5 comments/ 26959 views/ 1 favorites Friday Night at Mephisto's By: dweaver999 Betsy Flanagan looked at the image in the mirror. The woman that stared back at her smiled. "Betsy, when you've got it, you've most definitely got it," she whispered to herself. Her five foot eight inch form was encased, at least partially, in black leather that hugged her curves like a second skin. The pants were a mesh weave below her crotch, showing plenty of her freshly shaved legs. The leather halter was almost more of a thick bra, coming down to just under the swell of her breasts. Her arms were encased, up to the elbows, in black suede. The ends of the long gloves left her fingers free, much like a driving glove, but oh so much more sensual. Her black hair was tied back in a severe bun. "You look dangerously sexy, hon," her husband, Frank, complimented as her came out of the en suite bathroom. "What will you be doing tonight?" "I'm on floor patrol." "Ah, you get to whip the degenerates into line." "Yeah, that's one way of putting it." Betsy knew that Frank meant no disrespect for the people that frequented The Mephisto Club. He would never dream of saying such things where someone else could hear. Like many vanillas, he didn't really understand the attraction of BDSM. Not even a wife who indulged was able to bring understanding to his mind. Frank and Betsy couldn't be any more different in personality or appearance. Betsy was a lithe, pretty, black haired daughter of Russian emigrants. She was one of the most outgoing and accepting people in the world. That personality served her well in her interactions with the incredibly diverse customers of the club. Frank was a big boned, six foot five inch Irishman (fifth generation). While he was opinionated, he'd learned to keep those opinions to himself and those few close friends who knew him well enough to know he meant no harm. The only reason he didn't think of Betsy as crazy was that he was deeply and madly in love with her. That love and her ability to accept him for who he was, opinions and all, enabled them to remain together the seven years they had. "When are you off tonight?" she asked. "Unless something goes wrong, around three." "Then I suspect that you'll be home by five, right?" "Probably. It is Friday, after all." One would be hard pressed to decide which of the two worked at the crazier job; Betsy with her job at Mephisto's, the premier bondage and fetish club in the region, or Frank, with his night shift at 7-11. Until Frank started working there, the convenience store suffered a robbery at least once a month. Frank, an ex-marine, had broken the wrist of the first man to pull a gun on him, doing it before the gun had cleared the perp's coat. The word spread quickly and the lowlifes moved onto safer pastures. Betsy continued with the conversation. "Pamela called earlier. She wanted to know if I could do her tonight. Will you be okay with that?" "Sure, I won't be up for anything until tomorrow. Then I'll reap the benefits," he added with a lustful grin. Frank, while he didn't understand D/s, knew two things. For Betsy, domination wasn't about sex; she never had sex with her submissives. The second was that she was always horny after a session and he was the one who she chose to satiate herself with. If whipping other people made his wife horny enough to fuck his brains out for four or more hours, he was all for it! She never brought her kink to their bed, so he had no beef. Betsy drove her car while Frank took off on his bike. Twenty minutes later, she was in the parking lot of the club. By the time she'd crossed the lot (employees had to park in the far reaches of the lot), she was shivering from the cool winter air. Several regulars complimented her on her outfit. Most of the people in line waiting to enter were dressed in heavy winter coats, though a few slaves were only wearing their fetish clothes, submitting to the cold at the command of their dominants. Betsy shook her head at what some people thought was appropriate. "Afternoon, Malcolm. Anything special I should know?" "Hi Betsy. Andrew wants you to help with the door first. Some of the subs will be needing into the warmth as fast as possible." "I saw that. What are they thinking? I wasn't aware that hypothermia was a fetish." "Now Betsy, the subs are consenting." "I know, but still, standing in 35 degree weather in micros and short halters? Come on!" Malcolm didn't say anything else. He knew that this was just Betsy being Betsy. Betsy believed that there were some things one just didn't do with a submissive, no matter how much consent you had. She didn't let it spill over to her job, so no one complained much. "They have safe words, Betsy. Haven't you heard of ice play? I have to check on the specialty rooms upstairs. Start filing them in in 5 minutes." "I will." Betsy turned to the lady beside