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House of Pain Ch. 01

By: funinthesungirl19



It is an unobtrusive storefront in an 'up-and-coming part' of Toronto. The shop windows are tinted; the door is painted black. There is a discreet, hand-lettered sign tucked in a corner of the window. "Sex toys available." It is lettered in sophisticated calligraphy, the elegance of the penmanship not matching the words on the sign. There is no other sign on the store front. Nothing else to indicate what the store sells. 

I am fascinated. I bite my lip in slight nervous tension; do a hasty sweep of the street with my eyes. I don't recognise anyone. It is a bright summer afternoon; everyone is going about their business with the usual bustle of a big city. I am trapped in the moment; a mote dancing in the sunlight. I am the cat that is about to get burned for my curiosity. I push the door and walk in. 

Most sex stores are similar. They are seedy; there's a booth in the back; there are men who shuffle around, carefully not making eye contact. This one? This is a temple. 

Discreet spotlights highlight the sex toys on display, and these are not the dildos you find in Victoria's Secret. The dildos are made of steel and wood, they are displayed on pedestals, and each one is huge. I feel like I'm in a museum; I look around for the 'Do Not Touch' signs, and inwardly giggle. A giggle of pure nervousness. I'm reacting to the atmosphere of this place, and it is turning me on. 

My eyes are drawn to a huge steel fist. Surely that can't go inside a person, I think in horror. It has to be at least fifteen inches long, and about three inches of thickness. I gulp. My pussy, on cue, begins to moisten. 

I wander around the store in silence. There is a man in the corner who must work in the store. He looked up when I walked in; nodded in greeting, but he hasn't said anything yet. 

Another wall has whips. I can feel my pussy react to the possibility of pain; I am creaming in my panties, and I'm convinced I smell of arousal. Each whip is mounted on the wall; spotlights catching the leather; the leather sparkles under the light. My hand reaches out, mesmerized. I touch a flogger, imaging the leather strands being dragged over my skin, before it is cruelly brought down on my body. My entire face flushes; my lips part very slightly. 

The man sitting in the corner eyes me expressionlessly. I can tell he knows how aroused I am. I want to flee. I find myself pulled towards him. 

"Do you want to see the back?" 

His voice is smooth, easy. Like a fine wine, with hints of depth. Warning bells start to ring in my mind; but that's the good girl in me. Right now, I'm ignoring her. I am a moth drawn to the flame. 

"Yes." The merest whisper.

He moves out from behind the counter. Walks over to the back, opens a door. I walk in. It is a small auditorium. Perhaps twenty seats. He flicks a couple of switches, and spotlights light the stage. The place feels intimate, dangerous. 

"What happens here?" I ask in an undertone. "Sex shows?" I'm a little surprised; Toronto is an unlikely city for live sex shows. 

"No. No sex. Just pain." His words are direct. 

He looks at me; his eyes wandering all over my body. They linger on my breasts. My nipples are erect, visible under the thin sundress I'm wearing. 

"What's your name?" he asks me. 

"Sara." Run, Sara, run, the warnings scream in my head. There is danger here; not in this man, or in this place, but in the way my body is responding to this place. I'm helpless here; this place fulfils some secret hidden longing in me, and I have a feeling that if the man standing in front of me orders me to sink to my knees and suck him off; I would obey. There's something in the air; something that's bringing out every secret erotic fantasy I've had. 

He silently hands me a business card. 

House of Pain. 

There is a phone number underneath. 

"What do you mean, just pain?" I whisper. 

"People pay to watch," he waves his arms towards the seat, "while I whip a girl." He sees the look in my eyes. I'm mesmerized by the idea of being whipped under the spotlight by this man. He hands me a sheet. "These are the current rates. Call me if you are interested."

There's a dismissal in his voice. He's made his pitch; it is now up to me to act. 

I leave. My eyes squint in the bright sunlight outside; the interior of the shop had been dim. The traffic, the city noise, the pedestrians darting about, all feel strange after the feel of the shop. I walk along in a daze, walk into a nearby coffee shop. I need to sit down. 

I realize I'm still clutching the sheet he handed me. I don't even know his name. It isn't the guy that's causing the reaction in me though; it's the place. House of Pain. The words hold a world of promise. 

Reading the contents of the sheet, I feel wetness trickle out of my pussy. The sheet reminds me of the slips of paper in most sushi places -- you fill in what you want; and how many. This sheet lists acts --bare-bottom spanking, whipping (bottom), whipping (breasts and nipples), whipping (pussy), caning, electricity (breasts and nipples), electricity (pussy), and much more. I feel my face flush again; my forehead has a sheen of sweat on it. 

There are also rates. Taking 20 bare-bottom swats will pay out $10. 10 strokes with the flogger on my breasts, and I'll get paid $30. There's a footnote at the bottom of the sheet. Minimum order $200. I gulp. That's four hundred bare-bottom swats; a world of pain. 

My coffee cools next to me, forgotten. My nipples brush against my sundress, sending licks of longing running through me. I can feel my pussy quiver, my orgasm faint, but definite. I have come just from the idea of being whipped. 

I am on autopilot. I want to call; I hesitate. Doing a sex show in a sex store? This is not me. 

"There will be no sex," a voice in my head reminds me. I'm totally drawn to the idea of being whipped under spotlights. 

"You have a real life. Don't be ridiculous. What if you run into friends there? Or your family? What then, Sara?" Practical, good-girl Sara intervenes angrily. I sigh. This will have to remain fantasy.

Two days later, I pick up my phone and call the House of Pain.

***

"Can my face be hidden somewhat?" I ask the guy. I tell myself that I'm just curious. 

"No." His voice brooks no opposition. "Watching your face contort with pain is part of what my clientele pay for."

"Oh." My voice is small. "I'm concerned about being recognized."

"If you sign up, you'll sign a non-disclosure agreement," he says. "The clients do as well. And if you have a non-disclosure agreement, I'll show you a list of client names for each show. That way, if you see someone on the list that you know, you can opt out."

"Oh." That could work. There are a thousand holes in his logic, of course -- there are a lot of people with the same name, and a lot of people in the city that I know casually, but I don't always know their last names. Still, there is a safeguard of sorts. 

I am drawn. I can't keep away from the flame, though I know there is a risk of getting burned. 

"How many shows do I have to do, if I sign?"

"At least one. After that, you decide if you want to come back, I'll decide if I want you back." 

"What's the $200 minimum?" I ask. 

"I like my shows to be an hour long, that's to make sure you pick enough things to fill up the hour." 

The warning bells are still ringing. One hour of pain. I've never even been spanked before, my boyfriend looking horrified when I suggested it once. This craving for pain, this is a hidden part of me, a part that has never seen the light of day. 

I find myself saying, "Yes, I want to do this." 

***

I've asked if I can be spanked or whipped before the show, so I can prepare for the pain. John (I finally ask his name) declines. "I've been marketing you as a virgin to pain... the clients are really excited about you. Plus, you get a $500 bonus for it." 

I go along with him. There's an excitement in me, excitement that for an hour, I will be at the mercy of this guy. He's suggested I just start with the beginner mix of pain -- no canes, no fisting. I bite my lip. "Fisting?" I mutter. 

"I noticed you were rather captivated by the fist dildo when you first came in." His voice is amused. 

He had been watching me. I flush. "We'll work our way up to it, not this session," he says kindly. 

***

I've been told I am to obey John without question during the show. "You can moan, cry, scream in pain, all of that is ok. No talking though." John promises there will be no sex. He will stay fully clothed during the session. The audience will as well, though they will be in darkness. I imagine some of them will be touching themselves. I've proofed the list; made sure I don't know anyone. I'm good to go.

***

I've reviewed my sushi menu of pain. I'm going to be spanked bare-bottom thirty times, flogged on my butt and thighs, cropped on my breasts, and most worryingly, my pussy. I survey the list. I think I'm insane. My fingers steal under my jeans to find my pussy, soaked. I bring myself to orgasm. 

***

It is the evening of the show. I'm wearing an old sundress. "Wear something that can be ripped," I was told. I've also shaved my pussy, as instructed. 

I am at in a small room off to the side of the stage. I can hear soft music playing, the shuffling of footsteps as people come in, take their seats. I have been teetering at the edge of arousal all day, but I don't finger myself. It feels wrong. I want my arousal to come entirely from the anticipation of pain. I want to orgasm as I'm being whipped. 

I hear the applause begin. That's my cue. I walk out under the spotlight.

House of Pain Ch. 02



I walk to the middle of the stage. My eyes are lowered; I don't try to look at the audience. Not that I can, even if I want to. The lights are blinding me, making it difficult for me to see the audience at all. 

"Gentlemen," John's voice booms, "We have something special today in store for you. Sara's a pain virgin; she's never been flogged or whipped before; heck, she hasn't even been spanked before." 

Wolf-whistles fill the room. 

"Sara was trying to shoplift a dildo from the store the other day..." John lies with a wink, "the fist of steel. And I asked Sara -- should I call the cops, or will she take her punishment like a good girl?" 

John's working the audience expertly. I hear men cheer, whoop, holler and laugh. They are excited by my imminent punishment. 

"As you can see, gentlemen, Sara opted not to involve the police..." he laughs, menace in his voice. "Though, of course, she's going to regret that choice soon." 

My body reacts to the menace; my muscles clench. In fear, I lie to myself. I am not aroused by this. 

The words are a lie; my pussy is dripping. 

"Turn around." John now instructs me. His voice is transformed; it is cold, hard and commanding. I gulp a little and obey. My back is now facing the audience; I am still clothed in my sundress. Not for long, I suspect. 

On the stage are placed assorted props for use in our scene. John gestures to one which looks like a sawhorse. 

"Bend over."

The sawhorse is at waist-level for me. I bend over, my head upside down, my hair hanging loose towards the floor. The way the sawhorse is built, I have to stick my butt out towards the audience, I suspect that is intentional. 

John walks around, takes each of my arms, extends them, and buckles them into cuffs set in the sawhorse. Suddenly my arms are tied down; immobile. I can squirm around, but I can't straighten. My pussy is wet now; rejoicing in my helplessness. I close my eyes, let the sensations run through me. I allow myself to just feel. 

Now I can feel John bring his palm down on my still-covered ass. I feel the blow; he has not been gentle. I bite my lips to keep myself from crying out; feel the heat radiate through me. Every muscle of my body clenches in response.

"What do you think, gentlemen, I can spank her clothed, or I can spank her bare ass." John asks the question, fully knowing the answer he's going to get. 

I hear laughter; voices voting to see my naked ass on display. John moves to oblige. I feel him lifting my skirt up, pulling it up to my waist. I am naked underneath. I hear whistles as my ass comes into view. 

"Spread your legs." A curt order. I comply instantly. Cuffs are buckled around my ankles, my legs stretched wider, wider, till I feel muscles screaming in pain, and I am buckled to rings on the floor. I wince; but my pussy is dripping now. This firm handling is exactly what I've been craving. 

I feel John's hands on my ass. He pries my ass cheeks apart, exposing my naked pussy and asshole to the audience. I can hear murmuring, a couple of wolf-whistles. I flush all over; but I'm also wet. The impersonality of this experience is adding to the eroticism. 

"I would like you to count out your spanks," John orders, not waiting for an acknowledgement from me. I can feel him move, position himself at the side of the sawhorse. It isn't the ideal bare-bottom spanking position for him; but this way, the audience gets the best view of my red ass. In show business, the audience is everything. 

Whack. His hand comes down on the middle part of my right buttock, hard. Despite myself, I whimper as the pain radiates through me. The sound echoes around the room. Oh. There's a microphone on the floor, near my head. Every sound I make will be amplified, every moan will be heard by the audience. There's eroticism in this careful planning. My pussy drips, I can feel my juice dampen my spread-apart thighs. I flush in embarrassment; there's no place to hide under the spotlight. 

John is waiting. "One," I say quietly. I had almost forgotten. 

Whack. Another spank, at exactly the same spot. I dance in my bindings, writhing from the pain. My hiss can be heard around the room. "Two," I whisper. 

Another spank, again at exactly the same spot. I yelp this time, as the waves of pain course through me. Is he ever going to spank me anywhere else? My fists clench in their bindings. "Three," I moan through clenched teeth. 

John is now running his hand over the anguished spot, testing my reaction. Then, suddenly, his hand rises and falls again, this time at the base of my ass. "Four..." I say, through clenched teeth. 

The blows are now coming strong and hard. Each blow has me dancing in pain, muscles tightening, fists clenching. My body is covered in a sheen of sweat. In between the blows, I can feel John grab my ass, pulling the cheeks apart for the audience, kneading them under his cruel fingers. I am moaning now, but I am also floating in a world where I can only feel. I count the spanks out softly; I live to obey. I have never been more alive.

And then, I count thirty. I am done. 

My ass is throbbing. It feels red, tender. At the same time, I feel the arousal course through my veins; I wish I could touch myself. But I am tied; and in front of an audience. I cannot masturbate, though I desperately crave the release. 

John unbuckles the cuffs holding my arms and legs in place; straightens me. My muscles are screaming in pain; begging for a pause. 

"Hands and knees." His voice is forbidding, his hand points to the side of the stage. "Let the audience see your red, spanked ass." I do as I am told, crouch down, ass to the audience. I lift my dress up to my waist again. I hear applause; whistles. The audience appears to have enjoyed my spanking. 

I can hear John move at the centre of the stage; moving equipment, wheeling stuff off and on stage. I wonder what's coming next. My sushi menu only tells me what's coming, not in what order. 

"Get up." Evidently, John's done setting up. I've only had three minutes, maybe four to recover. I desperately hope my ass is spared for a while. 

My hands are grabbed by John firmly; they are cuffed, and lifted above my head. I'm attached to a chain hanging from the ceiling. The chain is tightened; I am stretching, stretching, till John decides I've had enough. 

I evaluate my position. I can either stand on tiptoe to ease the strain on my arm, or I can relax my feet and have my arms scream in pain. Ouch, and ouch. 

Pain. Pain is on the menu tonight.

John positions me to face the audience as I stagger for balance. I'm still wearing my sundress, though not for long. John grabs a dangerous looking knife. The steel glows with a subtle sheen under the spotlight. I gulp. There is nothing about that knife that is the slightest bit reassuring. 

A swift movement, and my dress is in shards. Another movement, and it is ripped off me. I am entirely naked. The rest of the stage is dim, but the spotlight shines down on me. I close my eyes, suddenly overwhelmed by what's coming. 

John is having none of this. "Keep your eyes open," he snaps, his command punctuated by a swish of a flogger. Heat sears on my skin; the flogger has hit me on my midriff, with some tails catching the sensitive underside of my breasts. I wince in pain, dancing away, teetering for balance. The audience mutters appreciatively. They like seeing my reaction; they are enjoying watching me flee from the pain. 

My pussy is soaked, a fact that hasn't escaped John's attention. He catches my eye; winks at me. I give him a faint smile. So far, this has been intense, but John is clearly an expert. He's reading me well, giving me enough pain to have me teeter at the edge, but never fall. 

"Gentlemen, I'm now going to flog Sara's body..." John announces. He holds up the flogger, showing it to the audience. It is blood red in colour, the long tails made of suede.

"Sara." John eyes me harshly. He has a piece of chalk in his hands now, and he draws a ring around me on the floor, perhaps four feet in diameter. "See the ring, Sara? You can move, but you must stay inside the ring. Understood?"

