Authors: Katherine Kingston
None of the subs made any sound and the noise level in the
room decreased for a moment as people stopped to watch the display. The
organizer called, “Two,” and then, “Three,” going up to “Six”. With each number
the Masters swung their instruments and struck the subs’ bottoms. Only once did
any of them make any sound, a cut-off cry from a large, beefy young man who
would’ve looked more in place on a football field. The sixth strike from a
riding crop left a long, deep red welt across his buttocks that must have been
quite painful. But apparently it was a
faux pas
to make any sound. The
organizer glared at his Master, and said, “He stays.”
Then the man turned, and said, “Masters, release.” The other
seven Masters rearranged their sub’s clothes if they were wearing any and
released them from the cuffs. “Form up for the next round.”
Five of the seven just released stood at the side of the
game board to take part in the next round. Meg wondered what constituted
winning and what the prize was. Was there such a thing as winning, though?
Maybe the prize was in fact that spanking they got.
The organizer told the remaining Master, “Do your duty,”
then turned around to deal with the group forming for the next game.
The Master, a thin, lanky man who looked about half the
weight of his muscular sub, went to his partner, laid the crop on his bare
shoulder and whispered in his ear. After a moment the sub nodded. The Master
stepped back, swished the crop and struck the sub’s already-striped buttocks,
painting another long pink welt there. Five more times he struck. After the
fourth and fifth, the sub stiffened visibly and his bottom looked grated and
sore. After the sixth, he arched and squirmed and rocked back and forth within
the limits of movement allowed by the cuffs.
The Master released the sub. When the latter turned, the
Master put his arms around him and led him away. Meg couldn’t see the face of
either one as they left the room, but their body language screamed sexual
tension.
Meg sighed as she watched them go. Kyle raised his eyebrows
and gave her an off-kilter grin before they moved on, passing tables of games
that looked like roulette, only using more of those odd chips.
At another area they played something that looked like a
popular TV word game. It involved spinning a wheel, guessing letters and trying
to figure out the phrases displayed, but this wheel didn’t have dollar sums,
just numbers from one to ten. Subs in bizarre outfits turned over letters.
Nearby, a man chained to the wall had bunches of clothespins
decorating most of his body. Each time someone spun and guessed a correct
letter, another sub went over and clipped a few more to him. Already a line of
clothespins ran from his thighs down to his knees and back up, in several rows
up and down his cock, around his balls, in a swirl over his abdomen and up his
chest, passing over the right nipple as it when down his arm to the elbow and
back up.
Both Meg and the man himself winced when each additional one
was added, continuing a line back up his arm and across his chest. It looked
unbearably painful, but the victim made no protest. In fact, he leaned back with
an almost blissful smile between sessions of pin addition despite the beads of
sweat running down his brow. Tall and well-built, he had a lean, bony face, a
bit too wispy to be handsome but close. Once the sub had placed the
clothespins, another sub came along, stringing some kind of cord through holes
drilled in the end of each. That part of it mystified her and she stopped to
watch.
After a few minutes she began to get the general idea how it
worked. The number on the wheel corresponded to the number of points a player
received for a correct letter guess. It also represented the number of
clothespins to be attached to the victim. Digital displays above each of the
three “contestants” showed the scores each had amassed. Meg did some quick
mental arithmetic and winced again. If the correlation was correct, the man had
just over two hundred clothespins pinching him.
She wondered how high they would go and hoped the first one
to one hundred won. What was the prize?
Though she knew they were getting close to time to meet
Kyle’s friends, she had to stick around long enough to find out.
Two rounds later, one of the contestants, a dark man of
medium height, hit three digits and a bell went off, presumably signaling the
end of the contest. Clothespin man had well over two hundred on him by then,
covering both nipples and his other arm. After some jumping up and down and
celebrating, the winner came over to sufferer.
“Ready to claim your prize?” the emcee asked the winner.
He nodded. The sub who’d just finished threading the cord
through the most recently added pieces came over and handed the end to the
winner.
“Ready,” said the emcee. “Set. Go.”