her. "Mary, do you want the till or ID?" "I'll take the till. I don't have your sixth sense on fake IDs." "Right. I noticed a couple of new people in the line, one of whom looks very young. Could be age play, but you can't be too careful." Three minutes later, Betsy took the keys and unlocked the front doors after lifting the arms of the turnstile. With practiced ease, Betsy and Mary fed the crowd into the building. Betsy's experienced eye scanned IDs, verifying the adult status of the players seeking entrance. The girl she had noted earlier had been 19, dressed to appear much younger, a classic age play couple. Several of the subs were shivering from the cold as they entered. It took 15 minutes to feed the initial line into the club. Once that was done, Betsy left Mary, the regular doorman, behind and started her usual job, wandering the floor, making sure that no one was violating any of the club's rules. Those rules weren't many in number, allowing for the incredible variety of activity that made up the BDSM scene. Most of the rules were designed to make sure the club didn't violate the local and state laws governing clubs that allowed sexual activity; no alcohol, no drugs, no blood play, no water sports, no scat. The club did allow enema play, just so long as things were kept hygienic. Play was light so far. A few subs were being bound at play stations around the perimeter of the main floor, but the center stage had yet to be taken by anyone. Betsy spotted a couple she knew and wandered over. "Hi, Andrew. What's Chuck in for tonight?" The blond man, arms already bound behind his back, smiled ruefully as the hood slipped over his head. Andrew finished zipping the back of the hood, rendering Chuck blind and speechless. "Evening, Betsy. Chuck is in for some harsh bondage and a little stranger play. Of course, he's not allowed an orgasm tonight." "So who can play with him?" "Anyone. He won't know if it's a man or a woman." "Oh, that'll drive him crazy." "That's the plan. I love watching him flinch every time someone touches him." Chuck was solidly gay, having no attraction for women what so ever. Knowing that women would be touching him in any number of ways would have him on a roller coaster of arousal and anxiety. Add that to his strong submissive tendencies and the bound man would be lucky if he could obey his orders to not cum. Andrew was particularly harsh about his no orgasm orders. Betsy continued to wander the floor, her eyes taking in the various scenes developing as people continued to show up. Except for the monthly Saturday charity auction, Friday nights were the busiest nights for the club. Betsy estimated that just over half the people who paid the $25 cover charge wouldn't participate in any activities at all. She could certainly understand the draw of being able to watch a wide variety of, essentially, sex shows for that one low price. So far the play was light. Most of the more intense players wouldn't be in until later. Some of the costumes people wore to Mephisto's were quite elaborate and needed time to prepare. Seeing two, well one and a half, familiar faces, Betsy wandered over towards a couple of women. The larger one, heavy set with a blindfold, earplugs and gag (but nothing else), was being led on a leash attached to her gag by a much more petite lady dressed in harsh leather. "Rachael, it's good to see you again. What are you doing to poor Giggy tonight?" "Not much tonight. I'm just putting her on display." Betsy looked the submissive over and noticed a slight trembling and quite a bit of arousal. "And what did you tell her was going to happen?" "Am I that obvious? She thinks we're going to do a safe word whipping scene on stage tonight. I'll spend a few hours disorientating her then take her to a private room and whip her up a bit there. I want to take her to subspace for a while." "Nice. I wish I could see it. I'll be seeing Pam tonight after we close. She's had a stressful week and needs some winding down." "Funny, I thought that kind of thing was winding up," Rachael replied with a smile. "Well, she'll wind down eventually." Betsy noticed something out of the corner of her eye and added, "Oops, got to work. Give my regards to Giggy." "I will. Call me, we have to get a play date together sometime." "I will." Betsy moved with subdued haste towards her first problem of the night. She wondered how he got past Mary. She keyed the throat mike on her headset. "Malcolm, Duke's on site again. He's at station 7 with what looks like a newbie." "Understood. George and Mack are on their way." Betsy hoped the bouncers wouldn't have to do their stuff, but Duke had been a thorn in the side of the club for years. More than once he'd ignored a safe word and injured someone on site. Charges were never pressed because the subs always claimed it was consensual. He'd been banned from the club for