Fallen Too Far (8 page)

“Yeah, if you put it that way, it does sound absurd. I see your point.”

Jessica silently held her hands out palms up.

“It’s like this; it’s sort of convoluted, but bear with me. From working as an Escort, I’ve come to realize that sex is undervalued for the most part.”

“With the kind of money you make?” Jessica laughed.

“No, I mean it. Sure, I get paid for getting a guy off. But it’s not very intimate. Look—the connection you and Craig have when you make love is light years beyond what I share with a client.”

“Well,
most
clients?” Jessica tilted her head towards Tom.

“Exactly! And in that case,” Annik lowered her voice, “the money actually gets in the way of the intimacy.”

“Okay, so what does this have to do with running Pandora’s?”

“Well, here,” she stretched her arms out, “we celebrate it. We share our strongest passions in this place. People that scene in public, and those that watch, share something pretty damn powerful. Instead of it being an exchange, it’s a community.”

“Of kinky people.”

“Of passionate people. BDSM is the modality for heightening all of the experiences of conventional sex. You know that.”

Jessica nodded. “Yeah. When Craig and I scene—doesn’t matter if I’m tied to a cross or just behaving submissively… yeah, the sex is
really, really
good.”

“And Pandora’s celebrates that.”

“Yeah, it does. I get that.”

Annik sat back in her chair. “I think… I’m not positive, but I think that if I took over Pandora’s… it would sort of balance out me having been an Escort in a way. My being an Escort would be a stage I had to go through to get to owning and running Pandora’s.”

“What? Hooking as career planning?”

“Well… yeah. I got into hooking to look after my mother. Then after I got arrested, a lot of doors were closed to me. I think I could fit in here. I told you, it’s kind of crazy. Besides, I grew up in the hospitality industry, didn’t I?” She looked across the room again. “I think I could make this place even better.”

“What are you two talking about over there?” asked Craig.

“Oh, nothing much,” Annik tapped Jessica’s leg. “Just ideas about investments and stuff.”

“Got any hot stock tips?” asked Tom.

“Nope. That’s over my head. More like wondering what the real estate market is going to be doing, maybe.” Jessica nodded at Annik.

“Oh. Well…” Tom was cut off by the third act in the evening’s program beginning, and the four of them turned to watch.

The final act of the evening was announced while the servers delivered dessert and coffee. This was the main event, the real warm-up to the playing afterwards. The curtain opened to the heavy beat of
Enigma
, revealing a dungeon scene. A blonde, young man stood, arms raised high, handcuffed to manacles mounted in a wall. An Asian woman was strapped to a medical table, naked and secured by her hands and feet. The table was like the one in her doctor’s office, stirrups and all.

In the centre of the stage, on the St. Andrews cross a woman, wearing a blindfold and G string faced the audience. Annik strained forward for a closer look. With the blond hair trailing over her shoulders, could it be Cammie on the cross?

If Jessica was the most vivacious Patron at Pandora’s, Cammie was the most charismatic of the Staff after the Major. Annik had watched her progress from being one of the table servers (how she had blushed the first time she wore that toga.) to become a prized submissive for Patrons.

A spotlight appeared at the left of the stage illuminating a statuesque woman. Wearing a bird like mask, she strode to the stage in her stiletto boots, her robe sweeping the floor behind her.

The spotlight moved offstage again. A man wearing an Executioners headgear, bare chest above dark leather pants, walked into the light and onto the stage. The spotlight revealed the last player. He was a muscular black man in a gladiator costume. The Executioner held a whip in one hand. With his other hand he gently caressed the face of the man strung up in manacles. The Gladiator approached the woman on the medical table and stood beside it. Annik watched the Bird woman flex a fiberglass cane near Cammie on the St. James cross. Ow! Poor Cammie.

