House of Pain

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.