Ecstasy in the White Room

by Portia Da Costa

  Simon gives me an arch look and, to provoke him, I repeat the gesture, sweeping my tongue over my lower lip, very slowly. “What, only the waiter?”

  “Dirty bitch,” he remarks amiably. “I should throw you across this table and wallop you again.” He pauses, then continues in a lower tone. “And then give you a long, hard fuck until you scream...so that then they’d know exactly who you belong to.”

  “So why don’t you?”

  We both know that it’s just an outrageous fantasy, here in this restaurant...but still. From his pocket, Simon retrieves a white plastic rectangle with an elaborate silver curlicue upon its surface. It’s an invitation to a private function, a very exclusive private function, extended only to certain guests here, while others haven’t even the faintest notion such gatherings exist. The white card was in our welcome basket, along with the sex toys, and neither of us was quite sure whether we’d accept tonight...until now.

  Simon’s eyes ask the question. It’s not exactly the night you’d expect us to go to the next level, but then again, why not? Perhaps it’s the perfect night? We’ve already taken the next step in a different way.

  I make the faintest of nods. There’s no need for more. He understands perfectly, and his beautiful blue eyes blaze with pride and admiration. For a moment, I’m completely in control of him, then he subtly straightens his shoulders and his spine, and he’s supreme again.

  And I’m melting.

  We’ve finished eating. It’s time. But I need a moment to myself, for certain reasons. I rise and excuse myself. “Back in a trice.”

  Simon’s expression is amused, and lightly warning. Oh, how he knows me!

  I sashay across the room, feeling full of confidence, knowing I’ve never looked better. Men eye me up again, and I wonder which of them might have special white cards too. My bottom’s still pretty warm beneath my skirt, and the thought of being ogled heats it up even more. I imagine the possessors of the white cards focusing on my swaying rear as I pass by, wondering what it might be like to touch it, fondle it, spank it.

  My heart flutters. I’m not ready for that yet, and maybe never will be, but the idea of them watching Simon do the honors thrills and stirs me.

  A few minutes later I’m in the powder room, behind a locked door, fighting a battle with myself. I’m almost dying of lust, but at the moment Simon’s in control, and he hasn’t told me I can masturbate. But I want to. God, I need to. My pussy is aching and engorged. I have to come.

  Sprawled on the throne, I slip my fingertips between my thighs and start to rub, wriggling and swirling my hips as I do. I’m in another white room now, small as it is, and I seem to see Simon leaning elegantly against the cubicle door in front of me, watching my every move, his eyes full of delicious threat as I fiddle and diddle myself.

  Slicking my clit like the colossal trollop he accused me of being, I put on a show for him, hitching myself about, moaning a bit. I know there’s nobody outside in the powder room, but I probably couldn’t stop myself if there was.

  I work hard. I’m rough with myself. I come fast, grabbing a quick, uncouth orgasm, not really satisfying myself, just taking the edge off. I still feel tingly as I wipe myself and I know I’ll be ready for more soon.

  Back at the table, Simon gives me a comprehensive going-over, his eyes acute. He knows. Of course he does. He knew before I even left the table, and it doesn’t need my bright eyes and my radiant face to tell him now.

  “What did you do in there?”

  “What do you think I did, Simon? Please don’t be gross.”

  He sighs. “You know what I mean. What did you do?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Liar.” He reaches out and holds my hand across the table, his forefinger just stroking the pulse point at my wrist. It’s as erotic as if he really had flung me facedown on the table and rogered me from behind. “Tell me what you did.”

  “I...um...played with myself,” I say in the tiniest voice, but I imagine it louder and heads turning in interest.

  “Did you come?” Still the finger strokes, just as mine did.

  “Yes.”

  “Wicked slut...I didn’t give you permission. Now I’m going to have to see to you, and I don’t think we should wait until we return to our room, do you?” I shake my head. I can hardly breathe. “Dirty, lustful behavior like this needs to be dealt with as quickly as possible.”

  Releasing my hand, he gets smartly to his feet and comes around to my side of the table, to draw out my chair for me. I feel a tiny bit anxious as I rise and he escorts me from the restaurant. Has the “entertainment” started already? Or has he something in mind.