I nod quietly. 

Slash. The flogger hits my breasts this time. I scream in pain, but at the same time, I can feel my body tingle with arousal. "You will verbally acknowledge my instructions." John's voice is cold. 

"Yes Sir..." I say quietly. Tears have welled up in my eyes. I concentrate on my breathing. Breathe in. Breathe out. Relax. Let the pain flow through you. 

"Gentlemen, what do you think? For each time she goes outside the circle, I think I'll add two strokes of the flogger..." 

Applause. Whistles. They agree with John. 

I bite my lips. I am not expecting this; the circle was not discussed; neither were additional strokes. I find that this turns me on even more; the potential for the unexpected serves as a powerful aphrodisiac. 

"You will get thirty strokes of the flogger on your body, twenty on your breasts..." John tells me. I nod. 

He raises his hand, flicks his wrist expertly. The flogger slashes across my belly. It feels like fire on my skin. I squeak, jump. The noise is amplified across the room by the microphone, now hanging above my face.

The flogger rises and falls again, this time catching the underside of my breasts. I dance away, losing my balance, fighting to stop myself from exiting the circle John's drawn for me. I barely succeed. 

John grins at me. My struggles to avoid stepping outside the circle amuse him. "I like that you are paying attention to that circle, Sara," he says, laughing. The audience laughs too. I flush in embarrassment, but my body betrays my excitement -- my nipples are hard, my pussy is creaming, and I'm holding still, yet again, for John to whip me. 

The flogger rises, falls. The blows fall down, without cease or pause. Strokes hit my midriff, the underside of my breasts, my thighs, the top of my pussy. I writhe away from the strokes, or do I move towards them? I've lost the ability to tell. I'm in a special place, a soft place, where the pain is all I feel, and the pain feels like pleasure. I hear myself through a hazy distance, I'm whimpering. There are tears running down my cheeks, and red lashes are visible on my skin, where the flogger has etched its path. 

I realize that I've craved this feeling for a long time. 

John's now rubbing his hands over me, the calluses in his hands feel like sandpaper against my sensitive skin. He's touching my breasts, kneading them, bouncing them up and down, using his hands to smack them around. He's pinching my nipples, rolling them between his fingers, stretching them out, causing me to lose my balance again. I feel complete, utter pleasure. I bite on my lips, mewling softly, marvelling at how good this feels. 

"Ready for the breast flogging?" he asks.

"Yes Sir," I say, longing etched in my voice. My assent is picked up by the microphone, the room hears my arousal. Wolf-whistles fill the room. I vaguely note that the flogger is shorter this time, before the strokes start. 

I wasn't sure what to expect in a breast flogging, but I love this. The flames of arousal blaze into a fire, as I struggle to hold back my orgasm. The flogger rises and falls, and each stroke brings pain, but also, so much pleasure. I dimly find myself pushing my breasts outward towards the audience; silently imploring John to please, please continue. John notices my reaction, and laughs. He obliges, whipping me again and again, continuing that sensation that is torment, but also sweet lust. 

The flames rise higher and higher in me. I struggle to hold back the orgasm; I'm suddenly keenly aware there are twenty pairs of lust-filled eyes fastened upon me. A sheen of sweat breaks out on my skin; I'm poised at the edge, and then the flogger curls around my breasts again, this time striking my nipples for the first time, and I come, screaming, writhing in my chains, unable to hold anything back any further, sobbing as the waves of pleasure course through me. 

As I find awareness again, I can hear the applause in the room. 

***

We are not done. I am unbuckled from the shackles, told to kneel at the side of the stage again while John gets the next set ready. I obey; this time facing the audience so they can drink in my flaming skin, see the welts the whip has raised. My head is bowed, my eyes are shut. I feel like I've run a marathon; I'm utterly drained. 

"The final act, gentlemen." John's voice fills the room. I look up; I have not been paying attention. There's a screen now at the back of the stage; a large desk in the middle of the room. John gestures to me, I get up and come towards the desk. 

John pulls me on top of the desk, has me lie back with my legs spread wide. He buckles my legs and arms into a spreader bar, and has me raise my legs and arms in the air. The spreader bar is hung on a chain from the ceiling; the chain is tightened till there is no slack. 

My arms are spread wide, my legs wider. My ass is open for the audience, my pussy on display. I try to visualize the sushi menu of pain, try to remember what's left. Ah. My ass is now going to get flogged, and my pussy cropped. The dessert, if you will, in tonight's menu. 

There's a camera hanging above me, along with the ever-present microphone. I stiffen. I don't want to be recorded. "Relax," John soothes, his voice low so only I can hear. "It's a feed to the screen, so that the audience can see your face. Nothing is being recorded." 

I am bound, helpless; there isn't anything I can do to protest, but I find I believe John. He has no reason to lie to me. I nod my consent. 

"Now gentlemen," John laughs, addressing the audience. "Sara thinks I've forgotten about how many times she stepped out of her circle. You guys counted though, didn't you? How many times did Sara step outside the circle?"

Crap. I had forgotten about the circle as I navigated the pain. How bad is this going to be? "Six!" "Five!" "Ten!" The voices cry out. I'm not sure if they are relaying the count of how many times I stepped out of the circle, or if they are just expressing how many additional strokes they'd like me to have. 

John grins at the range of numbers shouted out, but finally raises his hands for silence. "I counted five..." he says. There are a couple of boos in the audience, but they subside quickly. 

"Twenty strokes on the ass, Sara, plus your extra ten." John's voice brooks no dissent. 

I gulp. In the aftermath of my orgasm, I've forgotten that my ass was pretty heavily spanked at the start of the evening. Flogging on my already reddened ass will be, to put it mildly, intense.

John swishes the flogger through the air. It makes a sound that can only be described as ominous. I clench every muscle in my body; writhe a little in my bonds. The audience chuckles. 

Again, John swishes the flogger in the air; drawing out the moment, building the anticipation. I am tense; every nerve in my body is on edge. Finally, when I think I'm going to break and beg John to please, please just flog me, the flogger swings down on my butt. I struggle in my bonds, my body writhing as the pain flows through me. 

"Assume your position, Sara." John's voice is implacable. It takes me a few seconds, but then the words register, and I move to obey. 

"Good girl." There's approval in his voice as the flogger comes down again, and then, again once more. He's striking me carefully, avoiding my pussy. I clench my teeth, but a moan escapes me as the blows rain down. My flesh feels like it is on fire.

John pauses; strokes my ass. His fingernails graze my cheeks; causing me to whimper as the sensation courses through me. I moan; my pussy is once again creaming in response, and because of the way I'm positioned, my response is very, very visible. 

"Looks like she likes it, gentlemen." John laughs, the audience laughing with him. He resumes the flogging; I moan, writhe, shudder, but I feel myself drift into my special place again, the place where I can't tell what is pain, and what is pleasure. 

He stops. He must be done. I can feel the tracks of tears on my face, but I don't remember crying. I am floating. 

"Ten crops on your pussy, Sara." 

This forces me to pay attention. All evening long, this particular item on the sushi menu of pain has been the one that has given me the most anxiety.

The first stroke falls on my pussy. Whap. My nerve-endings explode in pain, my hips writhe, almost lift right off the table. I feel an orgasm start to build again instantly, my traitorous body unable to distinguish between pain and pleasure. And again. I scream this time; my voice filling the room. John is unrelenting though; the crop makes contact again and again with my pussy lips. I moan; shudder; flinch. My pussy leaks, I can feel the wetness drip down towards my asshole.

John pauses; the half-way mark. He spreads my pussy lips open; shows the audience the wetness in my pussy. "I think you are enjoying yourself, Sara..." he says. 

He turns towards the audience. "Gentlemen, we are almost done. Would you count down the final five strokes with me? Let's start with five." 

The crop falls sharply on my pussy. I hear the audience collectively yell "Five!" as my body struggles in my binding, and the flaming pain flows through me. My pussy feels red, painful, very, very aroused. The strokes and the shouting audience are all pulling me up, raising my arousal, taking me to the edge.

Crop. "Four!" I dance in my bindings, jumping as I react to the pain. My body shudders; I am so close to the edge. 

Crop. "Three!" There's cheering now, as the waves of pleasure start hitting that point of no return. I feel my orgasm build; expertly controlled by John's crop.

Crop. "Two!" There's steady applause now, whistles. I don't hear any of it though; I am at the edge of a massive, shuddering orgasm. 

Crop. "One!" 

And that's it. I explode hard, fists clenching, body dancing, as if I was waiting for that last stroke before I gave myself permission to come. There's loud, sustained applause; I don't hear any of it. My awareness has narrowed; my clenching pussy is all I am conscious of right now, and I am in my private world of pleasure. 

John is uncuffing me; helping me on my feet. I bow; he walks me off the stage, escorts me into the antechamber, and leaves me alone to process the last hour.



House of Pain Ch. 03



I am huddled in my dressing gown, sitting in the antechamber. My body is criss-crossed with red marks; the proof of my recent flogging. I have orgasmed twice while being whipped, and I am drained. 

Possibly twenty minutes later, there's a knock on the door. It is John. 

"How do you feel?" he asks me. 

"Okay." I am not able to form coherent sentences. 

"Take off the robe, and lie down," he orders, gesturing to a massage table in the corner. I obey. He has a tub of cream in his hands, and he massages it into my body, expertly soothing the reddened skin. "This will help the healing..." he explains. 

His hands feel good. Not a sexual kind of good; I am not attracted to John. But his hands are strong and steady, and they soothe my muscles. 

"You are good at this," I murmur, as I turn over, and his hands move over my breasts, midriff, and pussy. 

"Mmm. Spread your legs." Another order. I do. 

He's checking my pussy for signs of damage from the crop. There isn't any. Before the session, he has assured me there will be no bleeding, and there isn't any. There aren't a lot of welts either; John has caused plenty of pain, but the effects are transient. 

"Good," he says in satisfaction. "You won't have too much soreness, you can even have sex tonight, if you want."

With Colin? My boyfriend has reacted in shock and horror when I told him I wanted to be spanked; I shudder to think of Colin's reaction if he sees my body now. 

I dress as John waits. I glance at my phone; it is late, 1.30am. John hands me an envelope of cash. I look; there's $1200 in there. I raise my eyebrows in surprise; this is almost double of what I was expecting. 

"There's the $500 first-time bonus," John explains, "$100 for the extra flogs we added on the fly, $200 you earned, and the remaining money there is a tip from the audience." I flush. I'm mortified, really. I didn't do this for the audience; I did this because I wanted to be whipped. 

The whole evening has been magical. I want to blurt out that I want to do this again; but there's a small voice of caution in my head that stops me. I have a real life, a boyfriend who would be appalled if he ever found out what I did tonight. This behaviour is insane. 

John's watching me. He can probably tell what's going on through my mind; after all, I'm not the first girl who's ever been whipped at the House of Pain. "It's a lot to process, I know..." he says, his voice gentle. "Take your time to decide what you want to do next." 

I nod. Now, his voice turns fatherly. "It's late, Sara, I'll put you in a cab, okay? Don't take transit at this hour." 

I laugh silently at this; John's whipped me for the last hour, but he's concerned about me taking transit? I don't say anything though; I nod again. 

I fall asleep as soon as I get home; I sleep well and deeply. 

***

It's a busy week at work. There are rumours of layoffs; I resolve to get my resume ready. Our department is well regarded; but in the brave new world we live in, there's never any certainty about employment. 

When I'm not working; I'm pondering what to do. I'm torn; I want to go back to the House of Pain. But I know how risky it is. And, there's Colin. 

***

I'm having dinner with Colin. We've only dated for three months; but I like him. He's funny, kind, easy to hang out with. 

And he won't spank me at all. 

This is a cliff I've reached. I cannot lie to Colin about the House of Pain. It isn't technically cheating, but that's a technicality. I know that what I did was wrong; and the worst of it is that it set my pulse racing, and my body aching to do it again. 

A great sadness comes upon me – Colin deserves better than me. He deserves someone who doesn't wake up moaning as she dreams of a flogger descending on her pussy. At the end of the day, no matter how much I like him; Colin doesn't meet my needs, and I don't meet his. 

We break up. 

I apologise, but Colin is genuinely a nice guy. He reaches out, holds my hands in his. "Whatever you are looking for," he says softly, "I hope you find it, Sara." 

The tears start falling on the subway on my way home. I cry myself to sleep. Right now, I'm hating myself for craving the pain; for ruining my relationship with Colin. 

***

A month passes. I focus on work. I've applied to a couple of jobs I find online that seem in my wheelhouse; I get a call back from one of them. I have an interview scheduled. 

I find my interview suit and dry-clean it; I interview for the job. The first interview goes well; the second interview goes better.

I'm excited about the prospect of this job; it is a promotion, which will be good financially; I'm reaching the point where I'm exceedingly tired of my tiny studio apartment, and would like to move somewhere a bit nicer. Plus, I've learned everything I can from my current job, and promotion opportunities don't seem too likely, given we might all get laid off. I keep my fingers crossed. 

***

My sadness over the breakup with Colin has receded; I know I did the right thing. I want to be able to explore my sexual fantasies with my partner. I don't want to hide a part of who I am. As I process this, my thoughts go back to the House of Pain. John's whip on my breasts... I bite my lips; clench my thighs. A powerful shudder of arousal flows through me. 

I've managed to go five weeks without calling John; without setting up the next show. I don't last six weeks. That Friday afternoon, once I'm done with work, I call John. 

***

John's words are a curveball. 

"I've had a cancellation – one of my regular girls is sick; she has the flu. She just called me. There's a show tomorrow night. Do you want to do it?"

I hesitate. "So I don't get to pick what's in store for me?" But as I speak, I'm checking my calendar, trying to see what I have planned to do tomorrow. Not a lot. My pussy is moistening; my nipples perk up. I realize I'm clenching my thighs in arousal. 

Who am I kidding? I want to do this. 

"No..." John's voice is level. "The audience's expecting certain things... I'll go easier on you, but the program's basically set. Want to do this?" He's slightly distant, impatient. If I say no, he'll call the next girl on his list, and then the next one. He's running a business here.

"Okay." My voice is the merest whisper.

"The show's at midnight. Show up at 10.30pm at the store, and I'll prep you for what's coming..." 

"Okay," I say again. We quickly go through the names of the audience; none of them are familiar. I'm going through the motions, and I know it. My pulse is racing; anticipation surges through me. 

***

As John goes through the details of the show with me, I only have one thought in my head. 

This is going to be interesting.

***

There's some music playing; it is some kind of dystopian trance/electronic music that softly pulses in the room. The music fits the scene well. 

I'm already on stage when the curtain is raised. This time, I'm hanging suspended from the ceiling, facing the floor; my breasts are tightly bound together, and they are rapidly reddening and ballooning under this treatment; my arms are drawn back in a cruel tie; my hair has somehow been woven through the bindings so that I can't slump my head; my calves are tied tight to my knees, and my legs are spread open, and tied in place. 

There are cameras on the floor, ready to project my every quiver and moan on the screens off the side. 

I'm already in a bit of pain; the rope is cruel, and my body is contorted for the viewing pleasure of the audience. 

I am utterly helpless, and I love it. 

The music increases in volume; it is now filling the room in a stormy crescendo. And then, silence. 

Utter, perfect silence. The eyes of the audience are upon me, and though I can't see them; I feel their hunger in the air. 