over two years. She couldn't believe that he'd had the nerve to return. "Evening Duke. Just what do you think you're up to." Betsy noticed he didn't have the club's stamp on his hand; meaning he'd crashed the door. Duke had just finished securing the blond to the wall with handcuffs. "Betsy, I didn't know you worked tonight?" "Of course not. You wouldn't have crashed the door if you'd known. Who's the sub?" "None of your business. I guess we'll just have to take our play elsewhere." Duke had seen the bouncers approaching and decided on the better part of valor. He started to unlock the cuffs again. Betsy noticed a tinge of worry in the girl's eyes; and it was directed at her, not at Duke. Betsy's sixth sense rang alarm bells. "Miss, can I see some ID?" "I…I don't have any." "Then how did you get in, dear." "I vouched for her," Duke added. "Duke, you're such an idiot. If she's underage, you'll do hard time." "Betsy, I swear, she's an adult." "If that's so, young lady, then why are you so frightened of me?" "You're going to kick us out," the girl replied unconvincingly. "I don't think so. Duke, get out. If you're still on site in 5 minutes, I'll have you arrested. George, take this lady to security and have Stan run a check on her. She's trouble and I want to know what kind." "Sure thing Betsy." George led the lace attired girl to Stan's office. Stan was a retired police officer who headed security for the club. His contacts on the force allowed him to run more thorough checks on potential employees and problem customers. While Mephisto's saw no more trouble than any other night club, the types of trouble that could happen here were much more high profile in nature. With the constant threat of being closed down by those who viewed themselves as morals police, such trouble was best avoided. Stan was the only employee of the club who didn't dress in fetish wear. While the floor and door people had an image to uphold, even those in the BDSM lifestyle expected security to look like security. High end jeans and a western style shirt made him look like just that; security without being cop. George dragged the girl into the office. "Stan, Betsy's got a feeling about this one. She was in with Duke." "Girl, what are you doing with that low life? Don't you know he's nothing but trouble?" Stan's casual, "I'm worried about you," style was designed to lull people into a sense of security where they'd talk easier. He could see right away that he wasn't putting her at ease. "Well, what makes Betsy so anxious about you, I wonder?" "I'm sure I don't know." "I have my doubts. Hand on the scanner, doll." "No. You can't do this." "Oh yes I can. Didn't you read the sign out front when you came in. By entering, you agreed to submit to any security procedures we care to employ, including body cavity searches. Now, place your hand on the scanner, or perhaps you'd prefer to do it at the police station?" The girl looked dejectedly at the scanner and placed her hand on it. The device scanned her hand and finger prints into the computer while Stan made a call. "Hello, Sheila, this is Stan…Yes, I'm fine. Could you run some prints for me?…Great, I'll send them by computer fax…Got them?…Good…" There was a longer pause as the prints at the other end were being scanned. "You don't say?…I'll keep her here…Thanks Sheila, I owe you." "Well, well, well, miss Jessica Arnolt. It seems you have quite a fan club at the department." George had restrained her again when Stan had promised to hold her. "I'm almost sorry we stopped Duke when we did. Tell me, did he know that you had a history of fixing men? I didn't think so." The police showed up at the security room's back door and took a very angry looking Jessica away. Once she was gone, George went back onto the floor to wander a bit. George's job was subtly different from Betsy's. While Betsy made sure the rules of play were held to by the various people involved in scenes, George and Mack were there to keep people from making the wrong kind of scene. Occasionally, husbands or boyfriends would track their lovers down and try to rescue them, or simply make them sorry they decided to be here. Essentially, George made sure that only the desired levels of…violence…happened on the premises. It took experience to separate the cries of pain that were wanted from the cries of true distress. Most of the time, it seemed to George that he was being paid to watch people engaging in sex. He was smart enough to not let himself become distracted from what he was supposed to be doing, but he did enjoy his job very much. He knew many of the regulars and knew he could ignore them, either because the boyfriend/husband was already present, or because he knew there was no such threat. His focus was on the newcomers and the infrequent dabblers. One couple was setting up at another of the wall stations. A tall, heavyset