  Quickly, I discover it’s “something.” Holding me firmly by the hand, Simon whisks me into a small room just off the foyer. It’s a little writing room, a holdover from a more elegant age when people sent postcards from their holidays. Now perhaps, they nip in here to send an email or tweet from their iPhones, but there’s still a couple of elegant desks with blotters and writing materials along with data terminals for laptops.

  Simon closes the door, then whirls me against it. At first I think he’s going to kiss me, but instead, he bends me right over, right up against the door, and throws my dress over my back.

  Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!

  He gives me four very hard spanks, two on each buttock. No building up to it; no finesse. Just solid fiery pain. Then he straightens me up, and as my gown slides down over his cruel handiwork, he blots my tears with his snow-white handkerchief.

  “Now you look really pretty for your audience,” he whispers, low and thrilling.

  Then, as swiftly as we took refuge in the writing room, we’re out again, and heading for a set of double doors at the end of the foyer. A hotel footman is standing there, apparently on guard. He’s very cute, and he gives me look of shy appreciation as Simon flashes the white card to him, but I can’t think of anything except the sizzle and ache in my bum cheeks, and the fact I’m almost blind with lust and the desire to have my dear love’s cock inside me.

  The room beyond is another sumptuous example of Art Deco style, much like our bedroom and just as white, but with accents of silver, pistachio and black. There are stepped frame accents everywhere, mirrors, long-legged, attenuated dancing nymphs in gleaming brushed steel. At any other time, I’d love to explore and admire and investigate the room, but right now, it’s the people in it who grab my interest.

  Most are in elegant evening dress. Women in floor-length gowns like mine; men in superb, high-end suits, one or two in white tie even.

  But others are not so conventional. The maid who serves us a glass of champagne is dressed in a really old-fashioned uniform, long and formal, with lace cap and pinafore, but she’s one of the more normal ones. Some of the attire is vintage and looks as if it’s come right out of the pages of the Blue Book. And some of it...well, some of the outfits are so outré that I never thought I’d ever see them in real life.

  We’re greeted by a cordial volley of “Good evening,” but it seems nobody wants to get into any deep conversations. There’s an electric air that something’s going to happen any moment, and even if it isn’t, there’s plenty to look at while we wait.

  To my right, a rather handsome couple give us a nod and a smile. He’s tall and husky and well set up; she’s younger, very pretty and a happy-eyed blonde. She’s also wearing the most startling red rubber dress that makes my formfitting black velvet look like a sack. It clings to every contour, and I do mean every. I can see the puckered shape of her fully erect nipples and the outline of her pubic mound, and when she turns toward her man, the cleft of her bottom is clearly defined. The frock, if it can be called that, is long sleeved and high necked, but so short it barely skims her crotch. Very risky when there’s no way on earth she could wear a stitch of anything beneath it.

  I catch Simon’s eye and he’s grinning. I wonder if he’d like to buy a dress like that for me?

  But Rubber Dress Girl is overdressed compared to other
s. One very elegant lady is wearing a satin skirt and beautiful, crisp organza evening blouse. It looks as if her hands are secured behind her back, and the blouse is hanging open. She’s wearing a white bra beneath, and one cup has been pushed down to bare her breast. The nipple is compressed in a fiendish-looking clip and a heavy weight dangles from it, dragging and tugging. Her face is composed, although she has a large ball-gag in her mouth, stretching her lips.

  There’s another woman in a harness, with thin straps of black vinyl tightly cutting into her skin. The strap between her legs is the tightest of all.

  And it’s not just the women. There are men in harness too, handsome, virile but tamed. And one in leather chaps...and nothing else, sporting a considerable erection as well as perfectly naked buttocks. Even as I watch, his companion—owner?—a woman in a purple sheath dress, reaches down, grabs his cock and leads him across the room by it.

  Simon nudges my elbow and turns me away from the assembly. “Are you okay, Suzanne?” For a moment he’s completely out of his role, and just my kind beloved, making sure I’m all right and not scared.

