard muscle then taken with a rough urgent passion.
He squeezed her tits, finding the limit where the pressure became painful then relaxing his grip. His face was back close to hers again, the sweet smell of fresh tobacco and beer faint on his breath. “That’s good. I have to say you’ve been a very well-behaved slave. I’ve been very proud of you.” The words made her feel warm inside. There was a pride in being a tough submissive and she knew she’d done it well. Every bow of the head, every obedient position had been well held and she’d taken her beatings without any complaint whilst at the same time gasping and wriggling in a way that made sure that it was entertaining to watch.
His hands found her nipples then he gripped them between finger and thumb and started to squeeze. “But then that’s a shame really because there’s nothing to punish you for really.”
He was right. She knew the code. If she agreed with him he would probably back off and might even snap her out of role. But she didn’t want that. She was still hot and wet and eager and she wanted more, more, more. For a moment she was stumped then she had a simple but cunning idea. “Yes but slave would like permission to go and pee and slave begs master’s forgiveness and will accept any punishment if he will allow her just five minutes for a toilet break.”
His fingers slowly released the pressure on her nipples. “I see.”
She shivered as he started to plant gentle soft kisses behind her ear and down the side of her neck. “So if I allow a short beak the slave will come back and do her best to make up?”
She nodded in an exaggerated way. “Yes master.” In her mind she could see an innocent chamber maid standing in front of her lord and employer. It was ridiculous play-acting but it worked. The whole scene was about exaggeration and in the depths of night, surrounded by outrageously-dressed people and high on hash cake, wine and endorphins it all worked perfectly.
He unclipped her lead and folded the length of chain into the palm of his hand. “Go on then. But be quick. Five minutes max.”
The lights were bright in the toilets and there was a noisy chatter from the long row of washbasins where a long line of women were touching up their makeup. As soon as she stepped through the door she changed her posture, straightening her back and lifting her head to move with her usual grace and confidence. In here she was a normal woman again. There was a cubicle free and because the big washroom had an attendant it was spotlessly clean and the range of complimentary perfumes kept it incredibly sweet smelling.
When she had peed she dabbed herself carefully, aware that soon there may be eyes inspecting every intimate crevice of her body. At the basin she relished the sensation of hot water and soap on her hands. The touch of warm moisture around her fingers seemed to be a sensual experience. The wine, the bondage and the beating and the kneeling had all combined to bring her whole skin to life. Even in the unflattering lights of the toilets she felt tingly and deeply sensual.
She put her hands under the soap and rubbed the foam between her fingers for a second time. She had slowed almost to a standstill, mesmerised by her own actions. But that was okay. She needed to take plenty of time because she needed to break the limit set by her master.
She succeeded and had clearly been much longer than five when she reappeared from the ladies with her arms behind her back and her head bowed. After he’d clipped her chain back onto her collar he stroked her forehead. “You okay?”
“Yes master. I’m fine master. Sorry if I was so long. I was talking.” She smiled inwardly. It was a very clear message of disobedience and luckily he took the bait. With a firm tug on her lead he pulled her towards the main performance room. “Well. That was very naughty wasn’t it? You’d better come with me and I’ll find a way to remind you of your place.”
Walking quickly and with a clear sense of purpose he led her through the club’s narrow corridors to the central entertainment area. Pumping music got louder and louder and then as they pushed their way inside they were surrounded by a noisy hum of chatter. Soon she could see the front of the long wooden stage and was surprised when he kept walking straight towards it. He moved her right up to the base of the long wooden platform then made her kneel. The stage was just about six inches above her head and there was something fairly acrobatic going on because she could both hear and feel the wooden boards flexing as the performers moved about.
“Hands behind your head.” She quickly obeyed. It was one of her favourite humiliating positions, the one that reminded her of the Victorian schoolgirls being punished in front of their classmates. She heard him delve in one of his pockets and then a coin was held up in front of her face. “Wriggle forward until you can hold this with your nose.”
She did as she was told. She knew exactly the position he intended and it was one of the extreme positions that they’d discussed and described but never tried. The surface of the small disc of metal was rough but warm from his body heat and with just some gentle pressure from the tip of her nose she was able to keep it in place.
Once she held it she was helpless. Any tiny movement would risk it slipping and falling and she knew there would be extreme punishment for that. He had moved her right to the base of the stage for a reason. The whole room and anyone passing through were now witnesses to her punishment.
She felt his hands slip under her skirt and shivered. His hot palm moved slowly up the smooth nylon on the inside of her thighs. He moved inch by inch, higher and higher and she found the sensual anticipation quite mesmerising. There was no sound from the stage. The entertainment must have stopped and she realised that although they were in plain sight of the whole room his body was shielding her from view. He reached her stocking tops then there flesh touched flesh. His rough skin caressed the softness of her inner thigh and she shivered as electricity tingled around her groin.
She desperately wanted to wriggle and squirm under his touch but she couldn’t move a millimetre. Her back was locked straight, her arms clasped behind her head and her face pressed so close to the wooden boards that everything had blurred. She could feel the coin squashed against the end of her nose and knew that if she shifted her weight even slightly she risked it falling. Knowing she was trapped in self bondage he moved his hand up until it brushed the very tips of her pubic hair and she felt her heart beating loud in her chest, wetness pooling inside her.
He moved his head closer. “Keep that there till I get back or you get tied on the whipping horse again.” He shuffled just a fraction backwards. “If I have to beat you again then I’ll leave you there till this place closes. And that’s three hours from now.”
His menace was real.
She knew that he really would and that she couldn’t stop him unless she broke the scene by using the safe word. That wasn’t going to happen. She would hold her position and accept the punishment she’d so carefully manipulated. After a brief pause to let the message sink in he stood and took a couple of steps backwards. “I’m just going to get a drink and make a sign for you. Back in a min.” With that he was gone.
She waited completely immobile and frozen while people started moving around her. Voices came near and she heard snippets of idle chat. Most exciting were the observers. After just a few minutes a very well-to-do middle aged couple with cut glass upper class accents came up and stood studying her.
“Now that’s a very pretty and well-behaved slave.” She heard the man say.
“Yes.” The woman let out a short nervous giggle. “But she can’t be that well behaved if she’s being punished.”
“Hmm.” The man paused, perhaps taking a sip of wine, then chose not to add any further comment.
The end of her nose started to itch then tension built in her shoulders from holding her hands up at the back of her head. She kept perfect posture though, the position was no worse than a beginner’s Pilates exercise and she was strong, she was showing the whole club how tough she was. The man’s voice changed tone slightly and she guessed he was talking to someone who’d just approached them. “Is she yours?”
“Yes.” Her heart leapt. If was David’s voice. It was her lover saying one of the sexiest things she’d ever heard. Yes she was his. She was owned. She was an object. A possession.
“Has she been bad?” It was the woman. If Siobhan hadn’t been concentrating on her posture and holding the coin against the stage she would have laughed. The sort of person that should have been asking the vicar for more tea was probably standing in a leather mini skirt in a room full of semi naked bodies asking if a slave had been bad.
Twenty Tones of Red Page 2