man was binding an equally heavyset, though shorter, woman's hands above her head. The woman was dressed in an open mesh, white corset that forced her not so slim body to what must have been painful dimensions. A matching skirt covered her ass and not much more. Her legs were then locked into a spreader bar that forced her feet four feet apart. That forced her on her toes if she wanted to take the weight off her arms. The stretching pulled the short skirt up enough that only her ass cheeks were still covered; her cunt was visible between her spread legs. The engorged lips were glistening and drops of sweat were running down her legs, arms and back. The man pulled her head back by the hair and asked, in a surprisingly polite voice, "Are you ready?" "Yes," came the harsh response, "whip me, make me scream, slave! Hurt me." George raised his eyebrows at the exchange. He'd heard that one could be a dominant and a masochist, but this was the first he'd seen. The man, slave, picked a whip up out of a bag nearby and started to use it on his Mistress. The single tail (so called because it was a single lash as opposed to the multiple lashes of a cat) struck her on the lower legs. The first blows were fairly mild and left red marks that started to fade right away. He worked the whip slowly up her body, turning the exposed flesh a nice deep red without leaving any actual welts. Through it all, the woman didn't do much more than grunt. Several people had come to watch the scene play out, and George kept his eye on them, looking for anyone who looked upset about it but still stayed. While his back was to the scene, the man changed implements to a multi-strand cat. This one had thick, stiff lashes, clearly designed to be very painful and to leave lasting marks. The first lashes from the cat were met with low cries from the woman as white stripes that turned a darker red were left behind. The woman was struggling to take deep breaths; the corset tight enough to make filling her lungs a painful, and fruitless prospect. A casual observer wouldn't have been able to see the attention the man was paying to the woman's condition, but Betsy, who had wandered over to monitor a scene involving breath play, could see the attention to detail he had. Betsy knew that the mild oxygen deprivation could enhance the euphoria caused by the endorphins of a whipping. She also had to admire the beauty of the markings. While the blows seemed haphazard, they were laying down stripes in a lovely lattice pattern. Once the corset was off, the mixture of lattice stripes and the bare areas protected by the corset would be awe inspiring. When he'd finished with the cat, the man pulled out a tawse of heavy leather. The blows from the twin straps of the wide leather paddle-like device were slower than the previous instruments' lashes, but were far harder. Each blow left a wide mark that turned to purple quite quickly. The woman was now crying out loudly in pain while gasping for breath with increasingly fast pants. Her legs trembled and Betsy could see her pussy quivering. She was on the verge of a climax in the midst of what most people would assume must be excruciating pain. While they'd be correct, the woman wasn't feeling it the same way a vanilla person would. The woman was riding high and in that floating place many masochists loved. Betsy gave a smiling wince when her orgasm hit, causing her to scream at the top of her lungs. He kept the blows up for another minute, easing the intensity as he did; prolonging her climax somewhat. The laces on the corset were the first thing he released, once he'd stopped. The woman drew in great gulps of air as he released her legs from the spreader and her arms from their suspension. Once the release was completed, he knelt at her feet, waiting for her response. She brushed her hand through his hair, whispering how pleased she was. Betsy smiled as she moved away, towards the main stage, where the first scene was being set up. Stage scenes always attracted large crowds, given the promise of intense play. Some of the onlookers were simply voyeurs, attracted by the possibility of seeing real sex performed in public. Most fetish clubs in the state couldn't allow actual sex on their premises because they were unwilling to give up the lucrative income from serving alcohol. The laws prohibited sexual activity in any public establishment where booze as available. The prohibition didn't apply to activities in private rooms, so other places could still provide sites for play; a useful thing for those in the lifestyle who didn't have the resources or space for elaborate setups in their homes. The crew, as the club's gophers were called, had just finished setting up a St. Andrew's Cross. A large Nordic woman was leading a blindfolded slave up onto the stage where she strapped him to the cross with obvious skill. The