The feel of this show is different. In the last one, John was joking with the audience; the audience was hollering, whistling, cheering. This show will be different; John has said. This one will be more solemn; there's a sense of ritual in the air. There is a spotlight on me; and the screens off to the side are lit as well, but the stage is otherwise dark. 

Crack. 

Out of nowhere, the flogger has struck my ass. I jump involuntarily; I feel a line of fire beginning to rise on my skin. The force of the stroke sets the suspension spinning; I slowly start to revolve. 

The strokes come steadily. Music has started playing again, softly; something with a pulsing drumbeat. John times his strokes to the drumbeat, keeping the pace slow and deliberate. Every stroke is hard though; and I'm flailing in pain. I concentrate on breathing. 

Suddenly, I jump in surprise. John has shoved a vibrating dildo into my pussy; he does something with the ropes to keep the dildo in place. Tremors are running through me now, fuelling my arousal. 

The flogger continues its work. 

Pain; pleasure; pain. It's a confused whirl; am I jumping in pain? Or am I flinching because the vibrations in my pussy are causing me to rise, higher and higher? I ache for a touch on my clitoris; I am so, so close. 

Through the haze, I realize what John is so cleverly doing. He is expertly blending the boundary between pleasure and pain, and I'm not sure which side of the line I am. 

And now, John moves towards me, two nipple-clamps in his hands. A quick pinch of my nipples, and they are on, and... wow. My breasts are already red, sensitive because of the rope, and the nipple clamps are painful, and oh-so-intense. I feel my nipples start to throb. I bite my lip, moan a little. The microphone sends my moan around the room, a counterpoint to the pounding drums. 

A chain connects the clamps, John adds some weights to the chain. Then, he sets me spinning through the room. 

As I spin, the weighted chain swings, and I shiver as the sensations roll through me. 

I've lost track of where I am; I've forgotten there's an audience watching me. That's the beauty of being whipped; there's an intimacy to it, the room shrinks, and it's just me and the whip and the clamps and the vibrating dildo, and I'm entirely in John's mercy. 

John resumes whipping me. Each stoke sends me swinging, causing my nipples to stretch painfully as the chain connecting the clamps sways. I clench my thighs; try to push down harder on the vibrator; I am so close! – but I'm pretty well-immobilized; and I'm in John's mercy. 

He is in control of my body; I will orgasm if he wills it; and if he does not, I will not. I find this control strangely, hugely arousing. My body is not mine tonight; and I revel in my surrender. 

I'm spinning again. I come to rest facing the stage; my face clearly visible under the lights. 

And... then, a well-placed crack. Right at my clitoris. Pushing me over the edge. I scream; my face contorting; every muscle clenching, as a powerful orgasm rolls through me. 

The curtain is lowered. Dimly, I hear applause. 

Has it been an hour already? 

***

I'm in the antechamber, recovering. John's simply cut through the ropes to get release me; he massages me, applies the cream on. I put on a robe, process the experience. 

I realize I love the feeling of surrendering control probably as much as I like the actual pain. Interesting. I'm learning all kinds of things about myself from this experience. 

John hands me $500. 

"You've made quite an impression on the audience..." he says. 

"Why?" I ask. I'm not sure how I'm different from any of the girls who perform at the House of Pain. Not that I've met any of them, so really, how would I know? 

"Every single emotion runs through your face... its fun to watch." 

Oh. Mortifying. I'm far more embarrassed by the idea that my emotions are on display that by the fact that I was naked in front of twenty men, being flogged. 

***

Two things happen Monday. 

The first thing in the morning, I get a call from the place I've interviewed at. They want to hire me. They make me a generous offer; aside from a significant raise, I will also get an extra week of vacation. I'm thrilled, I accept on the phone. 

The second – at about 10.00am, I get a call from a woman. I glance at the Caller Id: Maija Jones. It's an internal number, I pick up. 

"Is that Sara White?" Her voice is competent; professional. 

"Yes..." Mine is distracted. I'm trying to find her on the company directory at the same time. 

"I'm Doug Patterson's admin," she says. Am I supposed to know who Doug Patterson is? "Doug asked me to set up a meeting - can you meet with him today? He's only open at lunch though." 

"Umm, sure." Is this about the new marketing program I'm supposed to be working on? Why wouldn't he just talk to my boss? I'm entirely confused. 

"I'll send you an invite." 

She hangs up, I look up Doug. I whistle silently. Doug is the Vice-President of Strategy. I vaguely remember meeting him about a month back, when I'd just broken up with Colin at a work meet-and-greet. He reports to the COO – he's a big deal. I wonder what the heck he wants to meet with me about. 

I'm distracted all morning. I'm oddly uneasy, though I should be jubilant about my job offer. 

I walk to the restaurant I'm supposed to meet Doug Patterson at. It isn't far, and it's still lovely and warm in Toronto, summer just easing into fall. 

I recognise Doug, he's already seated. He gets up when I walk in; shakes my hand. 

"Sara, thanks for meeting me here at such short notice." His voice is nice. Confident, but not arrogant. The voice of someone who has a very good idea who he is, what he wants, and is totally comfortable with it. He's about 6ft tall; short dark hair; he's good looking, but in a normal guy kind of way; and more importantly, no wedding ring.

"Focus, Sara..." I scold myself. He's a Vice-President at my company. Not in my league. 

"I'm in back-to-back meetings all day, I have a hard stop at 1.00pm," he says. "Do you mind if we order right away? The waitress has promised to get the kitchen to hurry with the food."

"No worries," I mutter. I quickly order the lunch special of the day; Doug does the same. The waitress sets our drinks down, and leaves to put in the order. 

"This is a bit of an awkward conversation..." Doug says, looking at me, once we are alone. "You see, I was in the audience last night at the House of Pain..." 

I am in the act of taking a sip of my water; I stop, mid-sip. My mind goes blank. I am completely, utterly horrified. 

I speak, and my voice is the merest whisper. "Are you trying to blackmail me?"



House of Pain Ch. 04



"Blackmail you?" Doug looks a little astonished. "What on earth?"

Okay, maybe that first thought was a stupid one. I flush. I keep silent. I'm waiting for him to continue. 

"I don't generally need to blackmail women..." he says mildly. Now I'm mortified. He's good looking; he's a fancy corporate executive; I feel like an idiot. 

He takes a deep breath. "I'm looking for a sex partner, and judging by yesterday's performance, we have a lot of interests in common. I was wondering if you were single, if you'd be interested in giving it a try?" 

"What?" I gape at him. 

He looks at me. He's trying not to look annoyed. I'm unfazed. The entire thing is too bizarre. "Explain, please," I say. "Give what a try? What do you want from me?"

He looks less annoyed in the face of my genuine confusion. He smiles; he's got a really nice smile. "Sorry," he apologizes. "I'm not doing this well..."

"I'm looking for a partner that would be interested in doing some of the same kind of things you did at the House of Pain, but with sex being part of the package..." he says. "In privacy, with me, not in front of an audience."

"You want me to sleep with you?" Clarity slowly emerges. 

He nods. "It is a lot harder than you'd think to find someone who's interested in the same sexual kinks as you are, especially if you want to stay clear of Internet dating..." 

"So, I'd be your submissive?" I ask. 

"I don't like labels. But, for the purposes of this conversation, yes." The waitress arrives with our food; we both stop talking as she sets the plates down. 

I eat; with my thoughts on his offer. I'm startled to realize I'm actually considering it. This is my chance to find out if this is what I want in a sexual relationship. And his comments about Internet dating are spot-on; I've dated online before, but I don't think I'd ever go about trying to find someone to dominate me on the Internet. Too much potential for serious harm. 

"Let me think about it..." I mutter. 

He doesn't miss a beat. "Of course," he says smoothly. We finish eating; he pays, waving off my attempts to reach for my wallet, and we head back to the office. He writes his cell phone number on the back of a business card; hands it to me. "Call me if you are interested..." 

I ponder his offer all week.

***

In the end, two things make me call him. 

The first reason is that I've signed my offer letter; I've given work my two weeks of notice. I would have never called Doug otherwise; that's just too complicated. But we will not work in the same company in two weeks. 

The second reason is cruder. I come back home late Saturday night, and I masturbate to the thought of Doug's eyes on me as John was whipping me. As my powerful, shuddering orgasm dies down, I resolve to call him. Just one time, to see what it's all about. 

I call him Sunday mid-morning.

***

"Doug?" I ask hesitantly, as his voice says hello. "It's Sara White. Umm, we had lunch last week?"

"I know who you are, Sara..." His voice is amused. I flush. 

I've rehearsed what I'm going to say to him a couple of times, but now, in the moment, my brain goes completely blank. "Umm, I'd like to discuss your offer..." I finally blurt out. 

"Are you busy today?" he asks. 

"No, not really." The only thing I have to do today is clean my apartment. 

"Ok, why don't you come over to my place? We'll discuss, and then, if all goes well in our negotiations, we can get going right away." 

Whoa. Too fast. Entirely too fast. "Umm. Maybe. Ok. Where do you live?" I sound like a babbling idiot. I take down his address, tell him I'll meet him at 1.00pm, and hang up.

Yikes. I look down at his address. We live in two very different worlds, Doug and I. His address indicates he lives in Rosedale, one of Toronto's Old Money neighborhoods. I, on the other hand, live in rough-and-tumble Parkdale, where the rents are low, but the neighborhood is definitely, well, colourful. 

I get ready quickly, reaching for my prettiest bra and underwear. I make a face as I look at myself. I confess; I'm intimidated. Doug's miles out of my league, and my simple black panties and bra don't lend me a ton of confidence. Still, they fit well, the bra has that magic ability to lift my breasts just enough to look make them look utterly touchable. Over the bra and panties, I pull on a simple black dress -- another personal favorite -- it shows the perfect amount of cleavage and leg, but is still daytime appropriate. 

I grab my purse; head out. Summertime in Toronto means the transit system is near-constantly under construction, and delays are inevitable. I don't want to be late.

Just before I leave, I make a quick call to my friend Amanda. 

"Hey," I greet her. "I just need to tell you I'm going on a date, okay?" I give her Doug's name, address and phone number. Just in case. 

"Internet date?" she asks. 

"Someone who works with me; but I don't know him at all." I don't reveal more than that; I've told none of my friends about the House of Pain.

"And you are going to his house?" I sense the disapproval in her voice. 

"He seems fine, I'm just being cautious," I mumble. And that's the entire truth. Doug seems fine, normal; but he also wants to tie me up and beat me. It seems wise to let someone know my whereabouts. 

"Well, have fun," she says, a certain amount of resignation in her voice. "I want to know all about the date next week, okay?" Amanda and I are in the same French class; I'll see her tomorrow evening. 

***

It takes an insane amount of time to get to Doug's. I read on the streetcar; try not to fidget in nervousness. My emotions are a strange mix of anticipation and fear. I read an entire page of my book; realize I don't have any idea what it said, and give up the reading as a lost cause. 

Instead, I focus on the fear. I like being spanked, it isn't the pain I'm afraid of. 

No, I'm afraid of the entanglement. Doing a show at the House of Pain is easy. I show up, do a show and go home. It puts my deep craving for pain and submission into a nice, tidy box. The rest of my life proceeds, unaffected. But having sex with Doug has all the potential of getting messy. 

I make a silent resolution. I'm going to do my best to keep Doug in that nice, tidy box. I'm about to start a new job in a couple of weeks; I'd like to move; I have hobbies and interests that keep me busy. I don't need this to become complicated.

***

I find my way to Doug's place. It's a nice house; not too large, beautiful landscaped garden out front, a small front porch with an armchair on it. I'm quaking with nerves. I walk up, ring the doorbell.

A dog starts barking inside the house. "Shut up, Alia," Doug's voice yells out. There's a certain wry resignation to it. The door opens, I'm nearly bowled over by the golden retriever. She's friendly; her tail wagging. Doug has his hands on her collar, trying to hold her back. My lips twitch. This is very different from the cool, controlled executive who had lunch with me the other day. 

"Come on in, Sara..." Doug gestures, still trying to keep Alia down. She's threatening to bowl me over. I start to laugh, helplessly. Doug laughs with me. 

"Sorry, she's a handful, and I indulge her shamelessly..." he says, looking at Alia ruefully. "Alia, down."

Alia finally listens, she settles down, tail wagging, in the hallway. I'm still laughing; I like this version of Doug much better. Doug follows me into the living room. 

I look around. Not what I would have expected. His house is warm; comfortable. The leather couches are clearly chosen for comfort; throws are scattered about on them. There's a lot of warm tones; reds and oranges mixed in with the browns of the leather. The house looks lived-in. I settle myself on an armchair in one corner; perched on the tip of the chair. 

"Want a drink?" Doug asks me. "I have beer and wine, coffee and tea..." 

"Just water, please..." I say. Doug nods, disappears into the kitchen. When he comes out, he's holding my water in one hand; a beer in another. He hands me my water, sprawls on a couch opposite me. 

Today, he's dressed casually. He's wearing a red t-shirt, faded shorts. His hair is damp; he smells faintly of soap and aftershave. He looks good enough to eat. 

"Have you eaten lunch?" he asks politely. "Pizza should be here any instant..." 

"Pizza sounds great..." I say. I realize I'm starving. Breakfast was a long time ago, and in any case, I was too busy rehearsing what I was going to say to him to actually eat. 

"What did you want to discuss?" he prompts. Ah. We get to the topic at hand. 

"Everything," I say. "I've only done a couple of shows at the House of Pain; before that, I'd never been spanked. I'm totally new to all of this." I've decided to just be honest. 

He nods. I notice he's not entirely too comfortable either; his grip on his beer bottle is tight. I relax slightly. It's good that he's nervous; it makes him more human. 

"It's a bit strange to me too..." he says, his eyes on me. He takes a sip of his beer. "Approaching you was a total impulse... But, like I said, it is hard trying to find a partner who is interested in the same kinks as you." 

"What do you want from me?" I ask. 

"I'd like to tie you up; spank you; have sex with you." He doesn't mince his words. 

"Once?" I ask. 

"Well, let's see how it goes..." he says. "You might hate it; I might hate it; the chemistry might just not be there..." 

"I've never done this before..." There. I've said it. 

"You've never had sex before?" He looks obviously surprised. 

"No, I've never had tied-up sex before... I don't know how submissive I am." 

The doorbell interrupts whatever Doug was going to say, setting Alia off again. Doug grabs Alia, opens the door. "Hang on..." he says to the pizza guy; trying to restrain Alia. "Come on, Alia, cut it out... Sara, can you grab the pizza?" 

I bite back my smile. He clearly adores Alia. I grab the pizza from the guy, as Doug wrestles with Alia, finally shoving her out of the back door. He comes back; pays the pizza guy.

"Pizza?" he asks me. 

"Yes please..." I say. Our conversation was interrupted at the most inopportune time; I want to know what he's thinking. 

He takes the pizza from me, gestures for me to follow him. We go to the kitchen; I gasp. It is beautiful, light and airy; it is L-shaped, and opens out to the backyard. Alia is in the backyard, basking in the sunlight. 

He grabs plates, opens the box. We help ourselves to slices, the food momentarily pausing the conversation. 

"Did you like getting whipped at the House of Pain?" His words pull me back to our conversation. 

"Yes." 

"Did you like being tied up?" 

"Yes..." I whisper again. 

"So, what concerns you?" There's no impatience in his voice. He's trying to understand. 