The winner began to tug on the cord. One by one he pulled
the clothespins off the victim’s body, leaving large pink blotches behind. It
had to be hellishly painful, but the bound man seemed to be absorbing it and
even enjoying it. He yelped when the pin came off his right nipple and again
when the left nipple was released and panted with some of the others. But his
bouncing and wriggling and groaning seemed to contain as much sexual arousal as
pain.
His groans grew louder as the clothespins sprang off his
chest and abdomen then from his thighs, running up to the juncture of his legs.
He screamed, both in pain and excitement, as his balls stretched out with the
pressure on the pins until they finally released and came off. Only those on
his cock remained and the winner seemed in no hurry to remove them.
The winner pulled gently, steadily, tugging the pins away
with just enough force to pull at the skin but not release it. The victim
groaned steadily and his breath heaved in and out on harsh pants. His entire
body quivered and his engorged cock thrust toward his tormentor in a way that
suggested he hovered on the edge of orgasm.
A pretty, dark-haired woman in a yellow, chiffon sundress
and high-heeled yellow sandals stepped between them, and said, “A moment, if
you please, since this is my sub.”
The winner nodded and released the pressure on the cord. The
victim’s breath emerged on a long sigh. His skin was mostly pink, dotted with a
few darker blotches. Beads of sweat trailed down the side of his face and his
chest.
The woman approached him and put a hand on his cheek before
she leaned in to say a few quiet words. The victim’s eyes narrowed and mouth
tightened before he heaved in a deep breath and nodded.
The woman stepped back and nodded to the winner. “He’ll not
go off on you now,” she said. “He’s promised.”
The winner nodded and began exerting gradual, gentle
pressure on the cord again. The victim threw his head back and began squirming
as much as he could within the bonds that held him. His moan started low but
rose as the clothespin began to pull harder on the flesh of his cock. Breath
broke into a series of panting sobs. The winner teased him by releasing the
pressure a couple of times and then increasing it again until the victim
thrashed out of control.
Finally he released the cord again then gave it a hard jerk
that removed half the clothespins in a quick burst of wood pieces. They flew in
several directions before being reined in by the cord that still threaded
through them. The victim gave a short, sharp yell and arched forward as far as
the chains holding him would allow.
The other man waited until the sound had faded and the
thrashing had calmed before he gave the line another sharp yank. The rest of
the clothespins, including the half dozen that ringed the head of his penis,
came off with a snapping sound. It just preceded a scream from the victim that
went on for several long, agonizing seconds. He didn’t even squirm but seemed
frozen in place for a time then he sagged in the chains. It wasn’t a relaxed
sag, however. All his muscles looked tense, almost locked, and his erect cock
showed a kaleidoscope of shades from plum to purple to pink and throbbed with
need.
The woman in yellow walked over and released him while the
group of onlookers clapped and cheered. The victim all but fell into her arms
and looked dazed as she led him away. Meg tried to see if they left the room entirely
but lost sight of them in the throng of people.
It appeared a group was already forming up for another game.
The organizer chose a new panel of three contestants to play then looked to a
line standing against the wall next to where the previous victim had been
chained. She wondered if anyone would volunteer to replace him. It stunned her
when the organizer pointed to the person nearest the chains and a large-boned
woman removed the plain, skimpy tunic that was all she wore and moved into
position. It wasn’t his choice that surprised her, but the realization that the
line of observers against the wall wasn’t just a bunch of onlookers, but a
queue, waiting their turn to undergo that torment.
Meg shook her head. Kyle shrugged and gave her a rueful grin
before he leaned over to say, “Better go.”
Meg nodded and followed his lead to the door, still bemused
by the spectacle she’d seen.
“Well?” Kyle asked.
“Mixed emotions describes it best,” Meg answered. “I don’t
understand a lot of it. Why all those people wanted to subject themselves to
that thing with the clothespins? Well, okay, maybe I understand a little that
the pain can be…stimulating, but that much? And in public?”
“I think it goes under the heading of ‘different strokes’,
maybe in a more literal fashion that usual.”