slave's cock and balls were locked in a cage that had small, dull spikes pointed inwards. Any erection he had would be very painful. Betsy nodded at the arrangement. The slaves genitals were below the intersection of the cross, allowing the Mistress access from the backside of the cross if she wished. The Mistress opened her ubiquitous, yet distinctive gym bag (most players at the club used the handy totes for carrying toys) and extracted a rather wicked looking bull whip. Friday Night at Mephisto's Seeing the dangerous toy, Betsy watched closer. Occasionally, a dominant who had no idea what they were doing tried to use a bull whip and had to be stopped. There was no way management was going to give the city an excuse to close the club down, certainly not because of a guest's incompetence. Soon, however, Betsy knew the Mistress knew what she was doing; especially her own limitations. She made no attempt to produce the whip's infamous crack. Impressive welts were being paid on the man's back. Even more impressive was the near silence from the slave. Welts like that didn't come pain free, yet he made no more than a grunt or two with each blow. It was rare to see such intensity from the start. Most dominants (and submissives for that matter) preferred to warm up with lesser levels of sensation so that when the high levels of pain started, the slave was well into or close to subspace. When the Mistress changed instruments, Betsy realized the scene was actually going to see a gradual lessening of intensity. This would certainly be different. Betsy imagined that the submissive would experience the lesser pain levels almost as pleasurable sensations. The scene finished with a hand spanking from the woman accompanied by moans of obvious pleasure from the man. Surprisingly, there was no evidence of an erection having ever occurred. It seems the man was well trained in keeping it down. Betsy found herself wondering if he was as well trained in getting it up. As the crew was taking down the cross and setting up the stocks for the next stage scene, Betsy wandered over to the main entrance to see how Mary was holding up. The petite blond was arguing with a couple; or rather the couple was arguing, Mary was just listening and shaking her head. When she got closer, she recognized the male half of the couple. "Hi Mary. Donald, it's good to see you. What seems to be the problem?" she asked with a wink at her coworker. "Betsy, will you tell Mary that Kathleen is really over 18; that this is just a schoolgirl roleplay?" "Don, you know better than that. I assume Mary asked for ID?" When he nodded, Betsy continued, "Then there's nothing anyone can do. That's the law. Once she asks for ID, you have to show it, she can't withdraw the request. You'll just have to go home and get hers." Betsy nodded towards the lady in the classic English schoolgirl outfit, complete with plaid skirt above the knees, white shirt that was barely able to close, knee high socks and two inch high heels. "Kathy, you look scrumptious. Have you been a good girl today?" "No, ma'am," the mock child replied, staying in character, "I've been bad." The pout on her face was to die for. "Mr. Donald caught me cheating on a test. I need to be punished." "I see. Seriously for a minute, Kathy, where's your ID? You had to know you were going to be carded?" The sheepish look said it all; the answer was just confirmation. "It's expired." Betsy shook her head. "Then you're stuck. The law cares about how old you can prove yourself to be, not how old you actually are. Get to DMV tomorrow and this won't happen again." Getting back into the spirit of their roleplay, she added, "I guess you're due for some special discipline at Mr. Donald's residence." As the couple moved off, Betsy turned to Mary. "Do you want a break from the door?" "I could use a few minutes. Thanks for the backup; Donald can be quite insistent. Why doesn't he buck you?" "I called the cops on his ass once. He knows I mean business. Go on, have a sit down and I'll cover here for a bit." After the initial rush at opening, the door was usually fairly easy to handle. There was a steady stream of people coming to the club, but nothing that spoke of large numbers of people. About half the people who came were people Betsy knew from the lifestyle or frequent club attendance. The woman with the matching silver collar and cuffs on her wrists and ankles had become a good friend in the last year or so. Her partner, with a similar set, was being led on a leash. "Valerie, Sally, it's so good to see you. Coming to watch or play?" As Valerie paid the entry fee, she replied, "A little play. I'm going to publicly torture Sally for a while." "Sounds like fun. I'll come by and watch for a while. What have you heard about Francine?" "She's improving steadily. She was able to watch a scene at Master's place without