The manacled man was the first to be beaten. The Executioner used a cat ‘o nine tail whip on his back and thighs. Each time the whip cracked across his flesh, he flinched. The Dom with the whip demonstrated great speed and accuracy. He was a professional with years of practice under his belt—almost as good as Mistress Diana.

On the medical bench the woman writhed. The Gladiator was using a soft, doeskin leather flogger. From the snap of the whip, it sounded almost lethal. But of all the flogging instruments, this one was the least painful. Annik saw the Gladiator trail the ends of the whip across her breasts, along her thighs and between her legs. Yeah. She was writhing, but not from pain.

The crack of the cane caught her attention as she was about to take a bite of dessert. She saw the red welt appear on Cammie’s thigh. It was ironic that such a light weight rod was the most deadly weapon. The audience was hushed, watching the BDSM scene on stage. The only sounds in the dimly dining theater were the cracks on assaulted flesh from the stage.

Annik squeezed her thighs together. The next part of the evening would be her scene with Tom in the ballroom—a duet in the BDSM dance of pain, pleasure and willpower with her Master.

Chapter 6

When the program of entertainment was over, the Major took to the stage to announce that the play stations were available in the next room. As often happened, the entertainment served to prime the pump. Many guests immediately got up and headed over.

“You guys ready?” asked Craig.

“No… we’re going to stay here for a few moments and probably use one of the stations on the stage,” replied Tom.

“Yeah, well ‘Favored Patron’ has its privileges I guess.” Not all of the guests at Pandora’s were permitted to use that equipment.

“Hey, it’s like frequent flier miles.”

“Yeah, yeah… we’ll catch up later maybe, buddy.” The men shook hands and the ladies air kissed good night. Craig and Jessica left to watch the scenes already under way in the adjoining room.

Tom turned to Annik. She found herself becoming lost in his eyes. They had darkened somewhat.

“Hands on the table, please,” he said. She took her hands and put them palm down in front of her. They sat silently as his index finger traced over her hands, finger by finger. She kept her eyes downcast properly, knowing his gaze was wandering from her hand to her face. Such a simple gesture, and yet it served to focus them on what was to come.

“What will you give me, this night?” his voice was soft, but the power in it was unmistakable. She let the silence hang for a moment.

“All I can.” Pause again. “The rest you must take.” She was ready. His finger continued to trace her hand for a moment.

“So I shall.” Master Tom stood and held out his hand. “Let us begin.”

His hand enveloped her own with a firm pressure. She stood and he led her to the St. Andrew’s cross. Next to it was his partly opened toy bag, placed there by the Staff who served their meal. Another Favored Patron was at the medical table with a submissive. A few other Patrons had remained at their table to watch these scenes. What was going to happen on the stage now was a purer form of BDSM than what had been in the show.

She was placed against the heavy cross, facing the wall, unable to see what he was doing. Her hand was raised high on the arm of the wooden cross. Leather encased her wrist. Oow! Her skin was caught for a moment in the buckle he cinched shut. His finger swept inside the loop testing that it was secure yet not tight enough to cut off her blood flow.

He repeated this process with her other hand. She sensed people gather near them, heard whispers and subdued voices.

Her back arched upward, neck muscles straight and taut when Tom’s hands touched her ankle. He was buckling the leather strap, applying firm pressure on her skin. A thrill of fear shot through her core, waiting for him to finish her other foot. Her fingers trembled before she clenched them into fists and pressed against the wooden surface of the cross. So many times they had scened together and always, there was the excitement and the fear before each one. To be physically restrained, completely vulnerable to her Master.

When would he begin? Her body was stretched like a bowstring waiting for the caress of his touch, the sting of the whip. She shivered even as warmth infused the flesh between her outstretched legs. The room and the hushed breathing of people nearby dissolved. T here was only her outstretched body waiting for her Master.

Her head jerked to the side when his breath tingled warmly against her ear, his lips brushing the soft lobe.

“Would you like me to continue?” he whispered.

“Ye..yes, please Master.”