Meg grinned. “I suppose. They had a line of people waiting,
so I guess it works for quite a few. I’m trying to do ‘live and let live’ on
that one.”
“Fair enough. Let’s head for the lounge.”
Meg hoped she could deal with whatever came next as
philosophically. She was an observer, she reminded herself. She didn’t have to
participate. Wasn’t expected to. This time.
If Kyle felt the tiny shudder that went through her, he gave
no indication.
Meg followed Kyle down the hall and into another large room,
though this one was quieter and more organized. It was a sort of theater in the
round combined with a lounge with a central stage area surrounded by three
rising tiers. Each tier held tables and chairs, the lowest tier two to a side while
the highest tier had five. Close to half of the tables were occupied. Kyle
stopped inside the door, looked around for a moment then led the way to the far
side of the second tier.
Three people already sat at a table there, a striking man in
his late thirties or early forties, an attractive woman around thirty and a
younger man, who would have been good-looking if he hadn’t worn such a
withdrawn, brooding expression. All three stood as they approached. The older
man reached out to shake hands and greeted him with enthusiasm.
“Glad to see you again. It’s been a while.”
Kyle thanked him and introduced Meg to the older of the two
men, Charles Brennan. Charles studied her with intense gray eyes as he extended
a hand. Meg took it and let his warm palm envelop hers. He held on firmly but
didn’t squeeze.
“Glad to meet you, Meg.” His voice was a nicely modulated
baritone. Just above medium height and with the lean muscularity of someone who
worked at keeping in shape, Charles had very dark brown hair with distinguished
streaks of silver at the temples. A tracery of lines at the outside of his eyes
and around his mouth enhanced rather than detracted from his looks.
The woman was Cilla Renfield. Seeing her up close, Meg
realized the woman was older than she’d first thought. Her slender body and
thin face made her look younger. A few slight lines in her face suggested
sadness, though her expression was pleasant and her greeting cordial. She had a
firm handshake as well.
Kyle didn’t know the younger man, so Charles introduced them
both to Jason Whitmire. He was taller and thinner than Charles with
short-clipped hair that hovered between light brown and blond and pale blue
eyes that gave off an almost eerie vibe. Those eyes almost seemed opaque, a
barrier holding in torrents of history and emotion behind a formidable wall of
control. Meg couldn’t help but wonder what lay behind it, what necessitated
that barrier between his deeper self and the rest of the world.
His handshake was firm but brief and his greeting low and emotionless.
A quick smile barely curved his lips, though the impression he gave was of
neither shyness nor hostility, just enormous control and reserve. It made him
seem older than the mid- to late-twenties she guessed him for.
“Jase is a Master-in-training. He’s going to be a very good
one,” Charles informed them. “Sit down. We’ve already ordered drinks.” He
gestured to a cocktail waitress who came over right away and took their orders,
white wine for her and whisky and soda for Kyle.
“There’s a floor show in a little bit,” Charles said. “Some
kind of dance thing. Should be interesting.” He sounded dubious about it.
“It’ll be lovely.” Cilla threw him a wry smile. Her brown
eyes said even more as they rested on the older man. His raised eyebrows and
intent gaze returned it. Interesting. Charles wore no rings while Cilla’s hands
sported only a pair of silver bands set with colored stones on the right.
Still, even on such short acquaintance Meg felt the chemistry between those two
sizzling the air around them.
Charles asked Meg about what she did. The surprise when he
heard she ran a bookstore came as nothing new. A lot of people reacted that way
when she put that together with the fact that she had a business degree. She
had to explain about taking care of her sister and the limitations that
imposed.
Charles managed an import-export company and Jason was an
attorney specializing in tax law. For reasons she couldn’t decipher, the
biggest surprise was that Cilla was a librarian. The woman didn’t fit Meg’s
conception of what a librarian should look like, which served as a reminder
about judging anyone on appearances.
The lights dimmed and music swelled, signaling the start of
the show. Crowd noise faded except for the swish of chairs on carpet as people
turned to face the stage. Moments later the music quieted then started again
with a new sound and rhythm. More classical, she thought, but lively and
upbeat.