having a panic attack." "That's great. I miss seeing her around." Francine, Valerie's best friend, had violated Valerie's safe word while suffering from post traumatic stress from an attack on herself. Since then, being around BDSM play had been too horrible for her. Betsy was glad the therapy she was undergoing was doing some good. Francine had been one of the most innovative dominants that Betsy had ever met. The scene was reduced by her absence. Once Mary was back from her break, Betsy took one of her own. With her legs rested (the staff spent most of the night standing and walking) and her thirst slaked, she was back on the floor. There was a new couple on stage, a male dominant and a female submissive. The naked sub was bound across a padded horse, similar to a vaulting horse from gymnastics, with a hood covering her face. Her mouth was gagged and the hood's eye holes were closed. The man was naked as well, his cock standing at attention. The crowd was clearly anticipating some wild sex soon. Right now, however, he was engaging in a classic bit of warm up. He was wielding a cat; one of the softer ones with lambskin lashes. Arnold Schwartzenager would be hard pressed to leave welts with that whip. It was good at increasing the warmth on one's ass and driving a sub wild with those little stings that increased arousal. From the color of her ass (deep pink), the way her pussy glistened and how much she writhed in her bonds, Betsy figured she'd been under the whip for at least 20 minutes. Every few minutes, an upward stroke form the cat would impact her cunt and her head would jerk up and her muscles tense in near orgasm. Betsy had seen many a sub at this level. It would only take three or four strokes on her pussy to send her over the edge. As it was, each isolated upward stroke took her to the brink and moved the brink farther away at the same time. Another 20 minutes of this sensuous torture continued while the woman became increasingly desperate for relief. The man wasn't in much better shape. His cock was visibly purple in color from having been erect for so long. Betsy was amazed that he'd not given into temptation by now. He tossed the whip to the side and placed his cock at the entrance to her cunt. The woman stiffened, as if in fear that any movement would end the contact (and in fact, for some dominants, it would). He slid slowly in with the ease that a greased pig slid through fingers. Once fully inserted into her cunt, he began a slow motion fucking with each stroke taking a full fifteen seconds to complete. It was clear from the way she held herself rock still, that she was under orders to not respond to his fucking of her. This new torture seemed to be even harder to take than what had come before. Her body was trembling from the strain of preventing it from doing what it was designed to do; buck and fuck against the cock that was embedded in her. Betsy could see beads of sweat forming and dropping from her nipples which were themselves, engorged and stiff. The only sounds from the stage were his breathing and her gasps as she continued to struggle. When her orgasm broke, it did so with a vengeance. Her head snapped up and a muffled wail carried out over the crowd. Her body started to buck against it's bonds. In the midst of this, the Dom plunged in deeply one last time and cried out himself. The pair shook in their climaxes for nearly a minute and then seemed to collapse. He lay against her for several seconds before rising and pulling out. His cock glistened with the mixture of their cum as he walked to her head and removed the gag. She greedily suck him in and cleaned every trace from him. Little rivulets of fluid dripped down her legs, leaking out of her pussy. Once she'd been released, he spent a few minutes massaging her arms and legs, getting out the inevitable kinks that come from long periods of bondage. He'd also scoop up the trails of liquid from her legs and feed it to her with his fingers. The crew waited in the wings for the couple to finish their aftercare before cleaning up the area and moving the horse off the stage. Betsy wandered away again before seeing what was next in line. By the time the club was ready to close, Betsy was feeling that familiar low level arousal that always accompanied witnessing uncounted acts of sexual domination. She had just finished counting the door when a younger redhead was let in the side entrance. Betsy looked up, eyes widening in amazement. She'd never seen Pamela that tense before. "Pam, what's wrong? Why so tense?" "Mistress," the girl answered, letting Betsy know that she was already in her submissive headspace. "Frank came by work and we had to call the cops. I haven't been able to calm down since." "That bastard!" Frank was Pam's ex-boyfriend. He hadn't taken their break up very well and had started stalking her. Showing up at her