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?"