Gone for Six

I'm Five. No, not five years old, or you wouldn't be reading this here! My real name is Gabriel, though I usually go by Gabe, and I am the Master of the House of Bondage.

If you look up "House of Bondage" on line you will get lots of hits, but none of them are us -- it's our private name for the house where I live with Liz, aka the Tormentor, and Sara, whom you may have met as Two. We usually shorten it to "HOB", saving time and dodging the baggage, though the baggage adds some spice to the joke. The house is conventional enough from the outside, a pleasant, comfortable and completely ordinary townhouse in a rather posh part of town. I haven't lived here long, though I've been a regular visitor for years.

I met Liz quite a long time ago, at a fashionable but totally vanilla bar downtown. She is strikingly beautiful. Slender (just a bit more so then than now), moderately tall, with nice round breasts mounding up under her vee-neck tee shirt, gorgeous dark brown hair flowing over her shoulders, and a winning but slightly evil smile, she caught my attention immediately. She did not lack for admirers, and I was astonished and gratified to find myself buying her a drink. Her wit and intellect impressed me even more than her cleavage -- it took a little while to get past her initial irritation at my obviously carnally-motivated advances, but we became friends, and before long lovers.

That, of course, was when the problems started, as we both valued our independence. There was another sticking point. Liz worked hard at her job, and rose rather early on weekdays, while I did not. I've never had to work at a regular job or make a living. You'd think that would have had women falling all over me, but it's surprising how much of a turn-off it was for the women I liked best to be with, and it was for Liz. She didn't want to tell me what she did each day, saying she took it very seriously, and I wasn't taking her, the only job I seemed to have, seriously enough. My curiosity aroused, I checked her out.

Liz is a tormentor. Not a cock tease -- she was always completely up-front about sex. She works for the State Department of Correction, devising and designing corporal punishments, vetting appropriate candidates, and in the case of "electrical psycho-sexual correction", administering the punishment itself. You bet I had a hard time taking this seriously! My girlfriend, torturing unfortunate inmates in the State Prison? I couldn't stop giggling, and went immediately downtown to pick up a pair of handcuffs and a ball gag for our next meeting. I had to ask around to find out where to get them -- I was clueless.

As I undressed Liz that night, releasing her luscious body from her stylish power-woman work clothes, I couldn't help thinking about what I had discovered, and how arousing it was. Her slightly evil smile took on a special aura, but I thought I'd try to top her and see what would happen. When I playfully pulled her wrists behind her and snapped on the handcuffs she jumped away, her gorgeous breasts bouncing enticingly, but she was not amused in the least. I was intensely aroused by this naked woman, hands bound behind her, smooth round breasts with nipples erect bobbing in front, neatly trimmed pussy artfully displayed as she stood, legs apart, glaring and shouting at me. I couldn't help noticing a little moisture forming on her nether parts, but it wasn't my focus any more, in spite of the message of my erection.

"God damn you, take these fucking things off," she shouted, turning her back to bend over and flail her bound arms in my direction, also inadvertently displaying her arousal from the rear. "You bastard, you've been spying, haven't you." I fumbled for the key, momentarily terrified that I didn't have it, and removed them. She slapped me hard across the face and started to show me the door, when a flicker of a smile crossed her face. Taking me by the hand, she sat on the couch, pulling me down beside her. A minute of silence went by. Liz was the first to break it.

"Just how much do you love me?"

I started to answer, but Liz gripped me by the cock and squeezed it hard. "Shut up, show me." We rolled onto the floor, sliding together in ferocious embrace as she bit me on the shoulder and shuddered in ecstasy, forcing me to come immediately after. We lay together in silence for another minute, then her eyes signaled a storm of anger rising. Oh-oh. I held her close and she stayed in control, but asked me rather icily if I ever wanted to see her again.

"Of course I do," I answered rather lamely, though completely truthfully.

"Then I need you to understand what I do, and learn to respect it, to respect me," she replied.

"OK, and how do I do that?" I asked a bit testily, thinking I was about to get a reading list, or perhaps a movie to watch.

"I want you to endure one of my punishment sessions."

"Whoa! That's no game -- it's real torture." I knew nothing of BDSM then, and I imagined that men were only supposed to top women; I wasn't prepared for this proposal.

