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?"