"I don't like the idea of being obedient, submissive." 

"Are you submissive in bed?" he asks bluntly. 

I flush. "Sometimes... but I've always had a choice; I don't have to be submissive." I'm explaining myself badly. I think I'm afraid I'll lose my ability to choose; that my submission will not be a choice I make; but the expected behaviour from me. 

Doug listens as I try to explain this. Finally, he raises a hand, interrupts me. 

"As I see it," he says, "you are trying to run before you can walk. These things, everything you are worried about -- the nature of submission, the boundaries of the submission, they are complicated things that every couple negotiates over time." He takes a sip of his beer, eyes me, continues... "Right now, I think we should be more concerned about the hard rules -- things you have no interest in doing in bed; things you definitely want to do, that kind of thing." 

He's right. Besides, as he said, this can be a one-time thing. 

"No blood..." I say. "No permanent damage. No caging." 

"Ok." We quickly agree on the basics; set me up with a safeword. Red.

"I really have only one rule, Sara..." Doug says. "One that applies to both of us, really. Open, honest communication. If something isn't fun, say so. I'm pretty sure that we can find enough things that we will both enjoy." 

"Ok," I say, softly. I am once again a bundle of nerves. I can't believe I'm actually going to do this. 

He senses my nervousness. "Sara, it'll be fine, I'm not a jerk..." he says wryly. "Look, do you want to do this some other time?" 

"No..." I don't think I'd have the courage to go through this again. Besides, I broke up with Colin because of this dark chasm in me; and here's my opportunity to explore it a little bit. 

"Can I get a glass of wine?" I ask him. 

He raises an eyebrow at me. "Liquid courage?" he asks with some amusement. "Red or white?" 

"Whatever's easier," I say. Doug opens the refrigerator, pulls out a bottle of white wine; pours me a glass. I take a sip; it is light, refreshing; a perfect summer wine. I take another sip. 

"Let's go back to the living room..." he says. 

***

In the living room, Doug sits on the couch; pulls me onto his lap. He pulls me close; one hand encircling my waist, the other traces a gentle line down my cheek. He runs a thumb over my lower lip; an incredibly erotic touch that has me shifting restlessly in his lap.

"Want to do this?" he whispers in my ear; catching my earlobe between his teeth; nibbling it lightly. Little tendrils of arousal run through me; replacing the nervousness. I shift in his lap again; I can feel his erection against me, and I bite my lip. His body feels good, really, really good. 

I nod. Yes. I want to do this. 

He pulls me closer, kisses me. His mouth is initially gentle on mine. I sigh softly. I haven't been kissed in over five weeks, and I miss it. My mouth parts, slightly, lets him in. That's the signal Doug's been waiting for. His lips are suddenly more insistent, his tongue pushes into my parted mouth, dances a delicious duet with mine. His free hand traces idle lines on my bodice. 

I moan. Doug's hands are, in their own way, creating a fire as insistent as the whip. My body tingles in pleasure; lust. I move into him; bring my hands around his head to draw him in, still closer.

"No..." he says softly, pulling away from my mouth for an instant. "Let me set the pace, please..." 

Aah. The first demonstration of control. But he doesn't order me, this is a request; not a command. I nod; I can do this for him. My hands remain at my sides. 

He bends his head again, pulls my mouth onto his. He's nibbling my lower lip now, softly, and the feeling of his teeth on my lip is awakening a deep hunger in me. I moan; shift restlessly. 

"Keep still, baby..." he mutters. Again, not an order, but again, I obey. 

His hands are now running lightly over my breasts. I want to shrug off the straps of my dress, lower the bodice so that his hands will caress my bared breasts; but I hold still. His fingers are dancing a little waltz on my bared arms; tracing a pathway along my exposed cleavage, running a fiery line along my thighs. 

I part my thighs. Doug chuckles... "Keep still, baby..." he says again. 

His mouth now is trailing little kisses on my neck. I love being kissed on my neck; it's my secret erogenous spot, one with a direct line to my pussy. I feel the familiar stirrings as he kisses me; the familiar dampness. I bite my lower lip; moan. 

The sunlight is streaming in through the windows in his living room. Doug groans. "The dungeon is in the basement..." he says, a little ironic inflection when he says dungeon. "The bedroom is upstairs. Which way, Sara?"

It is tempting to pick the safe path; to gesture towards the bedroom. I don't do that. Instead I gather up my courage. "Downstairs..." I say quietly. 

We walk towards Doug's dungeon.



House of Pain Ch. 05-06



Author's Note: 

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed my story, please comment. I love comments! 

--------------------------------------------

Chapter 5

I expect a sinister basement; damp, dim, forbidding. Doug's dungeon isn't any of these things. 

The St. Andrews Cross in a corner does look intimidating. And the ceiling is criss-crossed with visible metal beams, some with chains hanging down. But aside from these things? The room is, like the upstairs, warm. There are windows set high in the walls, looking onto the backyard, and through this, beams of sunlight come streaming down. The floor is tiled, with throw rugs spread across; shades of red and oranges everywhere again. There's a bed in the room; a comfortable looking king-size bed – made with pristine white sheets, and a white throw on top. I pause; look around; take it in. 

Doug watches me, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. "Not what you expected?" he asks me.

"No..." I confess. "I thought it'd be more like the House of Pain." 

Doug laughs. "The House of Pain stage? Come on, Sara, John is creating a world of make-believe; his stage needs to be dramatic. Me, I'm just looking to get laid." He winks at me when he says that, wiggles his eyebrows at me. 

I burst out laughing. He's deliberately easing my tension; making me laugh; causing me to relax. I very much like Doug at this moment. 

Doug moves towards me; I stop laughing. There's electricity in the air; I remember how strong his hands felt on my body; how good it felt to be kissed by him. I take a half-step towards him. We are standing, facing each other, in the centre of the room. 

Doug reaches out, runs a finger under the strap of my sundress. It's a simple gesture, but his touch inflames me. I look into his eyes; there's desire in them. 

"Can you take off your dress?" 

I nod. For the moment, he's keeping this interaction as close to vanilla as possible. If I could ignore the St. Andrews Cross in the corner, this might almost be a guy I meet at a club. I focus on that thought as a way to still my nerves. I unbutton the couple of buttons that holds the dress in place, slide out of it, letting the dress pool at my feet. 

His eyes are on my body, and now, his hands are too. He's pushing me towards the bed, and I sink into it, Doug sliding next to me. He leans against the headboard, pulls me on his lap, and unerringly finds that spot on my neck again; that spot that is oh-so-connected to my pussy. I moan. 

His pace is maddeningly slow; he hasn't touched my breasts yet, and I want him to, so badly. I shift again, try to thrust my breasts outward; shamelessly hoping he'll touch me. 

"Are you trying to tell me something, Sara?" His voice is slightly amused. 

"Please..." I mumble, colouring. "Touch me..." 

"Touch you where?" 

Damn it, do I have to spell it out? "Touch my nipples, please..." I beg. I am shameless. But his mouth on my neck has set my blood roaring, and I need to feel his hands and his mouth on my nipples. 

"In that case, Sara..." his voice chides. "Try holding still. The more you wiggle, the longer you'll have to wait for me to touch them, ok?"

Ouch. That's it; the iron fist in a velvet glove. I hold still; whimpering. I need him to touch my nipples; under my bra, they've grown erect, and are aching for stimulation. 

Just like that, I realize, he's in charge. He doesn't need to tie me up; or whip me. I've held still because he's asked me to. It's a little disconcerting, honestly. 

I'm quickly distracted from that thought though; because now, his mouth is tracing a hot path down my middle. My pussy throbs in need; is he going to kiss me there too? Is he going to slide off my panties?

I want desperately to thrust my hips towards him, but I do as he told me instead. I hold still. 

"Nice..." he says approvingly, noticing my stillness. His voice is warm, and his approval sends tingles running through me. "Such good behaviour deserves a reward, don't you think?" 

"Absolutely," I say at once, then bite my tongue. Keep the sass under control, Sara, I warn myself. But Doug doesn't seem perturbed at the sass; his lips twitch; and his hands move towards my bra, unclasps it, slides it off my shoulders. 

"Even more gorgeous close up..." he says again, though this time, his eyes are on my breasts. "I'm pretty sure every guy in the audience Saturday night wanted to do this to you, Sara..." He runs his fingers over my nipples, teasing them even further, till they stand out, erect. He takes a nipple between his fingers, pinches and pulls it, hard enough to be painful; soft enough to send bolts of pleasure coursing through me. 

"And every guy in that audience definitely wanted to do this..." He lowers his mouth onto my nipple. I groan. He grazes my nipples between his teeth; and the act sends shock waves of pleasure all through my body. I moan; I arch towards him, helpless in the face of the feel of him. 

A quick, hard pinch on my nipple. "Keep still..." he chides again. 

"Sorry," I mutter. I'm not being a very good submissive; not according to the reading I have done on the internet.

His mouth has moved to my other nipple, and it is all I can do to hold still. I want to touch him, to pull his head onto mine, to feel his hard cock drive into my shuddering pussy. This pace, this slow, deliberate pace that he's setting; it is maddening. 

"Doug..." I moan. "I want to touch you..." My voice is heavy with need. 

"And you will, Sara..." he promises. "Just not yet..." 

His hands move over me, his mouth traces a warm path. My pussy is drenched; the slow seduction performing its magic. 

His fingers finally graze my panties. I still immediately, with a sharp intake of breath. I can't believe how wet I am; how aroused. "Please..." I beg, my voice high and keening.

"Patience..." Doug urges, his voice hoarse. I can feel his erection; he's affected by this too. But his control is flawless. He strokes me through the panties, feels their dampness. 

"Having fun, Sara?" There's male satisfaction in his voice. 

I'm too aroused to be annoyed by the display of male pride; I want him to rip my panties off; I want him to thrust hard into me. 

I keep still instead. 

"Good girl." Again, approval in his voice, and again, he's got a reward for me. He tugs my panties down, past my knees; I kick them off. They land on the floor somewhere. 

Doug is gazing at my pussy; his gaze smouldering. I've shaved; and he parts my outer pussy lips, traces the inner folds with his fingers. I whimper. He bends his head, takes a long, slow lick. I whimper yet again, my hands clutching his head. 

Finally, after what seems like hours, he lowers his mouth on my clitoris, sucking it into his mouth, while he thrusts two fingers into my pussy. I moan; whimper. This is so good.... I feel the tension build in me, and I know I'm not going to last very long at all; I've been ready to explode all during his slow exploration of my body. 

He slides his hand under me, pulls me up into his mouth. I clutch at his head, fighting the need to pull him deep within me, and never let him go. 

My eyes meet his; the heat in my eyes are mirrored in his, and that does it; I can't last anymore; my body spasms, and my orgasm rips through me in a pulsing of electricity. 

He doesn't stop licking all through my orgasm; his tongue stays on me, his fingers pump in and out, and as the tremors finally ease, he gently gives me one final lick, and raises his head. 

"I'm pretty sure every guy at the House of Pain wanted to do that, wanted to be the person sending you over the edge..." He sounds pleased. Men. 

"Doug..." I whisper, "I want to touch you..." 

"In a second, baby..." he says. He gets off the bed; quickly undresses; grabs something from a drawer. 

I gaze at him in turn; transfixed. He is gorgeous. Lean and hard and muscled, with a sprinkling of chest hair that snakes downwards in a pathway towards his cock, standing erect and engorged. His cock. I sigh softly; it is long and hard, and I want to feel it more than anything in the world. 

"Sara..." he says softly. He shows me what's in his hands. It's a pair of nipple clamps. "I'm going to put them on your nipples, Sara," he says, and this time, there's muted command in his voice. "And then, I want you to ride me..." 

Yes. I get to feel him inside me; he's not going to tie me up, I get to touch him. I smile at him. "Okay," I say. My voice sounds gleeful. He looks a little startled at the tone in my voice; and then grins at me. 

The clamps are tight; slightly painful. I wince for a moment, as my nipples get accustomed to their feel. Slowly, the pain recedes to the background, and my nipples throb. Doug lies down on the bed, quickly rolls on a condom. He nudges my hips towards him.

I lean over, straddle him. I feel powerful. I grab his cock, slide his head around the entrance to my pussy, just a little, just a tiny bit of teasing, to make up for how long he's kept me aroused. He growls; a low, sexy sound in his throat. "Don't tease, baby..." 

I don't tease. I can't – I ache to feel him inside me. I slide down his length; adjusting as I take in his girth. I feel stretched, full. My pussy aches again with arousal, as I slowly raise my hips, and come down on him again. 

Gradually, I get a rhythm going. Each time I come down on his cock, my breasts bounce, intensifying the ache in my nipples. They are sweet distraction; and my brain is torn, trying to process the two sensations at the same time. I move up and down on Doug's thick length; as he grips my hips, looks into his eyes. I can see smouldering need there; and I respond to it, increasing my pace just a little, inclining my body so that he's hitting my g-spot with each thrust. 

That serves as my undoing. I speed up my rhythm, each time, his beautiful cock comes in contact with that spot in my pussy, I jump a little; bite my lips. I'm moving faster, harder, grinding down on his cock, grabbing his shoulders and forearms, running my hands over his chest, whimpering as the tremors run through me. I can feel the muscles in my pussy clamp down on Doug; and the ache in my nipples intensify as I bounce harder on him, and then, I'm breaking apart again in a powerful, shuddering orgasm, and as the muscles in my pussy contract around his cock, he comes too, with a groan. 

I get off him; he pulls me next to him. His body is warm; he feels good next to me. 

----------------------------------- 

Chapter 6

Doug's fallen asleep next to me. I lie quietly, not wanting to disturb him. 

Instead, I try to process the sex. 

Not what I expected. That's the first thought that pops through my head, and I explore that, trying to understand exactly what I had thought this encounter would be like. "I thought there'd be more ordering around..." I've read a thousand BDSM stories, seen a thousand BDSM videos. I thought I'd spend some time on my knees, sucking him off, and if I did a good job, he'd let me come. 

I shake my head. His control is much more subtle than that. I get a sense that there won't be too much ordering around with Doug. So far today, he's made mild requests, with rewards for good behaviour. I'm being trained to obey. That thought scares me a little. 

But I can't deny the wetness that seeped through my panties at his impeccable control of my body. 

I don't want to think about this; to think about the nature of his control on me. Although there's been a deep craving for pain inside me for many years, I'm not sure if I'm ready to do this, to cede control to Doug. Someone I barely know.

But the sex... the sex was amazing. 

"So have sex with him, Sara..." I tell myself. "Just don't get involved." 

***

Things like that are always easier said than done. When Doug wakes, he stretches, deliciously. "I have to walk Alia," he says, "else she'll get really, really cranky. Want to come with me, and then, maybe, we can do this again?" 

Yes. Doing this again sounds very good. I can't take my eyes off Doug's naked body. I nod my agreement; hunt for my panties. 

Alia is delirious with joy when she sees the leash; her tail wagging hard in enthusiasm. I laugh at her; she's adorable, and her good-humour is pretty contagious. We set off for a walk. 

"Tell me about yourself..." Doug prompts, as we wander in the streets of Rosedale. But this is precisely what I don't want to do. My resolve to not get involved with Doug means that I have to keep our relationship purely sexual. 

"There's not a lot to tell..." I say evasively. It strikes me that I do actually have to tell him something though; he doesn't know I've given my two weeks' notice. I tell him. 