From either side of the stage, lines of five people rushed
up to it and climbed the steps to the platform. One group of five obviously
were the Masters while the other comprised the subs. The Masters, three men and
two women, wore elaborate costumes—boots in a shiny, supple black leather,
black leather pants and tunics over loose red shirts. Each carried a whip of
some sort. The two men on the outside positions held long, single-tailed whips,
the two women inside them had multi-thonged floggers and the man in the middle
an unusually long quirt or riding crop.
The subs, three women and two men, all barefoot, wore oversized
white shirts and knee-length pants in a light, see-through material. Heavy
leather cuffs encircled each wrist and leg, almost from ankle to knee, with a
narrower band at each throat.
The two groups began dancing in separate lines, the subs
about five feet in front of the Masters. They moved in a slow circle so that
viewers on all sides of the theater could see them. The subs undulated in a
sensual but sedate movement for a few minutes while the Masters did a more
energetic tap dance behind them.
Gradually the rhythm of the music changed to a more vibrant
tempo then to a smooth violin-based melody joined after a bit by a booming base
underlay. The Masters’ tap dance took them closer to the line of subs, who
turned and moved two steps forward in wriggling unison. The Masters took
another step forward, landing their front feet with a decisive stomp.
The subs turned together to face the Masters, who beckoned
them forward. The subs threw back their heads, refusing the demand. The Masters
took another loud step forward and the subs backed away. All done in time to
the music. Remarkable.
And then the performance took a step up into amazing. The
Masters began to work the whips. The two on the outer edges drew back the long
single-tails and swirled them over their heads. The women rolled the floggers
between their hands so the tails flew out in a circular fan and the man in the
middle twirled the quirt as though it were a baton.
Meg sucked in a sharp breath when the two on the outside
cracked the whips a couple of times. Each whirled the lash out to circle the
ankles of the outermost two subs. That likely explained the shielding cuffs
that went nearly to their knees. Neither acted as though it hurt, but the
Masters used those strands to drag the two women toward them. The entire line
of subs locked arms so that when the end ones were pulled, the others came
along as well.
They managed to fit all those actions into the context of
the dance, in time to the rhythm of the music while still conveying the subs’
reluctance and the Masters’ intent. Now that they had the subs close, the
Masters pointed to the floor. Slowly, their halting movements conveying
reluctance, the subs all dropped to their knees. Another order, unintelligible
to the audience, came from the Masters. The subs recognized it, though, and
threw their heads back in mulish rejection.
Gasps broke out all over the room when the man on the end
nearest her flicked his whip and the closest sub’s shirt fell open, split down
the middle of her back. The skin beneath showed no mark at all. The man was
clearly an expert in the use of his instrument.
The other Masters flailed their weapons in threatening ways
and the subs finally, reluctantly pulled their loose, gauzy shirts over their
heads, baring breasts and chests. Another collective intake of breath swept
through the room. Meg thought the temperature rose a few degrees as well. Or
maybe that was just her. Her pulse beat faster, watching this gorgeous dance,
soaking in the emotions it evoked.
The rhythm of the music changed to a slower, more sensual
beat as the subs swayed closer to then away from their Masters. They bent,
turned and rubbed shoulders while they knelt, all done in suggestive but
graceful dance moves. It looked like pleas for indulgence, for gentleness, for
care. She wondered what they’d get.
One of the Masters ordered, “Stand,” and cracked the whip,
all perfectly timed to the beat of the music. The subs began a sensual wriggle
that took them from their knees to getting their feet beneath them and finally
an undulating rise to stand straight. Another order followed. Meg thought he
said, “Pants,” but she didn’t hear it clearly. Since the subs then put their
hands to their waistbands, she decided she’d been right.
Each began to peel those light, gauzy bottoms down,
fractions of an inch at a time so that it took several bars before any progress
became visible. The two males subs had to lift theirs over the barrier of erect
penises. The females rolled theirs slowly down their hips. All the while they
worked the pants down, they twirled in time to the music as well, giving the
audience views of their bodies from all angles.
