Club Spank

I was well aware that I was in trouble from the look on Master's face. I had pushed too far trying to get out of going to Club Spank, as those in the Life Style called it, and knew I was going to pay for it later. He had said we were going to go there, and I had no idea he was really going to take me out on a dinner cruise around Del Rey, and then dancing. I had wanted to have him to myself and reacted with a very snarky "If we're not going out dancing, then I don't want to go anywhere." As his slave, I had completely overstepped my bounds, or bonds, if you like, and he was very angry.

"Obviously, I have given you too much liberty, if you think you can speak to me like that." He had said as his face darkened like a thunder cloud and lightening flashed in his eyes.

"We are going. I am committed to bring YOU, as YOU have become a favorite of some very important friends. Prepare yourself."

We rode in near silence to Club Spank that night, though I tried to make up to Master as best I could by wearing his favorite outfit, an ankle length, electric blue halter topped gown that was slit to the left hip, a set of matching panties and sapphire nipple jewelry that he had purchased for me on a trip to India, and a sapphire pendent that hung to the middle of my cleavage, but he was he was in a bad mood from my earlier outburst and his anger would not be quelled. I even undid the halter top and flashed my DD tits at several college boys on a street corner, as I sucked on my nipples, but he would not be swayed.

When we arrived at Club Spank, I was handed a single cuff from a set of handcuffs, as was the custom at that establishment, and locked it around my left wrist. Then, I slid my panties, over my ass, down my legs and stepped out of them and then, they were placed in the Door Prize Jar that would be given out at the end of the evening. The doorman then raised my gown and attached it to the slim, silver belt I wore so that my naked ass was visible to everyone in the room and, as I knew, every man I passed rubbed his hands over my ass, pinched it, and, in some instances, tried to slide his fingers into my asshole.

As Master led me into the general party room, I was handed a very large glass of champagne that would cost at least $25.00 a glass if you ordered it at a bar or club. Knowing what was expected of me, I drained the glass in one drink, placed the empty on the tray the naked waitress held, took a second glass, emptied it and took a third and sipped it as a well dressed man who was talking to my Master played with my tits through my dress, pausing to pinch and pull my nipples as he did so. Each time he pinched a nipple; I would thank him and gently squeeze his cock through his tuxedo trousers.

As Master and the stranger talked, master reached up and touched my shoulder. I immediately dropped to my knees, unzipped the stranger's trousers, pulled his cock out and wrapped my lips around it. I slurped and sucked on it slowly and deeply as their conversation continued about who was likely to win the next Super Bowl. I bobbed my head and deep throated the ever growing cock until I could barely fit it into my mouth. As I bobbed my head faster and sucked harder, I could taste the first bit of salty pre-cum oozing out of the head of the stranger's cock. I also felt the room starting to spin and just as the stranger came in my mouth, I blacked out.

The sound came first. A sharp slap echoed off my exposed ass. Then a thousand tiny points of pain raced over my jiggling ass cheeks. Not unendurable, but pain nevertheless. Then heat. Heat blossomed and grew along the shape of a man's hand, just as it had been applied to my ass.

The next three-part explosion of sound-pain-heat followed before I had a chance to catch a breath. And as my ass flamed and stung, more slapping followed. This was rhythmic, measured, and I sensed a holding back of how quickly the hand could spank. And it dawned on me that this was one hand, one man. But I also sensed many untold sets of eyes on this spectacle of dominance and my submission.

I was face down on a firm but padded surface. My naked ass was exposed to the warmish, heated air. I could feel that air moving, pulsing with the unseen faces, hands, movement. It felt dark, but it was a darkness that I could not actually see. I was blindfolded tightly, so I had no warning of any direction or approach of hands or implements that were about to be added to my spanking.

My legs were tied to unseen attachment points under the platform. However, they were not spread-eagled. They were loosely but securely attached, allowing just a bit of play and movement, which I was taking advantage of as I twisted unconsciously in response to each slap. But I could feel the hard leather of tight ankle straps that did not move, even as I twisted against the ropes they were attached to. There was no doubt that they would hold me to this platform, no matter how much I wanted to escape.