job was a violation of his restraining order. Knowing what her submissive needed, Betsy grabbed a handful of Pam's hair and growled, "You need to be put in your place, don't you?" "Yes, Mistress, please, put me down." Betsy thought for a moment and then replied, "Go upstairs to room five and strip. Don't touch anything." Pam nodded, her breath catching, and walked to the stairs that led to the private rooms. While Pamela waited her fate, Betsy reclaimed her toy bag from her locker. When she joined the submissive, Pam was standing in the center of the room, her hands behind her back. Her large breasts sagged a little, now that they had no bra to support them. Around her were the furnishings and tools of a classic medieval dungeon. Betsy walked around Pam, keeping a stern visage on her face. Occasionally, she'd let a finger brush against Pam's skin, watching her jump at the unexpected contact. She grabbed Pam's hair again (Pam loved hair play) and dragged her to the rack. "Get up there you disgusting slut!" Betsy yelled. "Yes, Mistress," she replied with a shaky voice. Betsy deftly placed Pamela's ankles and wrists in the padded cross bars. A few turns of the crank later and Pam was snuggly held in place. The upper bar had a second, smaller, winch mechanism. Pulling two clover clamps form her bag, she attached them to the helpless woman's nipples and clipped the chains to the smaller winch. The clamps were soon pulled tight, the pressure making them close even tighter on the tortured nipples. Once the nipple clamps were where she wanted them (with tears beginning to form in Pam's eyes), Betsy turned the crank on the rack another couple of clicks. Pam gave a cry of anguish as every one of her muscles was pulled completely taut. "Color?" Betsy asked with a whisper. "Green," came the breathless reply. Next, Betsy pulled Pam's shoulder length hair into a ponytail and tied a silk rope to it. The end of the rope hung off the end of the rack and she added a two pound weight, pulling Pam's hair. The sub's gasp of pain seemed to belie the smile that was creeping onto her face (Pamela really liked hair play). Pulling out a crop, Betsy started to give Pamela's entire front side a light beating. None of the strikes were terribly painful, individually, but the cumulative effect was a mild aching sensation over her entire skin surface. Once tears were flowing freely from Pam, Betsy upped the force in her blows while restricting her strikes to legs, breasts and arms. Now, instead of the light red rash that had been left, each stroke was leaving a darker red commas on Pamela's skin. Pamela was openly pleading with soft cries of, "Please, please." Neither Betsy nor Pam could ever tell whether these were cries for more or for mercy. While not a true pain slut (Pam couldn't climax from pain), she did have a masochistic bent that allowed her both great tolerance and the ability to enjoy the feeling of being hurt, in the right circumstances. What Pam could do was climax in spite of the pain she was experiencing. That time came just as Betsy had turned the individual crop commas into a more homogenous shade of dark red. She thrust the vibrator she'd gotten earlier into Pamela's cunt and started laying into her breasts with the crop. Pam shrieked and tried to hump the vibrator. She wasn't able to do more than pull at the already strained muscles and increase the pressure on the clamps. Betsy pistoned the plastic cock into Pam's pussy with long slow strokes. Pam's breath was coming in ragged gasps as she neared the edge. Just as she tensed at the verge of cumming, Betsy dropped the crop and release the clamps from Pam's nipples. The sudden surge of pain toppled the helpless sub over the edge into her orgasm. Her body tried to shake, but only managed to tighten the muscles that were already at their limit. Betsy kept her orgasm going for over a minute with continued fucking and an occasional pull at a nipple. Once it subsided, she released the catch on the winch and let Pam's body relax for the first time in over an hour. "How are you feeling, Pamela?" "Oh God, you do that so well. I ache all over and I'm a little dizzy, but I feel great." "I'm glad. I'll get some water, you stay right here." It took Pamela 15 minutes before she felt ready to stand again. Betsy left her in the showers and headed home herself. "Another Friday night at Mephisto's," she thought to herself. "Never a dull moment." She smiled at the wetness she felt between her legs, knowing that Frank would help her deal with that little problem in his own unique way. If any of you are prayer people, please include Dani in your prayers. She's disappeared from the radar and hasn't responded to emails from myself or Xantu. As a result, this has not been proofread and I apologize for the errors that no doubt got past me. Still, I enjoy feedback and welcome any comments.