"Where are you going to be working, what are you going to be doing?" he asks me. He's genuinely interested. Crap. Sex, Doug, let's keep this about sex. 

I name my new employer. They are a small, but very well-regarded marketing agency; one of the few harnessing old-media and new-media effectively. He nods appreciatively as I name them. "Good place to work for..." he says. "I went to college with the COO – James Milner. He's a good guy; you'll enjoy working there..." 

Damn him. I'm unprepared for his warmth and interest. I mumble something; turn the conversation to his neighborhood; to the beautifully landscaped gardens. We chat about flowers and herbs, and the challenges of growing tomatoes and basil on a balcony, and other such things for the next half-hour. 

***

We are back at Doug's dungeon. I can see why he used the word ironically; there's even a fireplace on one wall. 

"Let's up the intensity, okay?" His voice is relaxed. I'm not; I'm instantly nervous, though I'm not sure why. 

He leans forward, kisses me... "Relax, baby," he chides, gently. 

He removes my clothing swiftly; no torturous, drawn-out teasing this time. I'm naked, and he's gazing at me with heat in his eyes. 

"So when John bent you over the sawhorse that first time..." he starts, conversationally. 

Whoa. "You were there the first time?" I ask. That was before he met me at the work meet-and-greet. "I met you at a work meet-and-greet, did you recognize me then?" 

He shrugs. "I wasn't entirely sure it was you... I was sure after the second show..." 

Oh. I'm not sure how to react to this; and so I say nothing. 

"So when John bent you over the sawhorse," he continues. "I thought, what a waste... sure, I'd spank that ass..." He runs his hands over my ass, kneading them slightly. "But then, that beautiful pussy is on display... that pretty little ass... so many other things you can do..." 

He opens a closet I haven't noticed, pulls out a sawhorse. "You already know how this works, Sara..." he says to me. "Bend over, please." 

Oh, but this is so different from the House of Pain. That experience, while arousing, was also impersonal. John's touch was professional, indifferent. 

This is not the House of Pain. There's intimacy in the air; I've very aware that I slept with Doug earlier today. Doug's touch is different too; it's more real somehow. My body is not responding to a fantasy this time; no, my body is responding to Doug, and what Doug's going to do to me. 

Doug buckles my arms in. He takes his time, draws it out... strokes me gently as he ties me down. "So pretty, Sara..." he mutters, as he takes the sight of me in. I feel the heat rise in the room as my gaze meets his. 

He comes around, runs his hands over my naked ass. "So nice..." he says again. I flush. 

"Part your legs, Sara," he instructs. He has a spreader bar in his hand; he cuffs me into it. 

I take stock of my position. I'm bent over at the waist; I'm completely naked; my legs are spread wide; my ass is in the air. My pussy is moist; it is responding to my immobility. Doug moves in front of me, looks into my eyes. "You okay?" he asks. 

"Yes," I reply. In a way, there's reassurance in the sawhorse. I've done this before; I've been spanked hard in front of an audience. I can handle the sawhorse. 

Or so I think. As Doug kneels behind me, his tongue licking my pussy, I realize I might not be able to handle the sawhorse at all. 

So good. So very, very good. His tongue laps me slowly, deliberately. I squirm in my bindings as every little sensation runs through me. I clench my fists as little waves of pleasure run through me at the feel of his mouth on my pussy. He's very, very good; and he's in absolutely no hurry. His licks are long, leisurely. 

I groan. Tied as I am, I don't have any traction to push back, to thrust my hips into his mouth. I can only feel. I close my eyes; let the sensations course through me. The slight ache in my shoulders, the clenched muscles of my inner thighs, spread wide open. Doug's tongue, tracing idle paths in my pussy. 

Suddenly, smack. His hand has spanked my right butt, hard. I groan again. His mouth is still on my pussy, with his maddeningly slow exploration of my body. His hand is stroking my ass, soothing the spot where he's smacked me. 

Now, he's sucking my pussy lips into my mouth, and I can't take this pace. "Doug, please..." I beg. 

"Patience, baby." His voice is muffled. "Mmm... you are so tasty..." 

I cream even more at his words. My pussy is dripping, and he's lapping up every little bit. His hands are on my inside thighs, pushing them further apart, his hands are spanking me gently, his hands are running small circles around my puckered asshole, and I'm coming undone at this overload of sensation. 

"Want to come, Sara?" he asks me. 

"Please..." I half-sob. I can hear the quiver of need in my voice. 

"Mmm. Let's see..." His voice is thoughtful. His fingers have replaced his tongue in my pussy; three of his fingers are in my pussy, and he's slowly moving them in and out, and I can only squirm in response. 

"Please..." I beg again. 

"Please what, baby? What would you like me to do?" 

"Please... Doug, I want to come..." I beg. 

"I'm not stopping you, Sara," he points out. His fingers are in and out of my pussy, sending pulse-waves of pleasure running through my body, but I need his fingers on my clitoris. 

"Doug, please... touch me..." I plead. 

"Touch you where, Sara?" His voice is calm. 

I flush. I'm not typically shy, but this control he's displaying is making me shy. I'm unraveling in front of him; and he's still fully clothed; in perfect charge, and I'm reduced to begging him for release. 

"Please touch my clitoris, Doug," I mumble, blushing all over my body. 

"Like this?" Doug's thumb brushes across my clitoris. I moan. It feels so good. But his thumb leaves my clitoris, and I groan. 

"Doug, please..." I beg again. I want this so much. 

"Sweet Sara..." he says. He gets to his feet, kisses my back. "Have you ever had a butt plug in your ass, Sara?"

"No." My voice is wary now. 

He moves away for a minute, comes back with a bulb-shaped plug in his hands. It looks like it is made of stainless steel. Probably one of the House of Pain editions. "I'll be very, very gentle, ok, baby?" He waits for my assent. 

I take a deep breath. "Will it hurt?" I ask, my trepidation clearly audible in my voice. 

"A little. You've experienced far more pain at the House of Pain, though, if that helps. I'm pretty sure you can handle this." 

I take a deep breath. I've let him tie me up; so clearly, there's some level of trust. Now, I just need to take one little step further. 

"I have a safeword, right?" Again, I hear the tremor in my voice. 

"Always." He kneels, looks into my eyes. "Baby, you never need to be afraid of me. I will stop if you want me to, at any point. But give it a try; I think you'll enjoy it."

"Okay," I whisper. 

"Good girl," he says, swiftly kissing me on the lips. He moves behind me. He kisses my back again. There's reassurance in his gesture; I feel myself begin to calm. 




House of Pain Ch. 05-06



His fingers are stroking my asshole, spreading lube into it. He inserts a finger in; I do my best to relax my anal muscles. He notices. 

"Good girl," he says, his voice warm. He pushes lube into my ass, slowly, and then, very, very gently, pumps his finger in and out of my ass. 

It feels... different. The sensation isn't unpleasant; he's used plenty of lube, and there's no pain. It just feels different. 

He adds another finger, and now he's stretching me open. "Relax your muscles..." he tells me. I do my best; I take a deep breath; and try to relax. Now, he removes his fingers; and I feel the buttplug at the entrance to my ass. 

"You are doing so well, baby..." Doug's voice is approving. I feel myself respond to that tone; I want to please Doug. I can feel the plug's insistent push; I relax my muscles as best I can. But even with me doing my best, it still hurts. I whimper a little. 

Doug slows down instantly. I can feel him trickle more lube onto the plug, I can feel him rub it into my tight asshole. His fingers feel good. I moan, this time with need. 

His fingers move to my pussy; find it drenched. Despite the pain, or is it because of the pain? I am dripping wet. 

Doug groans. "So wet, Sara... do you like what I'm doing to you?"

"Yes," I murmur, longing etched in my voice. He is pushing the plug into me again, and this time, the additional lube does the trick. There's a brief instant of pain, as my ass stretches against the widest part of the plug, but then, the plug is buried in me, and the base is nestled in the folds of my ass cheeks. 

I feel full. Very, very full. I'm not sure whether it's a good feeling or not. 

His fingers trace the base of the plug. "You are being such a good girl, Sara," he says, again with that tone of approval. I shiver a little, flickers of pleasure cascading through me at his tone. "Good girls deserve a reward, don't you think?" 

I don't reply; I can't. His fingers have found my pussy, and he's thrusting fingers in and out of me, flicking my clitoris at the same time, and I've lost the ability to form words. I whimper in pleasure; all I can do is feel the heat rise in me, the impossible flames that won't be kept at bay, and then, in a rush of sensation, I come undone, flailing in my bonds, as my orgasm rips through me. 

I slowly float back to earth. I feel Doug loosen my bonds; unbuckle my feet from the spreader bar. And then he carries me over to bed, tosses me on it. The movement jostles the buttplug, threatening to send another wave of pleasure cascading through me. I bite my lips; whimper. 

Lust is blazing in his eyes; I sense his control is about to give. "Part your legs, Sara," he says tersely, rolling on a condom. And then he is on top of me, and he thrusts into me in one hard, powerful stroke. 

The way he feels in me is sweet pleasure. He is powerful; all male. I move my hips to receive his thrusts; arousal rising in me yet again. My nails dig into his back; I cling to him, moaning. I can feel the buttplug with every one of Doug's thrusts; I am filled to overflowing, and I love it.

He's moving fast; his strokes deep. He's hitting a spot in my pussy that has me clench in deep pleasure-pain, as I angle my hips to make sure he hits that spot again. My pussy is quivering, I'm clenching around his cock, and he groans as he feels me tighten my muscles. 

He moves my legs so that they rest on his shoulders. At this angle, he's deeper still; and I groan in lust. I grip his hands; my nails digging into his flesh; I moan in utter abandon. His fingers find my clitoris, rub it surely as he thrusts into me.

I'm rising, rising, lifted by the waves of lust and longing roiling through me. And, just when I feel like I'm going to drown in the sweetness of it all, Doug's fingers pinch my clitoris, and I'm screaming in orgasm, and I can feel him erupt in me with a groan. 

***

It is now 7pm, and I must go. 

"Stay for dinner," Doug urges. I shake my head. "I can't, I'm sorry – I've got to do laundry; get ready for tomorrow..." 

There is a piece of me that wants badly to stay, to eat dinner with Doug, and then, maybe, fall asleep in his arms. I quell that bit of me down ruthlessly. 

"Do you want to do this again?" he asks quietly. 

"Do you?" I counter with a question. 

"Absolutely." There's no hesitation in his answer. Warmth runs through me at that. Doug is very, very likable. Dangerous. 

"When?" he continues, his voice brisk. He pulls out his phone; I pull out mine. Modern lives, with all the attendant demands on our times. I'm busy Monday and Wednesday evenings; Doug's busy Thursday. 

"How about Friday?" he asks me. 

I hesitate. "I might go out with coworkers after work," I say. "My last day is Friday." 

"Right. Ok, Saturday then?" 

I check my calendar. I had tentative plans to go see a movie with Amanda, but she'll understand if I reschedule. "Saturday works..." I say. 

"6pm? And plan on spending the night..." he says. 

Doubt flashes in my eyes, but I don't protest. Let's be honest here; I want to spend the night. We hug goodbye; I refuse his offer to drive me home; and I leave. 

***

Although I have both a messy apartment, and a sad lack of clean clothes, I sit on my bed instead of cleaning; hug a pillow, and stare at the wall. My pussy feels slightly sore; the kind of sore that comes with incredibly good sex. 

I'd like to keep everything nice and tidy and contained with Doug, but I sense that it is going to spill over into my life. At the same time, I'm terrified that Doug is going to erode who I am. I'm unconvinced that I can be submissive; and I'm reasonably sure that's what Doug wants. 

I ignore my laundry, eat leftovers and fall asleep. 

***

Monday evening, right after French class, I get a call from John. 

"Sara, I was wondering if you can do a show Wednesday," he asks. 

"Wednesday? You do mid-week shows?"

"It's more like a workshop," he says. "I walk a group through how to whip, cane, stuff like that. My usual girl's still sick... I'll pay you $400 for an hour and a half of work, and you get to keep any opened toys..." 

Ooh. I'm intrigued by that. 

"I have to work on Thursday..." I say. "Will I be able to sit down?"

John laughs. "Don't worry, I'm not going to be hitting you very hard..."

"Ok, sure, that sounds fun," I say. The show doesn't start till 10.30pm, so I can make it to French class first; then head to the House of Pain. Amanda's waiting for me; we are going to grab a drink after class so she can quiz me on yesterday's activities, so I tell John I'll be at the House of Pain at 10.00pm, and hang up. 

Somewhere over the course of the evening, it occurs to me that Doug is not necessarily going to like this.

"I don't care..." I tell myself defiantly. "He can't tell me what to do." 

There's a voice in my head; reminding me that I broke up with Colin because I thought the House of Pain was tantamount to cheating. 

I ignore that voice. I know I'm behaving badly; that I'm deliberately pushing the boundaries here. But I am convinced I need to fight to maintain my identity with Doug, in ways I didn't have to with other boyfriends. 

***

Right before the show on Wednesday, I realize I haven't seen the list of names. I ask John, who disappears to the front of the store to find it. I scan the list, and my heart stops. There's a name there that I was dreading. Doug Patterson. 

I am in so much trouble.

John has wandered to the front of the stage. I hear his voice. 

"Gentlemen, let's give a warm round of applause to Sara, who will be assisting with today's demonstration." 

I hear the applause. It's too late to flee. I straighten my shoulders, walk out on the stage.



House of Pain Ch. 07-08



Chapter 7

The stage is different this time; it is better lit; there's no music playing. 

"Gentlemen -- in today's demonstration we are going to talk about how you can whip your submissive in such a way so she is in plenty of pain, but can still be available for play the next day."

I keep my eyes lowered. Somewhere in the audience is Doug, and because I know that, I can't tune the audience out. 

I'm wearing black panties, a black bra. Nothing fancy; there's no theatre to this event. 

"First, up, the flogger..." 

John pushes my panties down my hips efficiently; removes my bra, and loads me into a St. Andrews Cross. I consider the position I'm in. I'm facing the audience; my arms and legs are spread apart and tied. I'm completely immobile. 

John's saying something to the audience, something about the virtues of a submissive that can't move. On that ominous note, he pulls out a pair of nipple clamps. 

"Nipple clamps don't always have to be stainless steel," he says conversationally to the audience. "We've received a line of handcrafted nipple clamps that really resemble jewelry -- they'll make a perfect Christmas present for your sub..." 

The nipple clamps pinch at my nipples painfully. The pain throbs through me; I can't focus on anything else. I squirm a little. 

The flogging starts. At first, the strokes are light, sending more heat than pain through me. My skin reddens; I feel the familiar arousal run through me, but it doesn't give me the same satisfaction it's given me in the past. I can't imagine Doug's going to be pleased with me. 

Now, the strokes are harder, and red lines appear on my skin. John's saying something about wrist movement and distance, but I am not listening. I focus on the sensation of the flogger striking me, but inside me, there's dread as well, and it isn't because of the pain of the flogger. 

Now the flogger rains its blows on my breasts, setting them jiggling. Each jiggle causes the nipple clamp to move, and I hiss and squirm in pain. John notices my squirm; laughs and points it out to the audience. "No damage," he says, "but plenty of pain. My favourite combination."