My arms, too, were securely bound. The same hard leather straps were tightly fastened to my wrists, but the ropes that attached there were holding my arms spread out, one to each corner. They were pulling tightly, not allowing the movement that my lower body had. This, in turn, forced my tits relentlessly into the padded top of the platform. Here was additional pain: sharp spirals of tape were holding my boobs into an unnatural peak, nipples exposed, and the weight of my body being tightly bound to the table made those boobs feel like two fiery rocks being forced back against my chest. Since none of my mams were even visible to my unseen tormentor, this was obviously designed just to make me more uncomfortable and willing to submit to his desires.

A short break in the assault on my ass. I could hear the man. At least I assumed it was a man, although no press of hardened dick against my exposed flesh had confirmed this assumption. I guess it could be a woman who was enjoying her domination and my submission, but the strength of the hand that had been spanking me made me pretty confident that the one who wielded it was indeed a guy. In any case, the tormentor was moving away from the platform. No, wait- he approaches again.

The sound was louder, the pain more intense. No longer a hand, but some sort of a spanking implement: this registered in my clouded brain. Smooth – WHACK – wider than the hand – WHACK- hurting, hurting, burning...

I twisted as far as the leg restraint would allow. No longer thinking, just reacting to the punishment. And this time as I twisted, I felt the lash of tiny strings from a different direction. I became aware of breathing, lots of it, now in the room with me. Coming from all directions, breathing, and now slaps. Hands slapping on my burning ass, not brutally but incessantly. More flat, paddle-like spankings, from several sides. And over and over, that whip of tiny strings, striping my upper ass, my thighs, and alternating with the paddles on the curve of my ass cheeks.

I screamed softly with each blow. My mouth was deliberately not gagged. They wanted to hear the screams, the moans, the groans and the pleas. And I did not, could not disappoint them. I could not have muffled the sounds if my life had depended on it, and with each moan, each yelp I could hear heavier breathing, more feeling of excitement in the room.

I was aware that someone was whispering a count. With each count, slaps and smacks rained down from several directions, so it was not a count of lashes but of time. And somewhere in my pain-fogged mind, I knew that a count meant an end. But when?

27. Not 30, not 100, not the thousand seconds it felt like. 27. So I was not going to be able to anticipate when the spanking would cease, but obviously the ones doing the spanking knew. At 27, suddenly all hands stopped striking me. And this time, in the pause where no blows fell, it was clear that many or all of the participants were men. From several directions, I felt insistent pushes and probes of flesh. There were a lot of hard-ons present, and they were clearly directed at me.

Now hands were caressing my burning ass. Most were gently gliding over the sting, feeling the heat pouring off me. I'm sure my ass was bright red. Fingers touched, although I could not feel much through the on-going sting- like nettles or burning wax. And in the breathing, I could hear some quickened, excited heaving of breath. These must be attached to some of the cocks I felt. Yes, against my left ass cheek I could feel the insistent press of a dick searching for a hole to dive into, and the rhythmic beat as its owner fondled my glowing ass with one hand, and his own dick with the other. But that was against the rules, I guess.... He was pushed back by the others, groaning as they did so. I could hear tiny sounds of contempt, and from the edges of the group, his mix of ecstasy and dismay as he failed to hold back the flow of his orgasm.

Now the softness of silk brushed my slightly cooling ass. It caressed the fading glow, soothed the sting. Someone was rubbing softly, replacing the painful sting with a brush of comforting whisper of fabric. Slowly my consciousness of the situation returned, and I became aware of a thinning of the small crowd of spankers. Drifting off, it sounded like they left in pairs and singles, undoubtedly still caught up in their excitement but satisfied that I had been corrected and left in proper submission.

But although I could feel the loosening of the ropes that held my legs and hands, the tight leather straps remained on my wrists and ankles. And I could sense that as people left this room, there were other on-lookers in the shadows at the perimeter, waiting to take their places.

Dark. The darkness came suddenly, slipped over my head in the form of a soft, fitted hood. It brushed the top of my lip, gathered my hair against my head in back. Whoever had made this had clearly understood the mechanics of shutting out light and movement, while keeping the mouth free to breathe and to make sounds. It was not uncomfortable, as it seemed to be made of something slightly stretchy. It just restricted all light.