"That's the point. You need to understand what I do and why, learn about the feelings and sensations I work with every day, and appreciate the skill I've worked hard to develop. You just don't get it -- if you love me, you have to love all of me."

"I don't know... does it hurt?" I asked rather stupidly

"Of course it hurts. But it's a punishment for minor crimes -- you'll live. And if you won't do it, leave right now - and don't come back."

Well, that was an offer I couldn't refuse, especially since the ice in her eyes had disappeared, replaced by a sly seductive smile. I agreed. She told me to get dressed and led me to the door.

"Do this for me and you'll be invited back many, many times." She pressed herself against me, squeezing her voluptuous breasts and neat, though now rather sticky pussy against me, as we joined in a deep, delicious kiss.

"Don't try to get in touch -- trust me, you'll get instructions," she promised, closing the door.

Which I did, soon finding myself led by my wrists to punishment pole number five, there to be introduced to Two, Three, Six and Seven. Three, whose name is actually Ariel, wrote about this experience in some detail -- I don't need to describe it again here. Suffice it to say that along with coming to know those four, I also learned a lot more about Liz, emerging with greatly increased respect and deeper love. Her shelf of books on anatomy and neurobiology, psychology and legal history now made a lot more sense to me, further informing her interest in music and literature which I had already come to enjoy.

Our relationship deepened, but another factor made it much more complicated. Liz fell in love with Jen, number six, who suffered so elegantly that day as part of her interview to become a tormentor. Jen made a deep impression on me as well; I was soon delighted to enjoy the company of both women, particularly as I made it my business to learn as much as I could about the world of BDSM I had just discovered. Jen was trying to leave at least the more sordid aspects of that world behind, and Liz had thought she could keep her professional life separate from her intimate life, but for me, it was a whole new world. My proclivities led me more in the dominant direction, and I discovered as my skill increased that I had no shortage of eager subs, men as well as women, often very attractive, seeking my attention. Liz wasn't especially pleased at first. For all her skill in the punishment chamber, Liz got off best when dominated, but it had better be top quality, or stick with vanilla. Jen was able to deliver, helping Liz overcome her cognitive disconnect with submission. Jen found my attempts amusing and taught me a lot, though she insisted that I learn from the bottom up. I was getting better at it, and Liz was coming to enjoy, rather than simply tolerate, my efforts to top her.

Which brought about another close call. I rented a private room at a BDSM club for the three of us to have a less inhibited evening. Jen and I bound Liz securely to a pole in the center of the room, so Jen could demonstrate her skill with the single-tail. I would make do with a soft leather flogger, a relatively safe device with which I was just developing enough skill to try on a real human being.

Liz was a splendid sight that night. Wrists firmly cuffed behind her back and elbows drawn together just right, her beautiful round breasts were framed by crossing leather bands anchoring her to the pole. She oozed erotic helplessness. Her ankles were bound together to the pole, and another strap secured her legs at the knees, cinched to the pole also. The pièce de résistance was a two inch wide leather belt with rings fore and aft, tightened firmly around her waist. A half-inch strap circling through her crotch from ring to ring invaded the moistness of her labia. While the belt circled only Liz, a small leather band secured her crotch-strap to the pole behind her buttocks. I took the honors, suddenly tightening that band, pulling the strap to the pole and tightly against her clit. Liz gasped in surprise, squirming against her increased stricture. Her nipples erupted like tender fruit from little circular gardens.

Liz loves to see herself in bondage; perhaps that's why she's so good at devising it. But she wasn't yet that experienced on the bottom, just learning the pleasure she could find there. She wasn't gagged, probably the evening's undoing. Jen and I took turns. Jen's skill was astounding -- she could put out a candle at eight feet, leaving it ready to relight if you wished. The private room allowed her to crack the whip, a technique she used sparingly but effectively, sending shivers through both Liz and me. She could just caress Liz with the tip, forcing a wince but leaving almost no mark. Swinging the whip from behind she made the end flick down first on one nipple and then the other. Liz squirmed with fear and excitement, but she knew Jen's skill and trusted her totally. I was a looser cannon. Jen helped me practice slapping just hard enough to make a little redness, practice soft waves and brushes, practice preparation and timing.