The tight, muscular bottoms displayed all showed a few welts
or dark lines. Probably makeup, Meg realized, but still effective. Her pulse ratcheted
up another notch.
After several minutes of graceful striptease paced to the
gradually increasing tempo of the music, the subs finally pushed the fabric
down and off their hips, letting it drop to the floor. They stepped out,
backing away from the Masters, and did a teasing ripple that shook breasts and
cocks in a way guaranteed to arouse everyone in the house.
The aroma of it spread through the room along with the sound
of bodies shifting and rocking as the audience was drawn into the drama.
One of the other Masters barked an order that sounded like
“Advance”.
Again the subs refused, continuing their twirling and
prancing while wearing nothing but the leather wrist and ankle cuffs and
collars.
The music swelled, beginning an ascent toward a grand crescendo.
To its rising beat, the Masters began a complex display of work with their
whips as they swung them, twirled, lashed out, sometimes cracked tails together
and created a display of leather flying. Graceful, swooping arcs crossed and
streaked, occasionally freezing for brief moments in stunning curlicued
patterns of swirls and curves.
The cracks and pops of leather punctuated the music right on
beat as well, surrounding them with a sensual feast of Mastery on display.
As the Masters’ dance increased in speed and energy, the
subs slowed, watching with open mouths, bodies swaying toward the Masters and
then back away. A step then another drew them closer, but a pop of a whip or
flick of a tail too near would drive them back.
Tension rose as the Masters’ dance took on the urgency of
desperation, their whips flying so fast eyes couldn’t follow, the music
pounding toward a finale, whips cracking and popping like gunshots one after
another. The subs seemed to be dragged toward them like iron shavings to a magnet,
though they paused and hesitated as if resisting the urge forward. Meg’s pulse
hammered in her chest, keeping time to the pounding rhythm, almost being
dragged toward those accomplished, charismatic figures herself.
Finally the crescendo engulfed them with the Masters doing a
simultaneous cracking of leather tails raised over their heads while jumping
and landing with legs spread wide. They dropped the whips and held out their
arms while the music crashed into its final arpeggio.
For a moment nothing happened. Almost it seemed time stilled
while the music also paused in a dramatic flourish. Everyone was still, the
Masters waiting, oddly uncertain but hopeful. The subs stood indecisive.
Cymbals crashed and the music launched into its rousing
finale. The subs made up their minds and collectively rushed toward the other
line. The three females leapt into their Masters’ arms, ending up with legs
wound around their waists and arms around the necks while the male subs lifted
their Mistresses with hands around their waists.
Each pair twirled a couple of times while the music peeled
its last triumphant notes.
The lights went down, leaving the room in darkness. A
breathless hush followed for a moment until air rushed out of overburdened
lungs on a chorus of sighs. Applause followed in a thunderous ovation. The
dancers returned to take their well-deserved bows.
Once the dancers had left the stage, the waitstaff began
circulating again, taking orders and delivering checks.
“That was amazing,” Cilla said, sounding a bit short of
breath. The rest of them agreed with her and finished their drinks in awestruck
silence.
After a while, Charles said to Kyle and Meg, “We’ve got a
room reserved. Would you like to join us?”
Meg’s heart did a weird, stuttering beat and her breath
hitched.
Kyle either heard it or felt her stiffening in the shoulder
that touched hers. “Meg’s new to this. We’re here for observation only.”
Charles gave her a warm, understanding smile. “No problem.
You can come and just observe, if you’re comfortable with that, or pass.” His
gaze focused on Meg. “One of the hard and fast rules here is that no one is
forced to do anything they genuinely don’t want to do. Never. Not ever.” He
shook his head. “Of course in this game, it can be hard to figure out when someone
is just protesting and when they’re serious about it. That’s why we have safe
words. They’re the bottom line out for someone to convince a Master he wants
whatever’s going on to stop. And we enforce it ruthlessly. A scene always has a
safe word and if the safe word is used, the scene stops. At once. Completely.
Anyway… I think I got sidetracked a bit. The bottom line is that the choice is
yours and we respect whatever you decide.”