He moves in front of me, changes the angle of the flogger. Now the strokes are striking my pussy, from beneath my parted legs. I squirm, yet again. This feels good; the warmth of the flogger heats my already wet pussy. 

John switches tools, picks up the crop. He says something to the audience, something I miss, because I'm now wondering if Doug is going to be so angry with me that he won't want to have sex again. "He doesn't control me," I say to myself, defiantly, but my defiance is only skin-deep. I do want to see him again, I realize. Sigh. 

The blows of the crop start. Short, stinging strokes, all over my body. I can't predict where the next stroke will fall. I'm dancing, flailing. The last time I was here at the House of Pain, I was able to open my mind to the pain, to let it flow through me. But I'm off balance because Doug is in the audience, and I can't find the same peace. I writhe in pain as my body reacts to the crop. 

John unbuckles me; turns me around, cuffs in into the St. Andrews Cross, with my ass now facing the audience. He says something, I hear the word "cane." I instantly stiffen. Everything I've read about caning online suggests that it will be intensely painful. 

It is and it isn't; it's a sensation I can't really describe. There's dimension to this pain, it hurts when the cane descends on my unprotected ass, but it also hurts after. John is, as promised, not hitting me very hard; but the cane still stings a fair bit. I'm squirming in my bindings, hissing in pain. 

And finally, I decide I don't care. I can't do anything about the Doug situation, not right now. I decide to put it out of my mind. Either Doug will be angry, or he won't be. There's nothing I can do about it in this moment. 

With that, I'm able to appreciate the feelings coursing through me, the sharp sting of the cane, the warmth radiating from my ass, the wetness in my pussy. Each stroke has me squirming, but as the strokes continue, I find that I'm pushing my ass outward, towards the cane. Once again, I'm dancing at that oh-so-small line between pleasure and pain, and once again, I don't know whether it is pleasure I'm feeling, or pain. 

The intensity increases. John's saying something to the audience, and he finally brings the cane down hard, in one searing stroke across my skin. I shriek, as a flaming line of pain appears on my ass. 

I'm being unbuckled from the cross; I am done. 

***

I'm standing in the antechamber, wearing a robe. My eyes are closed. I have a knot in my stomach that has nothing to do with being whipped. There's a moment of reckoning coming; and I am filled with nerves. 

There's a knock on the door; it is John. 

"Sara," he says, hesitation in his voice; his eyes slightly troubled. "There's a customer here who would like to talk to you. Normally, I wouldn't even bother you, but he says you know him. His name is Doug Patterson." 

I square my shoulders. I can avoid this moment now, but I can't avoid it for ever. 

"Yeah, that's fine, I know Doug..." I say, my voice purposefully light. 

"I'll send him in then..." John says, relief in his voice. 

I close my eyes again, try to calm myself. I hear another knock, someone enter the room. I look -- it is Doug, and he is furious. I can feel the anger blazing off of him, but he holds it in check. 

He eyes me expressionlessly. I have backed into a corner; he notices. "You don't need to fear me, Sara..." he says, his voice flat. He shows me the tub of cream in his hand. "Take off your robe," he says, "lie on the table."

Every muscle in my body is clenched; I am on the point of fleeing. But I force myself to obey. Somewhere, there's a little part of me that tells me that I can trust Doug; and I sense that this part of me is right. 

His hands are gentle on my body as he massages the cream into my ass; soothing it. John has done this with me before, but here, now, with Doug's hands roaming over my body, there is heat; there is intimacy; there is comfort. I feel desire rise in me; but first, we have to talk. 

"You are angry with me," I start. I'm lying face down on the massage table, I can't see his face, and he can't see mine. It's probably better this way. His hands roam over my body, part my legs, and rub cream on my inner thighs. 

"Tell me why I'm angry, Sara." His voice is level. 

"Because I was naked in front of an audience?" I ask. 

"Ok. Why else?"

"Because I should have asked you for permission?" I ask, though I don't like the idea of having to ask permission to do anything. 

"Nope. Wrong. Try again." His hands now massage of my back and my shoulders; they feel like heaven. I hold back the rising desire; try to focus on our conversation. 

"I don't know." I'm confused. I'm assuming this is some kind of control thing; but he's denied it. What then?

"See, Sara, I get the sense that you think this is a Dominant-Submissive conversation, where I tell you off for breaking a rule." Doug's voice is hard. "But it isn't. When I sleep with someone on Sunday, and I make plans to see her again on Saturday, I'm old-fashioned enough to expect that in between those timeframes, she's not sleeping with someone else. And Sara, in my opinion, the House of Pain is tantamount to cheating."

He's right; I can't dispute it even if I want to. After all, I broke up with Colin because I didn't think it was fair to him for me to be doing shows at the House of Pain. I can't see myself performing at the House of Pain, and sustaining a relationship at the same time. 

"I should have told you," I say. 

"Yes, I think it was relevant information that you had a show scheduled mid-week." His voice is level again. 

"Are you going to punish me?" My voice is now wary. 

Doug laughs, but there's no humour in the sound. "You think I'm going to punish you because I'm angry, Sara? It doesn't work like that, not for me. To me, that's the same thing as beating you, and Sara, I don't lay hands on a woman in anger." 

"What happens now?" I ask, and I'm glad my face is buried in the table. There's too much potential for hurt in his answer; if he rejects me here, it will matter, and I will not be able to hide it. 

"If you want to come over Saturday, there are rules..." he says. 

Aah. Here it comes. The rules. I expect to be told the rules governing my submission. What to wear; what to call him; how to behave. 

But that isn't what he says. "I don't share..." he says, quietly, instead. "I'm monogamous in my relationships... I expect my partner to be the same. If you want to sleep with someone else, you need to tell me; to end this before you do that. And that applies here, Sara, to the House of Pain." 

Oh. I wish I could argue; but I can't. It's a fair request. "You won't sleep with anyone else either?" I ask, just to be sure. I'm not going to buy into a double standard. 

"Of course not..." he says automatically, surprise etched in his voice. 

"Get dressed, Sara," he says, something in his voice signalling that this conversation is at an end. "Come on, I'll drive you home." 

"I can catch a cab," I say. It is late; we both have to work the next day.

"I'll drive you home." His voice is flat. There's a warning in it for me; and I heed it. I don't argue; I get dressed. 

***

We don't talk much on the way back; I give him my address; he nods; and we are on our way. I keep quiet too. He doesn't seem angry any more, but I can't read his mood. When he pulls up in front of my building, I eye him hesitantly. 

"Doug... I'm sorry about tonight." And I am. He's being a lot nicer about this that I had expected. He hasn't yelled at me; he's instead massaged cream into my body, and given me a ride home. I don't deserve his kindness. 

He doesn't say anything; but he leans forward, kisses me gently on my lips. "See you Saturday, baby," he says. 

There's still desire in me; a tightly coiled desire that begs for release. "Want to come up for a drink?" I ask hopefully. 

Doug grins at me. "Normally, that's a very tempting offer," he says, "but I've an early morning meeting. Can I take a rain check?" 

"Sure." There's disappointment in my voice; I try to hide it, but I'm not sure I succeed. "Thanks for the ride..." I say, preparing to get out of the car. 

"Sara..." His hand is now on mine, jolting me to stillness. "Are you turned on now, Sara?" There's a peculiar note in his voice. 

Honest communication. "Yes..." I confess. 

He laughs. "In that case..." he says, and now, there's a note of command in his voice, "it would please me greatly, Sara, if you don't masturbate tonight. In fact, if you want to be really, really good, you won't masturbate till Saturday evening." 

Whoa. There's no 'or else' in his statement. He's made his request, or is it an order he's given me? In any case, I'm not sure what the consequences are to disobeying him, and I find I don't care. I will do as he's asked me to do. I owe it to him; I need to make up for the House of Pain tonight. 

"Okay." My voice is quiet, compliant. 

Is this how it starts, my submission?   Chapter 8

I run into Doug at the elevator on Friday. I'm heading to lunch with my friend Toni, when the elevator doors open, and Doug and the COO walk in. We both have been giggling about something she's said about one of our coworkers, but we both grow still as we notice the new entrants; stop our giggling. The COO nods at us politely; continues his conversation with Doug. 

Doug looks relaxed; unintimidated. And utterly hot, I decide, surveying him from the corner of my eyes. I have done as he's asked; I haven't masturbated, and as a result, I can't tear my mind away from sex; from the way Doug had me tied up on the sawhorse, as he licked me from behind. 

The elevator doors open; we all get out. Doug catches my eye; winks at me. "Have a nice weekend, Sara," he says, politely, as we walk away. 

"You know Doug Patterson?" Toni asks me. She's surprised. 

"We met at last month's meet-and-greet," I say. I change the topic; we chat about Toni's weekend plans. 

***

Friday evening, after work, I head to a bar around the street with my coworkers. They are a good bunch; I'm going to miss working with them. My boss Jason. There's my friend Toni, who's always good for a giggle. Adam, a dreamer, who always has pictures of his vacations in his cubicle, and spends a lot of time dreaming about the next trip; Paul, quiet and efficient. Sandra, the only one I dislike; she's a complainer -- she has no life outside work; comes in early, leaves late, but doesn't manage to get anything done in her hours at her desk, because she's too busy gossiping and complaining. Ok, I won't miss Sandra. But I'll definitely miss the rest. 

Our department has been through ups and downs as we've struggled to define ourselves; prove to our management that we indeed add value. And from the rumours of layoffs, it doesn't look like the struggles are over either. But they are for me; I've worked my last day; I have a week off, and then I start a new chapter in my life.

We giggle a lot; consume an inordinate amount of wine; and get rather drunk.

*** 

It is 5.55pm Saturday afternoon, and I am at Doug's door. I take a deep breath to still my nerves, and ring the doorbell. 

I hear Alia's typical volley of barks, and then the door opens. As before, Alia tries to bowl me over. I pet her, laughing. It's hard to remain nervous or serious in the face of Alia's enthusiasm. 

Doug smiles at me. "Hey Sara," he says. His eyes are warm, friendly. "Come on in..." 

I follow him into the kitchen. "Want a drink?" he asks me. 

"Please," I say. 

He hands me a beer; grabs one for himself. And then, he gives me my first order. 

"Sara, I'd like you to go downstairs, please." His voice is firm today. "Take off your clothes; keep your underwear on. Wait for me." 

He hasn't touched me. I'm not sure if he's still angry with me about Wednesday night. I nod. I obey. 

It's a rainy Saturday; wet and chilly; a harbinger of the coming autumn. The basement is thankfully warm though; Doug has the fireplace going; it fills the room with warmth. I've dressed casually; I'm wearing jeans, a t-shirt, sneakers. I take off my clothes; and perch at the end of the bed. I sip my beer quietly. My thoughts are scattered; nervousness and anticipation are warring inside me. 

I hear Doug's footsteps on the stairs; he walks in. 

"Come here..." he says, gesturing to the middle of the room. I walk over, still holding my beer. Doug reaches forward, takes the beer from my hand, and sets it down on a side-table next to the bed. 

"So, Sara, did you masturbate?" His voice is relaxed. He is standing really close to me; I can feel the heat emanate from him; smell his smell; a combination of soap and aftershave and hot man; my breathing quickens, ever so slightly, as my body reacts to his nearness. 

"No," I whisper. 

"Good girl," he says, approvingly. He walks around me, eying my body. I flush under his examination. 

"Take your underwear off, please." 

I gulp. I remind myself I've been naked in front of Doug before; but he's always taken my clothes off. To take my clothes off in front of him; when the room is in light, and he's watching me, his eyes thick with lust; his nostrils flared; this is difficult. 

"Sara." Impatience in his voice. 

I quickly obey. Perhaps it's easiest this way, to obey whatever he asks me to do, without thinking about how it makes me feel. 

But his eyes are on me, slowly examining my body, and I am blushing at his inspection. "Turn around," he says. I obey. 

His hands are caressing my ass. "No trace of welts..." he says. "Are you up to getting spanked today?" 

Wetness floods my pussy at his words; my nipples are erect. He notices my body's reaction, and laughs. "I think the answer to that is yes, isn't it Sara?"

"Yes..." I whisper. 

He pulls my face towards him; kisses me. His lips are strong, he's nibbling my lips with his, his tongue dances with mine, and I'm panting in utter arousal when he's done. I mutely turn my head so my neck is visible. I love being kissed there; there's something about that spot that is so very erotic to me. 

"Here?" Doug asks, brushing my neck with his fingers, in response to my mute invitation. I nod silently. My brain is already a haze. He bends his head, his lips find that spot. I moan, wrap my arms around his waist; pull him closer to me. I need to feel his body, his strength pressed up against my body. 

For a change, he does not tell me to hold still; his mouth is raining hot kisses on my neck; his hands are tracing idle circles on the sides of my breasts, and I am in heaven. 

Doug is still fully clothed, and I groan in slight frustration. I want to run my hands and my mouth all the way up and down his body; I want to kiss his nipples, and bury my face in his perfect chest. I want to feel the raw steel of his arms as they hold me down; I want to lower my mouth on his perfect cock, and feel him erupt in my mouth. 

But for a start, I want him to take off his clothes.

I'm not sure if this is allowed; if I'm permitted to make a request about what I want. "How will you find out what the rules are, if you don't ask?" I ask myself. 

"Doug..." I start hesitantly. 

"Mmm?" Doug has lowered a mouth on my right breast, and I feel his teeth graze my nipple. Lust shoots through me, potent and burning. 

"Am I allowed to talk in your dungeon?" My question is tentative. Instantly, his mouth stops, he pulls away from me. I look at him; he is looking utterly exasperated. 

"What are the rules we've set down so far, Sara?" I can hear the mild irritation in his voice. 

"Umm." My mind is a blank, I'm still in a haze of lust, but I'm mindful of the irritation in his voice. I struggle to focus. Have there been rules? 

"Umm, honest communication?" He'd said that the first time. 

"Good. What else?" His voice is level; he looks slightly less irritated. 

I search the memories of our conversations. What else? Oh right. Wednesday's discussion about monogamy. 

"No sleeping with other people." I sound relieved at remembering the rules. His lips twitch. 

"And was there anything else?" he asks, amusement warring with exasperation in his voice. 

"I don't think so." I'm now slightly sheepish; I feel utterly foolish.

"Excellent." His voice is amused now. "But I think this is a lesson that best needs to be taught a different way. Come on." He tugs me to the bed; settles himself against the headboard, and pulls me onto him. I am face-down on his lap, my butt in the air and one of his hands is wrapped around my waist, holding me in place. I sense I'm about to be very thoroughly spanked. 

"So, Sara..." he says conversationally. "What's the standard convention here? You count the spanks? I don't want you to do that. Instead, I'd like you to repeat what I say after me. Understood?"

I nod into the mattress. 

Whap. Whap. His hand comes down hard on my ass; I nearly jump off the bed as the heat radiates through me. He has spanked me hard; I bite my lips to hold back my squeak. 

"Silly Sara." His voice is relaxed; he sounds almost indulgent as he rains blows on my tender, unprotected ass. "You have all these ridiculous preconceived notions about us, what we are doing here. Let it all go. The rules are what we make them. Understand?" A couple of hard swats to emphasize his point. I jump and writhe again. My ass is already throbbing. Perhaps because of the warmth of his house; perhaps because he's only spanked me gently so far; I didn't think I'd be in much pain being spanked by Doug. I'm forced to reassess. His hands are raining blows down on me, and my flesh feels like it is on fire. 