Liz gasped and groaned a little under my attention, and even gave out a couple of yelps and a small shriek for Jen, but she was clearly getting bored. She wanted to come, but didn't want to make it happen herself -- that, after all, was supposed to be our job. We were focused on technique, not Liz. On my next turn she lost her patience.

"Quit teasing, dammit, hit me like you mean it," she hissed. Then smiling slyly she whispered "Remember the chamber -- how I made you suffer, especially in the minute near the end. Don't be a wuss. Punish me for the pain I inflicted on the others, if not for your own."

Taken aback, and a bit insulted, I lit into her, thrashing her pussy and legs. Liz screamed, and I lost it. I took a swing at her breasts, getting an agonized shriek. A tiny bit of self control, or perhaps selfish desire not to damage such beauty made that the last for those targets, and I went for her belly and buttocks with a vengeance, the chamber vivid in my mind. Liz struggled and screamed as she turned redder, but it didn't last long. Alternate blows front and rear forced her thrusting against the crotch-strap over and over.

"Oh, my god, yes, yes, I'm coming, I'm coming," she screamed, bucking furiously against her bonds, as I thrust myself tightly against her, squeezing and massaging her pussy, compressing her erect nipples against my chest as I locked my lips with hers in a passionate kiss.

"Oh god, you're good. I love you," she whispered, then added, "but I think you'll pay for that." A searing pain erupted in the small of my back.

"Get the fuck away from my lover." Jen's eyes flashed pure fury as she threatened me with the whip. More dangerous in her hands than a pistol, she could take out an eye or remove a testicle if she wished. Not wishing it, I heeded her command. Liz burst into tears. Watching your lovers in a spat while hanging exhausted and spent on the pole is a BDSM experience I did not intend Liz to have to suffer.

The glare in Jen's eyes, along with the thin slight smile forming, was enough for me to know that trouble was on the way. "You will do as I say, or you will not see us again." I'd heard something like that before, and guessed, more or less, what was to follow.

"Do what she says, for me, for us," Liz sobbed. A sucker for a woman in tears, I knew I would.

"I'm sending you to the chamber for losing control, for hurting Liz." Hurt? I suppose I did, but Liz clearly loved it. Jealousy, I thought, but I wasn't in a position to argue -- I like my balls in their normal location. "I'll throw a die, and you'll find out when you're there how it came up." I imagined a session like the last, with Jen supplying, based on what came up on the die, something special just for me. How bad could it be?

Little did I know. Ariel and the one he calls Four circled back into Jen's orbit around the same time, and Jen's plan fell into place like the die I doubt she ever cast. Ariel described that session also; it was enough to make me very careful how I approached Liz and Jen in the future.

For I loved them both, and I knew that Jen was good for Liz, better than I could possibly be. My BDSM explorations suffered a hiatus as my stripes healed, but I became good friends with Ariel in the meantime. He played the piano beautifully, and I'm no slouch. We found considerable solace playing four hands on the Steinway my parents, both fine musicians, left me. As I healed enough to explore some more, it was easier to bottom than top -- the marks of the Eighteen didn't give me much credibility as a Master. Once they finally disappeared the X that Jen gave me had quite the opposite effect for those who could see its faint outline. I'd clearly been around.

I started to think about real work. My father, a doctor, made a modest fortune providing medical services to wealthy women, or those lucky enough to have wealthy partners, in emergencies, and he invested well. Strange how an excess of morality so frequently does good only for those prepared to exploit the opportunities created. I'm glad that opportunity is over and hope it doesn't come back, but it made my life comfortable, though rather aimless. What could I do? English literature and music in college didn't prepare me for a serious career, but my extracurricular interest in theater and film production might be useful. I was starting to get a big kick out of the BDSM community, and felt I could do something useful.

The electrical psycho-sexual correction session which we all shared a couple of years earlier turned out to create some very durable bonds. By the time I formulated my idea Liz and Jen had created a ménage à quatre with Sara, who occupied pole number two, and Michael. Michael suffered on pole seven, but it wasn't all suffering; he lost his virginity and found himself that day. Jen and Liz thought he was cute and took good care of him. Far more able to concentrate on academic study with his sexual tension so reduced, Michael completed his degree in neurobiology not long afterward. He soon became a well-respected researcher in brain function, particularly under conditions of heightened awareness or stimulation.