  I grin at him and nod. “I’m fine. This is amazing.” I glance at the man wearing the chaps. “But I think you should get a pair of those, you’ve got exactly the cock and bum to carry them off.”

  He grins back. “Saucy madam, you’ll pay for that.”

  “I’ll look forward to it.” I flick a glance around the room, as a signal to him. Telling him I’m ready, willing, able and eager to be part of this assembly. The look in his eyes tells me he’s understood and that he’s blazing with pride.

  We drift around the room, discovering that the party is a kind of ongoing performance, with ad hoc scenes of discipline in various locations making entertaining tableaux.

  In one corner, a polished black wood punishment trestle has been set up, and there’s already a woman secured over it. She’s nude but for her shiny high heels, a flimsy garter belt and a torn pair of sheer black stockings. From where we stand, we can’t see her face, just her bottom, striped with thin red lines from a cropping, and her shaven sex, glistening, almost dripping with arousal. The way she’s grunting and moaning, though, confirms she’s wearing a gag.

  I almost wish I was wearing one too. The sight is almost unbearably stirring, and it’s like I’m suddenly transported into the woman’s body, feeling what she feels. The pain. The sense of complete exposure. The unbearable, bottled-up desire, fizzing and screaming for release. Her long brown hair is dangling down and she’s shaking. Does she love the short, rather thin bearded man who steps forward with the crop to hit her again? I would have to, but I know some people don’t need that.

  Several blows land, and she makes ugly, animal-sounding noises, jerking against her bonds at hand and foot. Whatever she’s feeling, my own gouging lust is almost too much for me, and as if he’s read my mind, Simon slips an arm around my waist, and with his free hand, he cups my crotch through my dress. As he squeezes me, I see several pairs of eyes note the action, despite the histrionic woman being cropped. It’s Simon’s signal that we’re game to join the party.

  Me, I don’t care what it is. I circle my hips, working myself in his grip. I’m so hungry to come that I don’t care who sees me. Bloody hell, I want them to watch. The idea of orgasming right now, at my darling’s hand, with all these avid watchers watching me, almost makes it happen for real.

  “Tut-tut...behave yourself,” he whispers in my ear, then rubs me harder, the devil. His finger pushes the cloth of my dress and my G-string between my sex lips as he rocks it on my clit. Most people are still watching the woman over the trestle and her agonies, but at least half a dozen folk are turned toward us now. Simon slides his other hand from my waist to my breast, squeezing there too. I close my eyes, leaning against his strong torso and jostling my buttocks, still gently glowing, against his hips.

  “If you come, I’ll punish you, you know that, don’t you?” It’s not a whisper this time. His voice is quite distinct. With eyes tight shut, I can’t see the avid faces, but I can imagine their interest sharpening. Men licking their lips in anticipation, their cocks growing hard in their elegant trousers, just as Simon’s has done in his. It’s like a knot of iron pushing against the soreness he’s created in my bottom cheeks.

  I don’t speak, but I bear down on his fingers, rocking my pelvis for stimulation. He exerts more pressure, his touch rough against my clit through the cloth while he pinches my nipple and twists it.

  A circuit completes between breast and sex. “Oh God,” I groan, my voice sounding shockingly loud as waves of pleasure surge. Simon maintains the contact, even though I’m wriggling shamelessly, riding the orgasm.

  For several moments, I’m wrung out, barely able to stand, relying solely on his strength as I recover. I guess some people are still watching, but noises from the direction of the trestle reclaim the general attention, even mine.

  While my own small drama has been playing out, things have moved on. The hapless woman’s buttocks are almost covered with stripes of crimson, and trickles of arousal are oozing down her thighs. Her disciplinarian seems to have deemed her “done” now, and is inspecting his handiwork, both visually and manually, squeezing the punished flesh with the same cruelty he employed wielding his crop.

  After quite a bit of pinching and poking, he abruptly turns and makes an impatient gesture. A man steps forward, holding out a black glass jar. He screws off the top, and the disciplinarian plunges his fingers into it, scoops up something, then appears to slather it onto his victim. From where we’re standing, Simon and I can’t see exactly where, but he repeats the action several times, almost as if he’s packing her with the stuff. When he’s satisfied with his handiwork, he indicates that the other man move around, towards the woman’s head.