House of Pain Ch. 07-08



My pussy is predictably dripping. As I writhe, I can feel Doug's dick against my hip, straining through his jeans. I'm reacting to being held in his strong arms; to the force of the blows raining down on my ass. 

"Repeat after me." His voice is firm, unyielding now. "The rules are what we make them." 

My voice is small. "The rules are what we make them." 

"Excellent." He stops spanking me for a minute, strokes my ass, soothing the heated cheeks. I part my legs slightly in invitation. I am so wet; so turned on. 

"Nope. Not yet. First, your punishment," Doug says. I can hear the arousal in his voice; his voice is slightly hoarser; slightly rougher. I smile into the mattress, inwardly pleased at the effect I'm having on him. I wriggle a little; deliberately grinding my hips against his dick. 

"Hold still, Sara..." Doug warns me. I hear the amusement in his voice; my ploy is transparent. I redden slightly, embarrassed by how easily he's read me; I hold still. 

He starts spanking me again. In between the spanks, he's talking to me. "I'm not interested in making love to a perfectly trained doll, Sara. I want a real, live woman in my dungeon and in my bed. Someone who is intelligent, who brings something of herself in the dungeon, someone I can respect and laugh with." 

Interspersed with this speech are hard spanks. I want to hold still; to listen to what he's saying; but the blows are raining down, and I'm whimpering in pain. 

"Repeat after me. Doug does not want a perfectly trained doll." His voice is lazy. He's stroking me with his fingernails, and the slight edge of them against my throbbing ass sends little lightning bolts of electricity running through me. 

"Doug does not want a perfectly trained doll." I repeat dutifully. "Can it be true though?" I wonder inwardly. I hear what he's saying, but I'm not sure I believe it. 

He resumes my spanking. I'm moaning now, whimpering and writhing over him. Each stroke is painful; each stroke makes me flinch. The pain flows through me; but I can't disassociate from it the way I did at the House of Pain. Here, the immediacy of Doug's body against mine keeps me firmly in the moment, where I can feel every blow. 

"Repeat after me again. Any rule is negotiated by both of us, with full consent from both of us..." 

"Any rule is negotiated by both of us, with full consent from both of us..." My voice is small. This is a very effective lesson; one I won't be forgetting in a hurry. 

His hands are stroking my ass again. My flesh is throbbing and painful. But he soothes me expertly, he has very subtly pulled me closer. The moment feels different; there's electricity in the air; and there's intimacy in the way he's stroking me. 

"I'm not interested in any submission of yours that lessens you..." he says quietly. "I'm not interested in objectifying you, in humiliating you. You are always more than a naked, willing body. You are a person, with wants and needs, hopes and fears." His hands are still stroking me. I remain very still; I listen to him. There's quiet certainty to his tone. I remember my first impression of Doug. This is someone who knows what he wants. 

And as I listen to him articulate what he wants, pressed down on him, ass inflamed and throbbing, I am suddenly very afraid. Doug will not be content with being kept within a tidy little box. Doug will want everything I have to give, and more. 

He's still talking. "Who you are outside the dungeon matters. The more you are outside of this room; the greater the gift of your submission in this room. Your strength is the gift."

Three final, hard spanks. Unexpected blows; I almost arch off his lap as my body flails against the impact of his blows. Tears are cascading down my cheeks, though I'm not sure if I'm crying from the pain of the spanking, or the intensity of the emotional storm he's set off inside me. He pulls me into his arms, I feel his firm chest against me. I bury my face in his shoulder; still sniffing. 

He provides silent comfort as the churning emotions subside. I cry, he doesn't try to stop me. He is there; pressed against me, a shoulder to lean on. He embodies warm strength. 

My sobs slowly recede; my breathing evens. I'm still buried in his chest. I straighten, make a wry face. "I probably look like a mess," I say, slight sheepishness in my voice. 

He shakes his head at me. "Women, sheesh." There's mock annoyance in his voice. He looks at me, his eyes soften. "You look forlorn and woebegone, and I want to kiss away all your cares, Sara." 

I'm still naked, he's still clothed. I move against him hopefully; I need him inside me. 

"No, let's take a break, come. Let's go upstairs for a bit." 

I groan in protest, but he is unyielding. "No, we need a break from this room. You've taken a pretty painful punishment, and there will be pleasure tonight. But first, a break." 

He pulls me up; pulls his t-shirt off his body, hands it to me. "Here, wear this..." he says. "Your jeans will chafe against your skin."

I wear his t-shirt. It smells like him; soap, a slight aroma of aftershave, but mostly a smell that I realize I've come to associate with Doug. My insides tighten as my body reacts to that scent; my nipples perk up against the t-shirt as the fabric grazes my tender behind. 

I follow him upstairs.



House of Pain Ch. 09-10



Chapter 9

We sit on the couch; we are eating chilli. It is good; spicy and delicious, with a dollop of sour cream on top. 

"You can cook," I comment, with some surprise. Doug grins. "I can make three things with competence... spaghetti, chili and a pretty tasty burger. Beyond that, I'm lost, really." 

I laugh. We watch TV; we eat our food. Things feel mellow; the storm of the spanking has passed, and it has left calmness behind. 

"How are you feeling?" Doug asks, as we finish. 

"I'm okay..." I say. The pain has receded; I'm still a little sore, but I'm mostly fine. 

"Not exactly what I had planned for you this evening..." Doug says, ruefully. 

I'm curious. "What did you have planned?" 

"More pleasure." He makes a face at me. "Sara, I think your view is a bit warped..." he says, seriously. "I know the BDSM conventions as well as you -- the kneeling sub, the instant obedience, no talking in the dungeon, blah, blah, blah. They don't work very well for me..." 

He takes a sip of beer; continues. "I get the sense you are struggling with this journey..." he says. I'm a little alarmed. He's eerily perceptive. 

"Can I tell you the story of my journey?" he asks. "It might help you with yours."

I nod assent. 

"I grew up in your typical middle-class family..." he says. "Both my parents worked; they divided chores, it was all very normal and progressive. And then, when I was about thirteen, my cousin Charlotte came to live with us. She was ten; a quiet girl; scared of her own shadow, scared of anything and everything, it seemed." 

He takes another sip; puts his arm around my shoulder, pulls me in towards him. I lean on his shoulder; listen to his story. 

"Over the course of time, I found out that Charlotte's father was a great believer in corporal punishment. Charlotte was routinely beaten, black and blue, for even the slightest of infractions. When my parents found out, they took her away, brought her to our home instead. Gave her a more loving home." 

His voice is wry. "So you can imagine, with that history, how torn I was when I started my sexual journey, and found out I liked to spank women. How much I hated myself for what I wanted."

This is... interesting. He's right; the story of his journey is helping; the fact that he has struggled with his desires is actually reassuring. I don't want to ever date someone who thinks men spanking women is the natural order of things; I want to date someone who's introspective enough about this need, and who's thoughtful enough to realize that there's a balance between control and respect. 

"Over time, I've come to terms with this need." His voice is level; a slight inflection at the word need. "The way I can live with myself is that I've realized -- this need of mine, it is entirely sexual, and nothing else. Outside of the dungeon, I have not the slightest desire to be anyone's master, to control every aspect of someone's life. If I had that desire, I don't think I'd be able to deal with it very well..." 

Another sip of beer; a slight pause. "Plus," his voice is lighter now, "my mother will flay me alive if she thinks I'm disrespecting a woman in any way, and I'm petrified of my mother." He sounds indulgent, not petrified. 

"That's what I want from you -- control in the dungeon. Nowhere else."

"What do you want from me in the dungeon?" I ask. "What am I expected to do? How am I expected to address you?"

He sighs. He's exasperated again. "No preconceived notions, please. You can call me whatever you want." He pauses; searching for the right words. "In the dungeon, I'll lay out the rules at the start of a scene, and I'd like you to follow the rules. If you follow the rules, you'll get rewarded. If you break the rules, you'll get punished. But that's just the scene. What happens there doesn't spill over outside the dungeon; what happens outside doesn't transfer to the dungeon." 

I take it in. He's said this to me a few times, in various ways. Intellectually, I believe him, but I guess in my heart of hearts, I'm still a little hesitant. It all sounds a bit too good to be true; he's good looking; he wants to spank me; but yet treat me with utter respect; I'm waiting for the rug to be pulled out from under my feet. 

But for the moment, I'm here; my ass is not throbbing in pain; and it has been days since I've orgasmed. I'm leaning against his bare chest, and the heat from his body is a warm embrace. I look at him. 

"Can we go back to the dungeon?" I ask. 

In response, he stands up, pulls me up. "Sure, let's go downstairs," he agrees. 

***

I make a resolution as I walk down the stairs. I will give myself to Doug fully, willingly, sexually. Beyond that, I'm still doubtful; still afraid. But here in the dungeon, I am his to do what he will. 

***

"Take off your t-shirt; stand in the middle, hands behind your back." Doug's voice is firm. I obey quickly, moving to the spot he's indicated. He moves around; opening closets and dressers; grabbing objects from around the dungeon. He then brings them towards me; sets them down on a table off to the side. My eyes fix on the table. 

Rope. A flogger. A crop. Nipple clamps. Weights. Handcuffs. A ball gag. A huge butt plug. Cuffs. Spreader bar. 

I bite my lips as I look at what he's laid out. My insides churn; my pussy clenches. I can't wait. 

"Sara, the rules for this scene." Doug's voice is steady. I meet his eyes.

"You will speak only if spoken to. I'd like you to acknowledge all my instructions verbally. And Sara, you must ask me for permission to orgasm." 

I nod. He raises an eyebrow in slight displeasure. Oh. He wants me to acknowledge instructions verbally. "Yes, Doug." 

He smiles at me. "Good girl." His voice is approving. "Do you remember your safe word?"

"Yes." I say. Red.

"Ready?" he asks me, his eyes glinting. 

I close my eyes for a quick second; take a deep breath. I remember that I've resolved to give myself to Doug fully, willingly. I open my eyes. "I'm ready," I whisper.

***

I've been simmering at the edge of arousal since Wednesday night. Earlier today, desire flared when he held me against him and spanked me, and I could feel his erection against my body. In a few short days, his voice, the feel of his body have become synonymous with arousal. When I've wanted to masturbate, I've stopped because he's told me to. I've kept still when I've wanted to wriggle, because he's asked me to. 

He's done all of this without raising his voice. While still retaining his warmth; radiating friendliness. Doug is a very dangerous guy.

He moves towards me, spreader bar in hand. Kneels, cuffs one ankle in. He runs his fingers up my leg idly as he buckles the cuff in place. I whimper softly. His fingers are maddening in their deliberateness, and little waves of lust are curling around my body.

"Spread your legs..." he orders me. I comply; spread them. I can feel my pussy's wetness; I know I will not be able to hide my arousal from Doug. And indeed; I can see his nostrils flare, as he smells my heat. I close my eyes for an instant, as a powerful surge of hunger runs through me. I shiver slightly. 

He puts his hands on my thighs; nudges my legs still wider. I grab his shoulders so I don't fall. I want to protest, but I remember the rules, just in time. No speaking till I'm spoken to.

Doug's hands are on my other ankle, and I'm quickly cuffed. 

I bite my lips as I consider my vulnerability. My legs are spread impossibly wide; so wide that I am finding it difficult to balance. I wonder if falling during a scene is acceptable. I grin a little, as I imagine falling on my face; breaking my nose. That'd be a mood killer. 

"What's funny?" Doug's voice is silken. Oops. 

"Nothing..." I mumble. 

Doug rises to his feet; picks up the flogger. "Perhaps you'd like to reconsider your answer..." he says, and the threat in his voice is crystal clear. 

My pussy creams; my knees almost buckle; this is so insanely erotic. The easy going guy upstairs has receded; here, his voice is level, and he expects to be obeyed instantly. Every nerve in my body tingles with arousal, as longing snakes through me. 

"What's funny?" he asks again. 

"My legs are spread so wide, I think I'm going to fall and break my nose..." I mumble, mortified. My face is beet red. 

Doug laughs, a sound of utter male amusement. "Oh, don't worry, baby, I'm going to take care of that in a minute." He moves something behind my back. Now I feel his hands on my neck, he is gathering my hair into a rough ponytail, and I feel a cuff go around my neck, and my neck is suddenly restrained, and I can't move it. 

I can't help it; I whimper; a little anxious mewl. I'm well-immobilized; the cuff around my neck is wide and stiff, and it is keeping my head staring straight ahead; I can't move my neck either left or right. 

"Relax," Doug soothes. He comes around the front, where I can see him. "It's a rod, with a cuff holding your neck in place," he explains. "It'll keep you from falling forward, and breaking your nose..." His lips twitch; he winks at me. 

I want to pout that he's laughing at me, but he's approaching me once again, this time with the rope, and I shut up and focus on what he's doing next. 

He starts winding the rope around my chest. He keeps grazing my nipples as he does this and I groan in longing each time. My nipples are erect; eager to feel his touch. When he finishes, he's created a sort of rope cage for my breasts; they are squished between two parallel lines of rope. 

He steps back; eyes me with satisfaction. "How are you feeling?" he asks. 

Oh good. I've been waiting for an opportunity to speak; to beg him to touch me. "Doug..." I groan. "Please touch me..." 

He shakes his head at me, though his lips twitch. "That wasn't an answer to my question, Sara," he says, as the flogger comes down on my bound breasts.

I hiss. His stroke stings; I feel the heat rise on my skin; I feel the familiar twitch of longing deep in my pussy. He eyes me. "How's that for pain? Too much? Too little?" 

"Just right..." I say. 

Doug grins at me, and this time, there's pure amusement in his gaze. "A couple more things, before the flogging begins..." he says, and I can hear the anticipation in his voice. He moves behind me; and suddenly, there's a dildo at my pussy. 

It feels huge. I can't look down to see how big it is; but my pussy lips part impossibly wide as Doug's steady hands guide the monster into my waiting pussy. I groan. I feel so tight; so full; stretched. Doug kneels; does something behind my back, and then straightens. The dildo stays in place; he's secured it somehow. 

I know what's coming next. And sure enough; the massive butt plug is being lubed up. Doug walks to the front; looks into my eyes. 

"I want you to trust me," he says quietly. "I will never put you in more pain than you can take..." But then he smiles; a smile of pure evil that has me creaming in lust. "But this is going to be intense." 

It is. I'm already stretched wide by the dildo in my pussy, and I instinctively clench my ass muscles as I feel the tip of the butt plug touch my asshole. 

"Sara." A curt warning. I take a deep breath; steady myself; force each and every muscle in my body to relax. 

It hurts; there's no getting around it. But Doug is gentle and patient, and eventually, my butt swallows the monstrous intruder. I groan, as my body gets used to the sensations. So very, very full. 

Doug moves in front of me again; his eyes searching mine. "Okay?" he asks. 

"Yes," I whisper. There's no sass this time. I'm in the throes of lust and longing, and I am teetering at the edge of orgasm. If he just grazes my clitoris, I'm completely going to explode. I dig my nails into my palms, clenching my fists, trying to control myself. 

Doug watches me, his expression implacable. "Remember," he says, "you have to ask for permission to orgasm." 

I whimper. "Please can I come, Doug?" I beg. I'm so close; I'll come if he just touches me; the slightest lick of his tongue, the tiniest brush of a fingertip. My hands are untied, but it doesn't occur to me to touch myself. I am in Doug's hands; I will do as he tells me. 