Michael also knew a great deal about computers. He had all sorts of connections, and knew how to find those with skill in computer graphics and simulation. An idea started to form -- a pornographic production company which would allow those who didn't quite qualify as "beautiful people", or those who wanted to act in such fare, but couldn't afford to be recognized, to play. I was pretty confident Sara would go for it, but I wasn't so sure about Liz or Jen. I'd already dangled the idea in front of Michael, and he was intrigued.

Liz and Jen indeed had their doubts, but their domestic arrangement was taxing their resources. Michael was still a post-doc, tormentors don't make huge salaries, and though Sara was becoming a decent Dom, she was picky with her clients and wanted her own space. I offered a solution -- I bought them the House of Bondage.

I'd always liked the idea of owning a classy townhouse, but never before had much use for one. My domestic preference at that time was an apartment obviously too small for more than one person, and my tastes were not extravagant -- I didn't want to waste my good fortune prematurely. I sold the idea on the basis that the ménage à quatre actually did have sufficient income to maintain the house, just not to buy it. I would own it, but they would not be "kept people", and over time the production company would become profitable and provide a good living. It helped that I made it clear I had no intention of living there myself, certainly not any time soon. That clinched it, especially for Jen, who didn't yet trust me with Liz.

Townhouses offer remarkable privacy, more than you can imagine if you've never lived in a whole one. The thick brick party walls muffle sound far better than the open spaces of the suburbs, and if you are lucky enough to have a garage door on an alley, as we have, no-one knows who comes or goes. It's perfect for BDSM, but you must realize that the bland row of brick fronts hides all. No matter how kinky or extreme you think the goings on in your house may be, it's quite possible that something even more exotic is happening just a few doors down -- unless you're invited in, you'll never know.

JenLiz Productions (I wanted to call it Total Quality Torment, but was voted down) got going, and was quickly successful. Lots of men and women, perhaps attractive but not stars, wanted to be on video or the internet, either for themselves or for sale, and the possibility of anonymity was a big plus. We had a lot of fun, made good friends, and soon turned a profit. Michael came through with some incredible cg capability -- our actors looked stunning on the screen, but they still could recognize themselves in action. We could adjust the degree of anonymity from simple enhancement to complete disguise, as requested. Sara gave up taking paying clients, concentrating on talent acquisition and day to day operations. I managed facilities and helped with production, while Jen and Liz supplied story lines, set designs, and sometimes took leading roles. Before long the business was able to afford a separate location, which helped with neighbor relations at the townhouse. Eventually we even took over the franchise to distribute the State punishment sessions, which we did pro bono, as we all wanted them to continue. The dungeon we'd fitted out at the House of Bondage would be just for private use from then on.

There's more than sexual play at the HOB, though it's always in the air. From the beginning there were good meals. The house came with a kitchen to die for, and we all enjoyed cooking. JenLiz Productions supplied a steady stream of interesting guests, and we had music also. Sara plays the viola very competently, having attended conservatory, and often gigs in pick-up orchestras. It takes time to get known, though. Trying desperately to make ends meet after graduation, she turned a few tricks, attracted the wrong kind of attention, and landed herself in the punishment session. I helped a bit with some student loans, but falling in with Liz and Jen really put her life together.

I bought a beautiful Steinway for the HOB. I loved the piano my parents left me, but pianos do not age as well as women, and in any case I still wanted mine in my apartment. As a frequent visitor I enjoyed playing with Sara, and she arranged for other musicians to join us from time to time, some from orchestras, a few coming through LizJen Productions. Just like a front door, you never know what's behind a face until you ask. With the right group we sometimes indulged in a kinky musical game -- "Settling Scores". One member of the audience would be the "score-keeper", following along in the music, noting any mistakes and marking their severity. After the concert we'd go down to the dungeon to administer the appropriate punishments. It was great fun but not good for the music -- we soon found ourselves outdoing one another to make an outrageous mistake at a suitably humorous moment, crying out, of course, for another. A cascade of increasingly silly bloopers invariably followed, leaving the score-keeper desperate to keep up. The music would collapse in a hopeless train wreck, everyone laughing helplessly, and off we'd go to the dungeon earlier than intended. The practice ended when Jen threatened a trip to the punishment chamber for five stripes to the next offender. Not willing to test her, our performances returned to a higher plane. Music-making and BDSM got along better in separate bedrooms, it seemed.