  Oh, oh my God. Are they? Are they going to do what I think they’re going to do? Simon holds me close, not pinching or rubbing now, just sustaining me. Part of me wants us to move around, so we can see more precisely what’s about to occur, but the rest of me almost doesn’t need to. Imagination shows me everything I need to know.

  The first man, the one who wielded the crop, now unzips himself, and gets out his cock. It’s thick and stubby, nowhere nearly as nice as Simon’s elegant equipment, and its owner treats it almost casually, frisking it a bit, then rolling on a rather heavy looking condom. Then, with no further ado, he moves into position and starts working himself into the woman in a series of determined shoves.

  Is he fucking her or sodomizing her? Who knows? She starts keening into her gag, but almost immediately, the other man unfastens it and flings it aside. Her moans don’t sound to me like the cries of a woman in pain, but they’re very quickly stifled when her second paramour unzips also, and, taking her head in his hands, pushes his cock between her lips.

  What follows is like poem of human syncopation, somehow both animal and peculiarly beautiful all the same. Bodies in motion, pumping, rocking. Someone from outside this world of sex would see the woman as degraded, yet to this audience of cognoscenti she’s exalted, her punished flesh worshipped by two men, not just one. And as matters draw to a crisis, she clearly comes again and again, her struggles ecstatic and the orgasms of her partners an act of homage.

  I don’t want to be with another man, but in that moment, I almost wish there were two of my beloved Simon.

  A second later, one is more than enough, and all I’ll ever need. He casts one last glance at the trestle then slips his forefinger beneath the ribbon around my neck, giving it a tug. With a little wink, he starts to lead me across the big white room, toward a rather fine upright chair, fashioned from black-painted wood, with a slightly asymmetric back and a seat cushion of pistachio-colored leather. I sense a few of the watchers from the trestle scene discreetly moving in our wake.

  “Time to pay the price for being a horny trollop, my dear,” he says softly as we reach our destination. Standing before the chair, he draws my face to his, using my “collar” and kisses
me hard on the lips. As his tongue plunges in, ruthlessly subduing mine, for just a fraction of a second I give thanks for long-lasting lip-stain, rather than sticky, messy gloss, then I forget that completely as he comprehensively ravishes my mouth. Trembling, I stand, accepting his dominion, my nerves firing, my glands pumping hormones, my entire skin surface sensitizing.

  Pushing me from him, he sits down, plucking at the knees of his beautiful trousers, settling his strong thighs and making a lap. He’s clearly got a prominent erection, but he seems happy to flaunt it. I’ll bet he’s not the only man with a hard-on in this room, far from it. Probably all the males in the small circle gathered around us are feeling just the same.

  “Come along. Over my knee,” he says crisply. “You know it’ll do you good.”

  Nonsense seems to make perfect sense in this environment, and several people nod, as if approving his wisdom. Simon takes my small evening bag and sets it beside the chair, before helping me into position with irreproachable gentleness and consideration. But just when I think I’m settled and balanced, he pushes me farther forward, bringing my bottom up more prominently and making me feel precarious again. I flail a bit, but suddenly, there’s a snap and flick and I see the silk length of his tie flutter in the corner of my eye. Then he catches my hands at the small of my back, and secures me with it.

  The demon. This seems to be his preference at the moment, shackling my hands, making me helpless. I feel dizzy, but not from blood running to my head. I’m giddy with lust.

  “Now then, let’s see your bottom, shall we?” He sounds like one of the stern, authority figures from the old pictures in the Blue Book, one of those lascivious Victorian gentlemen, the kind he likes to play in our reenactments. He’s had me like this many a time, with him sitting in one of our lovely red chairs, and me face down, bare bum up, like a naughty housemaid.

  But never with an audience, at least, not a real one. I’ve imagined my discipline being watched often enough.

  With pomp and ceremony, he plucks at the hem of my dress and meticulously eases it up, tucking the fullness at my hips, beneath my bound hands. The room’s warm, but I feel as if there’s a cool draft playing over my buttocks as he bares them. A murmur of approval goes up when their already reddened state is revealed.