Doug shakes his head at me. "Too soon, baby," he chides. "I haven't even started flogging you yet... Put your hands behind your back." My pussy gushes yet again; sending my juices dripping down the massive dildo. 

He's turned on some music; I hear the instantly recognisable opening bars of Bolero. "Bolero?" I ask, before I can catch myself. I'm surprised; I didn't think he was the classical music kind of guy. Doug has many surprising sides to him. 

"Remember the rules, only speak when you are spoken to..." Doug chides. I nod; I flash him a look of apology. 

The music plays; the flogging starts. The music is slow and gentle and contemplative at the start, and in keeping, Doug is gentle with the flogger. The strokes on my tied breasts produce more heat than pain. I'm shuddering as the tremors run through me; as my body responds to the feel of the tails wrapping against my tender flesh; to the pleasurable sting of each stroke. 

I find that I'm trying to move on the dildo, to feverishly try to quench my arousal, but my legs are spread wide, and I don't get any rhythm going. The music is the only rhythm in the room; that and the steady strokes of the flogger. 

The tempo of the music rises. The strokes are falling swifter now, harder. Doug whips my breasts, and my body is dancing in pain; experiencing pure pleasure. Between strokes, he lowers his mouth onto my nipples, sucking the reddened skin, grazing his teeth against the sensitive nub; and I push myself towards him in a mute plea to please, please continue. 

The strokes continue; as I embrace the delightful torment of my body. Everything is arousal and lust; my pussy is grinding on the giant dildo in me; the fullness of the butt plug feels like pleasure; I'm dancing towards Doug; silently pleading to be whipped harder, faster... My orgasm is just out of reach; I am tormented by my lust and aching, and I groan with the excruciating intensity of it all.

"Touch yourself." Doug's voice is ragged. His erection is very visible through his jeans; but despite all that, the flogger rises and falls steadily. "I want to you to make yourself come, while I whip you."

I'm too close to the edge to experience embarrassment. I bring a hand forward, part my pussy lips, find my clitoris. I close my eyes; the music is rising, the strokes are raining down on my reddened, swollen breasts, and my fingers dance over my clitoris, and it doesn't take me long at all to find sweet, shattering release. 

I slump in my bindings a little, but Doug's having none of it. "Nope. I didn't tell you to stop touching yourself. Keep going, Sara." 

I bite my lower lip. My clitoris is painfully sensitive; I've just come. But I obey. My pussy is still slick with my juices, and I rub myself softly, as arousal impossibly once again begins to rise in me. 

The flogger rises and falls on my breasts; I push them out towards Doug. This time around, I keep my eyes open, look at him as I touch myself; imagine it is him touching me. Our eyes are locked on each other; my desire mirrored in his, and as the music rises to its final thundering crescendo, Doug hits me hard, and I orgasm again in a shuddering wave of release. 

I don't need to slump this time; Doug's arms are around me, and I draw him close. We stay like that for an instant; as my body luxuriates in the feel of his body next to me. He kisses me gently; undoes the neck cuff; then disengages from my hug, removes the rope and the dildo, and undoes the ankle cuffs. 

I stagger, but he is there to catch me. 

***

We lie on the bed. The butt plug is still in me; I wriggle a little as I feel it in me. I'm not sure if I'm hoping Doug will remove it, or leave it in me. 

"Ok, you can talk now..." Doug says, his lips twitching. 

"Good," I say in relief. It's been harder to obey that rule than I would have thought. I had no problems keeping quiet in the House of Pain, but it's different with Doug; one experience is fantasy, and the other is very, very real. 

"Doug..." I start. I've been aching for the feel of his cock in my mouth. "Please, can I go down on you?" 

Doug smiles at me. "Sara, you won't hear me refuse that offer very often..." He throws a pillow on the floor. "On your knees, please. Hands behind your back; just use your mouth." 

I comply with all his orders as he slides out of his jeans, lick my lips as his cock comes into view. The head of his cock has precum glistening on it, and I lick it off gently, savouring the taste of him. My tongue slathers his cock with attention. And then, because I can't wait anymore, I take his head in my mouth. 

His cock is long and thick, and my mouth is stretched wide around his head. Juices drip from my pussy down my thighs as I react to the feel of him in my mouth; to the way he makes me feel when he controls me. My hands are interlocked behind me, and my submissiveness to him makes me cream still further. 

I slowly slide my mouth down his length; while my tongue traces circles on his cock. I set a rhythm going; I'm not going too fast, and I'm not trying to deep-throat him either. I take maybe half his length in my mouth, and just suck him steadily, moving my head up and down his cock; sucking my cheeks in and tightening my lips around his length. 

I'm paying homage, in a way, worshipping this beautiful cock as a way to thank him for his masterful control of me, for the mind-numbing orgasms that have shuddered through my body. 

"Sara," Doug warns, his hands in my hair. "I'm not going to last very long..." 

I redouble my efforts; I want him to come in my mouth; I want to taste his essence. My tongue slides over the sensitive underside of his cock, causing him to groan and tighten his grip of my hair. He starts thrusting; sliding his hard length in and out of my mouth. I moan; my hands are still interlocked behind my back, and I want to touch myself again as I react to Doug. 

With a groan, he explodes in my mouth, and I swallow his hot, gushing essence. I keep my mouth on him as he softens, I lick his head one more time. 

Doug pulls me back up to bed; removes the butt plug; I fall asleep a silly grin on my face, and with one thought in my mind. "He is so tasty." 

Chapter 10

We wake up twice during the night and make love. The first time, I wake up; Doug is sleeping next to me. The fire has died down and the basement is slightly chilly. Goose bumps gather on my skin. I shiver slightly; the movement wakes him up. 

"Hey," he says softly. "You cold?"

I nod. He gets up, gets the fire going again; climbs back into bed. His body is warm; my skin feels icy by comparison. He pulls me into his body, spooning me; I luxuriate in his warmth. He is naked; as am I; and as I feel his hardening cock against my butt, I feel the familiar stirrings of desire. 

His hand comes around, rubs a nipple. I arch my back so I'm pushing my breasts into his hand; a mute plea to continue. 

He moves; looks into my eyes. "This is going to be hard and fast, baby..." he rasps. 

"I like hard and fast," I say. 

He smiles at that. He reaches for a condom and rolls it on; he positions me on my knees; my face buried in the pillows. He mounts me; there's no foreplay; he's hard; ready to go. I move my hips in invitation. I want him inside me.

He thrusts in me. I groan; he feels so good. He doesn't speak; he moves in me; he is deep in me, and it is intense as he takes his pleasure. My hands close around the pillow, I clench and hold on for the ride. Sweet lightning bolts of lust are running through me; his hand reaches around my hip and finds my clitoris, and he is rubbing my clitoris in a pattern that is as old as time, and we erupt within seconds of each other.




House of Pain Ch. 09-10



***

Before I fall back asleep, Doug pulls me in to him. His mouth is at my ear. 

"Sara," he whispers, "When you wake up next, you are going to be tied up, baby." He isn't asking me, but he is waiting for my acknowledgement, and I'm grateful for the warning. I nod my consent; drift asleep in his arms. 

***

I don't know how long I sleep this time, but when I wake up, I find my arms are tied up on either side of the headboard; and my legs are spread wide open, tethered to the footboard. I panic instinctively, struggling in my bindings, for a few seconds, till the veils of sleep fall away, and I remember what Doug has said to me. 

I force myself to relax, but my heart is pounding. I search for Doug; he is nowhere to be seen. 

"Relax." His voice comes out of the darkness; he sounds calm. He moves forward so I can see him; He's holding a glass of wine; he's watching me. 

"Is this what you get your kicks out of, watching me panic?" My voice comes out harsher than I intended; but I can still feel my heart beat. 

"Is that what you think?" His voice is very soft. "I get my kick out of watching you making yourself relax; remembering you do this because I asked you to." 

I gulp. The air is charged between us; I'm uncertain of his mood. "Are you angry?" My voice is small. 

He counters with a question. "Why should I be angry?"

"Because I panicked, because I yelled..." I mumble. I'm slightly sheepish; I'm more awake now, and I feel a bit silly about my reaction. 

"No," he says, and his voice sounds indulgent, not irritated. "You are new to this. Your reaction is fairly normal." 

"If you knew I'd panic, why'd you tie me up?" I ask. This is important to me. 

"I need you to learn to trust me. I will never hurt you, and you need to be completely, utterly certain of that."

A surreal conversation to have at two in the morning. 

"I don't know you well enough for that, not yet," I mumble. He wants honesty in the dungeon; he's going to get it. 

Doug nods. "I agree with you..." he says. "In fact, you'd be stupid not to be cautious. But this," he gestures to my bindings, "This should be helpful. It should remind you that you've chosen this. At any point, you can safeword. But you haven't; you are still here; you are choosing to obey." 

He comes over to the bed; places the glass of wine at the side table. 

"I'm going to fuck you now, Sara." His voice is even. "If you don't want me to do so, say so now." 

I look at him. I'm not certain of many things; but I know the need that runs through me; the need that has arisen, even through my initial panic at being tied up. My need to place myself in Doug's hands; to cede control to him. Here, now, in this moment, I acknowledge that need within myself, and I give myself permission to explore that need. 

I look into Doug's eyes. My voice is absolutely steady. "I want you to fuck me," I say. 

He moves; his weight is on me; and I feel every inch of his body imprinted on mine. 

He smiles at me. "Look at me; don't close your eyes..." he says quietly, as he plunges inside me in one hard stroke. 

I obey, but it is hard. I want to close my eyes as the feeling of him inside me intensifies. I feel his warmth all over me; look into his eyes. This feels... intimate. 

I can't look away; I gaze into his eyes as his arousal builds; and mine with it; he is thrusting inside me, and it is hard and fast and so toe-curling good. Then his eyes widen, and I can feel his body stiffen, and he is erupting into orgasm, and I am filled with a primal satisfaction that I caused this. 

He rolls off me; his fingers find my clitoris; bring me to orgasm. As the pulsing pleasure washes over me, I moan out his name, and I can hear the need and longing in my voice. 

I inwardly tense; I am unprepared to let him become important to me. 

***

Things are a little weird the morning after. Not in anything Doug is doing or saying; no, he is the essence of consideration. He's made me coffee and breakfast. 

No, things are weird because I'm torn. I don't know what to say to Doug. I could get to know him better, or I can try to keep what we are doing here as a purely sexual thing. I eat my breakfast in relative silence as I contemplate this. 

"So you like classical music?" Doug's voice interrupts my meditations. 

I nod. I love classical music; I always have. I was the weird teenager who saw Amadeus a million times, and who had a crush on Mozart. As an adult, I try to go to as many concerts in Toronto as my budget allows. 

"I have tickets to the symphony Friday night," he says. "Would you like to come?" His eyes are on mine. 

I gulp. Clearly, Doug's in favour of getting to know me better; he's just asked me out on a date. And I adore the symphony; and I can't often afford to go. 

But yet I hesitate. I have a pattern with guys; I always fall in love with them; I always want to be with them far more than they want to be with me. Yearning has defined my life; I've pined for boyfriend after boyfriend, and I'm warier nowadays; more cautious with my heart. 

And then, there's the submission. I've heard what Doug has said about the submission staying in the dungeon. I'm just not sure if I entirely believe it. 

To top it all off, Doug's dangerously out of my league. He's rich and successful; gorgeous. I only have to look at his house, and at my studio apartment to see the contrast. Doug's not the person worrying about dragging his clothes to the Laundromat; planning his life around subway construction delays; I am. He has symphony tickets Friday night; I'm usually hanging out in my local dive bar. We don't belong together. 

I don't say all of that. Instead, I keep my reply simple, polite. "I'm sorry, I can't." Inside, there's an odd ache in me; a wish that all of my arguments didn't matter. But I'm not twenty-one anymore; and where my heart is involved, I don't jump without a safety net. Doug could easily break my heart; I won't let that happen.

Doug eyes me expressionlessly, but he doesn't pursue the discussion further. 

***

"Do you start work tomorrow at your new job?" Doug asks me.

"No, I'm going to take a week off; go up to visit my parents for a couple of days -- they live in Tobermory." 

"Nice..." he says appreciatively. "I go every summer, it is beautiful there. Are your parents retired there?"

"No, they run a bar in town," I mumble. As before, I'm unprepared for his warm interest; he's making it difficult for me to keep my shields up. 

"Are you driving?" he asks me. 

"Yeah, I have to pick up the rental car at the airport tomorrow..." I mutter. Doug wanders over for a coffee refill; refills my cup as well. I take a sip. Good, strong, hot. Words I could use about Doug as well. 

"In the morning? Are you taking transit to get to the airport?" he asks me. "I can give you a ride, I don't have anything in my calendar until 11am." 

Again, I'm seriously tempted. It'll take me an hour and a half to get to the airport from my house. But I shake my head again. "I really appreciate the offer," I say, "but I'll be fine on transit." 

Again, he eyes me expressionlessly. He's not an idiot; he knows I'm deliberately maintaining a distance. But as before, he doesn't say anything. 

***

I take my leave right after breakfast. Doug has friends coming over to watch the football game just after lunch. He's invited me to stay; I've declined. For the third time. We make plans to see each other next Saturday, and I run away. 

***

Sunday night, I fall asleep in my bed; already missing the feel of Doug against me. And I dream... I'm back in the House of Pain. I'm on the stage; there's music playing. It feels ominous; the hairs on the back of my neck rise. 

The stage is cold. My arms are tied above my head; I'm suspended onto a sawhorse; the knife edge of the sawhorse grinding into my pussy, and it is painful. My clitoris is raw; every move grinds it even further on the sawhorse; sending me into agony. 

Doug moves in front of me. There's no warmth in his face; he is cold; rigid. He has a whip in his hands; he whips me without a word; hard and fast. I'm shrieking in pain; he is unmoved by my tears. There is no tenderness in this; no sexual pleasure. This is pain. Raw, agonizing pain. I scream. I'm writhing in my bindings; and each move of my body grinds my pussy into the sawhorse; my clitoris is burning in agony. Tears run down my cheeks... 

"Doug, please..." I beg. 

I start awake; thankfully. There are tracks of tears down my cheeks. 

***

"It's just a stupid nightmare," I tell myself, sitting at my little table, drinking a cup of green tea. I'm avoiding going back to sleep. It was so real; so vivid. I can still see the look on Doug's face. Hard; cold; absolutely no pity. A look I've never seen on his face in real life. 

I wonder if my dream is a premonition. 

***

Tobermory is thankfully devoid of tourists. It's early days of fall, and the traffic dies down after September. My mother feeds me well; my dad and I play pool in the bar. I even beat him once or twice; which I brag about for the rest of the trip. 

My mom asks about Colin. The last time I was home, I mentioned I was dating someone. 

"We broke up..." I say, keeping the answer short. How do I explain everything? 

"Are you seeing someone else?" my mom asks. I ponder Doug; this thing that we are doing; my nightmare. "Not really," I mumble, and change the topic. 

***

It is 6pm Saturday, and I'm at Doug's door. I hesitate; my thoughts go back to my nightmare. Even six days later, I'm shaken by how vivid the dream was. I knock on his door.

*** Author's note: Please comment, I love comments! 

This is likely going to be the last chapters uploaded on Literotica. However, the complete story is on sale - view my profile for more details. 

Up next - a dark fantasy, most likely.