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?