“What are your colors? Tell me.”

“Red to stop. Orange to ease up. Yellow to take care.” She was now committed to this. Every nerve ending was firing. She inhaled deeply through her nose, nostrils flared when he left her. There was a rustle sound as he rummaged in his toy bag. Would he use Ouch or Oh Shit, the cane?

The ends of the flogger snapped against her thigh. Her body flinched—more from surprise than pain. Then the other leg. He was using the doeskin flogger. When it struck, the blow was loud, the pain minimal. How long would it be before he stopped the warm-up and got serious? The whip pelted her back and ass. Nerve cells fired at each blow. But it wasn’t enough. She sighed, loud enough for him to hear, challenging him for more.

Then nothing for a moment. She sensed his approach. The soft touch of cloth wiping her back was soothing, cooling her warm skin.

Goosebumps appeared when his warm breath caressed her neck. She trembled as the feather touch of his fingertips grazed down her arm, along the side of her breast, her waist and the outside of her buttock. Bastard! She set her lips tight together, knowing what he was about to do. His fingers dipped between her legs and cupped her pulsing vulva. He pressed it firmly and began to rub softly. God it was good. She closed her eyes and reveled in the stimulation but stood stock still. She couldn’t show him that he was getting to her, yet. He needed to earn it.

He left and again there was a rustle sound. He was getting something else from the toy bag. She inhaled deeply, head held high. He would now try harder to break her. Oow! The sting of the hard leather flogger hit her ass. Stifling a moan before it left her lips, she gritted her teeth tight as he hit her again and again in one spot. This was almost too much. He moved his blows to her thigh. She flinched, pressing her abdomen into the hard surface of the cross at the pain of the next blow. Breathing hard, almost panting from the sting, she squeezed her eyes shut, determined not to safe word out—would not turn her head even slightly, to look at him.

Again and again he struck her, now moving across her body. Up her back to her bare shoulders. Then to her arms and back to her legs.

Over and over again she heard the whisper of the flogger’s tails, each blow landing in another spot. He lashed from one spot to the next and back again until all she felt, all she was, began to glow under his blows.

She hurt everywhere.

He stopped.

What would come next? What was he going to do? Master Tom was not a creature of habit. He changed his pattern each time they had scened together; she almost never knew what was going to come next.

Oh! What was that? Her muscles twitched at the sudden icy pressure on her shoulder blade. Her chin dropped to her chest as her back rounded seeking the coolness of the icy cloth on her welts. He changed cloths repeatedly, bathing her inflamed skin with cool dampness.

His body exuded energy as he stood close to her. Faint butterfly kisses trailed along her neck and lingered in the hollow. Her head lolled to the side. A sigh escaped.

There was tremor of pleasure in her vulva where his fingers explored. She felt the damp fabric of her panties being tugged aside. Her bare flesh was exposed. She ached for his touch; her clitoris would explode if he didn’t touch it. His fingers played in her wetness, slid into her inner core. It was divine. She clamped her muscles on his fingers and he withdrew. His slick finger crept softly towards her clit and stopped just shy of it. Oh God, this was such sweet torture. She was breathing raggedly, ached in her longing but would not give in—yet She yearned to surrender. Yes, take me. But she also wanted to continue this dance of wills.

His fingers left her open, vulnerable, craving more. His footsteps softly thudded on the floor as he walked away from her. She waited, wondered where the next blow would fall. What was he doing? This was taking an awfully long time. Then his voice. He was speaking to someone. What the hell? In the middle of a scene he had decided to strike up a conversation? Oh, he was really playing hardball. Touch me. You bastard.

He made her wait. And wait. Her fingers drummed against the wood of the cross; weight shifted from leg to leg, waiting. Her skin was searing hot where she had been welted and bruised. The longing, empty center of her sexual arousal coupled with the pain arousal left her raw. A single tear escaped her eye as head dropped, she willed him to return.