Something hooked the cuffs still attached to my arms. Both arms were pulled from behind, pinioned by strong hands. Gently but firmly, I was guided into a chair, and with a sharp click, the rings on each wrist were clipped together, giving me 4 or 5 inches of play, but holding firmly. Another click, and I lost any upward play in the bindings. They'd been secured to the chair I sat in, drawn firmly behind my back. Enough play to keep my arms from cramping painfully, but no hope for escape either.

I could sense a solid form, inanimate, about six inches in front of me. Just far enough to be out of reach. And yet, seated as I was, my knees were far more than six inches in front. In fact, my tits...

Yeah. My tits. Still wrapped tightly in their duct tape cones. Nipples, I was sure, protruding at least an inch. Swollen with the restriction, swollen with sexual reaction to the spanking, the obvious excitement it had created within the crowd observing it. And with tits the size of mine, molded so tightly- well, I knew that they must extend eight or ten inches at least. So why does it feel like there's a solid shield in front of me?

I felt a flat surface being pushed against my abdomen. It lifted my boobs slightly, supporting them from underneath. A table? A shelf?

Now a picture formed in my mind. Starting at the top of my head, covered by this stretchy hood. Facing a solid wall, but one that extended only to somewhere in the region of my neck. My tits, my white creamy tits, usually soft and bountiful, bound to the point where they were squeezed into rock solid elongated cones, tipped with very dark, very red, extremely hard knobs of nipples. Jutting into space, open space.

So the wall exposed my tits to whatever was beyond it. Or, more likely given this place, WHO was beyond it. The board or shelf served two purposes: it was partially supporting the weight of my heavy tits, and it held me in place securely, especially when combined with the restraints holding me to the chair.

Suddenly, from the blackness, hands grasped my ankles. In one swift movement, my legs were spread, and the ankle straps were secured to either chair leg. Now my pussy was exposed to ...whatever was out there. It was like my tits were on display already, and now my legs no longer shielded my hidden places.

Display. Yes, that fit the parts I could sense. My head covered, my head and shoulders screened by some kind of a wall, my tits supported and displayed, jutting into some unknown empty space. My widely spread legs; were they shielded by another wall of some sort, or were they also displayed to an audience?

And now, with the picture forming in my mind, I became aware of sounds, slight and muffled, on either side of me. Clicks, like those that had accompanied my bondage. Scrapes, perhaps a chair; muffled moans. The unseen figures that had bound me, displayed me had moved on, and were doing the same to others. Other women, other displays, other tits, other pussies. We were indeed displayed, something like a shop of hidden faces, exposed boobs.

I was aware of a brightening of the darkness. My tits became slightly warmer. They must be spotlighted now, perhaps along with the others on either side of me. So we were being evaluated, perhaps being appreciated. And suddenly I was aware of other bodies, out in front of me. Passing along now, moving, slowly, their breathing hot and heavy. But not a word, from those in front or those who had bound and displayed me.

My mind was going crazy with mental pictures. Were there men who were imagining what they would do with my giant cones of tits? Were there unseen hands hovering, waiting to pierce those swollen nips with clips, or strike them with paddles or whips? Would a mouth clamp down on their hyper-sensitized tips, or teeth sink into the wrappings cutting into the soft flesh?

The images were both frightening and erotic. It was undeniable that I was displayed for the sexual pleasure of the observers. Was I enticing enough to inspire flickers of lust? Did someone have that knot beginning in their groin, just looking at my helplessness and whatever they could see of my lower half- I still didn't have that part figured out. But there was no question that my more-than-ample upper half was out there for any to ogle. Did that cause hard-ons?

Movement stopped. I could hear breathing in front of me, from several mouths. Without warning, a mouth wrapped around one exposed nipple, sucking hard. Almost instantly, another anonymous mouth, teeth barred, sunk into the other tender, engorged, swollen and throbbing nip. Teeth bit sharply, rapidly, hard. Agony! Now the other mouth, other tit was matching bite for bite. Pain raced through my boobs, triggering the screams that made the unseen men bite harder. I writhed and squirmed, but my bindings and the shelf in front prevented me from moving away from their assault. Slight pauses, one tit, then the other, and movement indicated that new mouths were biting and sucking. I was being served up to an array of men, my tits were their buffet. And they were gorging themselves.

I lost track of time in the haze of pain. I had become no more or less than my tits; in fact, not even by tits but the exposed nipples. Then, suddenly, the pain changed. Matching sharp arcs of pain shot through my nipples, and remained steady. No more soft, wet, toothy mouths- instead, clamps of torture. My nipples were clamped in twin vises- nipple clips. And again the movements in front of me indicated that the observers were filing by, stopping to admire. And there were many.

Finally, the pain stopped. The clips had been removed. And slowly I became aware, as I was left alone for a few minutes, that there were other sounds along the line of the shelf. Swishing sounds, slapping sounds, other moans and screams. There were several other women here, probably in the same condition of display and subjugation that I was in. I assumed that their tits were also on display, wares for the browsing. And some were being slapped. Some seemed to be having something whipped against their flesh. And some were probably now being clamped and bitten just as I had been.

Something cold and narrow and hard was placed against my left boob. Very slowly, it was worked under the tape. I could feel the shape of a knife and felt a surge of fear, but quickly it became apparent that the edged blade was only on the side of the tape. The unyielding blade pressed a deep groove into my tit as it slid under the tape, and very slowly it was raised enough to start cutting against the tape, that tape that held my tit flesh under control and shaped it into the high, hard cones. Thread by thread, the tape gave way to the cut of the knife. Millimeter by millimeter, my breast broke free of its unnatural restraint. I could feel my tit-flesh blooming in the still air as the tape gave way. And the relief of being freed from the tight binding was bliss.

Now hands reached out to tear the remaining tape from my newly-freed boobs. And remained to mold them into new shapes. One tit was being squeezed, hard. The other was being caressed, but as the soft touches moved from my chest wall up the swell of boob-flesh, over its natural curve, these fingers now found the raw and burning skin of my nipples. I gasped at the touch, which seemed to only encourage these fingers. My swollen nipples remained rock-hard, and the fingers first gently touched the aching tip. Again, involuntarily, I gasped at the pain of even this slight touch. Which immediately brought the thumb and forefinger to bear in a firm pinch around this nipple. I screamed. The large hand squeezing my other tit tightened even more, sinking fingers into the soft flesh of my mound. And the pinching fingers did not abate. Instead, I could feel this tit being lifted by the pinch around the hardened nipple.

His fingers pulled steadily, and my tit pulled and stretched, stretched to its maximum from chest to the tip of the nipple, now distorted to what felt like inches long.

The other man must have gotten rigid as he watched. He released the grip that had his fingers overflowing with boobage, and copied the pinch. Now both tits were pulled as far out as they could go.

And now it was obviously my turn to feel the lash. Not a whip, exactly, but something with many somewhat soft yarns was vigorously being applied to my left tit. The hand pinching it did not waver; someone else was lashing. I could feel hot breathing. This was now a crowd in front of me. And as the lash struck that left tit, a hand- no, now another, a third, was firmly but gently slapping the extended right tit. At this point, I was no longer feeling pain, only the ache that had become nipples and tits.

The crowd was thinning. Again, as when I'd been spanked with my ass in the air, the sexual tension had peaked, steadied at that peak, and then it seemed that the men involved had moved away to complete their fantasies with their own partners or in private corners. I became aware of the release as my tits were allowed to return to their rest on the shelf. A few fingers stroked, a tongue traced along my cleavage, but I was no longer the main attraction, at least not for the moment.

Chapter 2

I felt myself being released from my chair and heard Master say:

"We have need of you in another room. You are to be the entertainment for some friends of mine and me."

The stretchy hood was still in place. I felt hands firmly grasping my tits from behind, lifting me from the place where I was seated. A few steps back, still evidently in darkness, made total by my hood. The hands on my tits firmly encircled them, compressing the flesh next to my chest in order to extend these mammaries into peaks pushing out into horizontal space. It was a man, undoubtedly, based on the size of those hands. And the fact that large, firm, working hands had always attracted me began to take effect. Just the sensation of those hands circling my boobs, holding them so firmly- well, it was getting my juices going way more than the earlier pain of the nipple clipping. Although, I had to admit, the spanking first administered had also had an element of pleasure for me.