Husband/boyfriend Punishment Night

This time around I've decided to be less fantastical - the characters in this story (they're all new, except for myself, and the name of the club) are not exceptionally wealthy or larger than life (well, not much!). Most of the action takes place in a BDSM club like many which actually exist all over the world. This club, as is typical, promotes safe, sane and consensual play, and insists on it on the premises.

That said, tonight's event is pretty intense. You'll encounter strict bondage and corporal impacts (no electricity this time, except for the lights, the HVAC, and the equipment!) so if this turns you off you might want to stop here - I'm probably not the author for you.

But if it does turn you on, or you're curious about what goes on in this club, go for it. I hope you'll enjoy reading this story!

*********

"Honey...

I looked up from my phone, sloughing off the newsfeed.

"Let's go to the Forge tonight."

I hesitated. "You know I have a quarterly report due Friday."

A flash of unadulterated fury shot across Samantha's face, dissolving in seconds into a simple frown. Now she had my attention!

She went straight to the heart of the matter.

"You've worked late the last five evenings, and even when you're not working you're glued to that phone. By the time you come to bed I've already fallen asleep.

"And by the way, it's only Tuesday." On went her beguiling smile, erasing the frown.

"OK. Just give me ten minutes."

I gathered up the dinner leftovers, cleared the table and started on the dishes.

"Those can wait...let's go," came the imperious call from the bathroom.

I grabbed the suitcase we keep packed for these occasions; the Forge prefers that members avoid scene gear outside. The contents are mostly for Samantha!

We headed out to the car - Samantha graciously offered to drive home so I took the wheel. Just twenty minutes had us cruising for a parking spot near the Forge; it was still early so we didn't have to search for long. When we reached the entrance Samantha pulled my steel collar out of her pocket - it hinges in three places and latches in the fourth so it's easy to conceal - and snapped it around my neck. By the time we'd finished signing in, the Forge's deco-moderne elevator was waiting for us, brass doors open, operator beaming.

"Hello Samantha, so good to see you tonight!" She beamed at me too, but she didn't say another word as she eased herself onto her little round seat with her slinky black skirt spilling from her suntanned legs. She pushed the lever and the motor whirred to life.

As the cage began its descent I heard a distinct 'snap snap snap snap snap.'

Oh oh...

Samantha heard it too, and immediately clipped a chain to my collar - she must have had it out and ready, but I was too busy casting my eyes over the erotic cornucopia rising into view.

"You know I can't have you trying to escape," she threatened with a broad grin, "and given how much you fussed last time, I wouldn't put it past you to try!" The elevator jerked slightly as our seductive, smiling driver aligned it with the floor and pulled the gate open with a satisfying crash.

"Have fun," she called after us, suppressing a snicker as Samantha yanked me into the Forge.

****

When

was

the last time? I could hardly remember, I've been working so hard. Samantha's been here a number of times since then, but not for fun - she's on the board.

I felt myself stiffening.

"You knew..." I whined reproachfully.

"Of course I knew - how could I not know," she replied, laughing, as she towed me to the corridor leading to the changing rooms.

Tonight is husband/boyfriend punishment night.

We were back out in no time.

****

When I gaze into Samantha's eyes my heart skips; she's just drop-dead gorgeous. While I may be biased, I suspect many club members secretly wonder how I caught her, or rather, why she caught me. She's been a member longer even than I have, and has many friends here. She's a lawyer by day, and by night much of the time - this past week wasn't the norm. I'm so proud and grateful to be able to call such a beautiful, affectionate, hard-working woman my wife.

She attended a prestigious law school and practices corporate law at an equally prestigious firm. But making partner involves years of gruelling effort, especially for a woman, and she's only really happy when she's doing pro bono work, so she's considering leaving that grind to take a job in industry, perhaps as a senior manager or director of diversity and inclusion. It took quite a bit of arm-twisting, given how little extra time she has, to persuade her to join the club's board.

And she takes that job very seriously - it's a lot of additional work, often involving astonishingly complex, tangled human emotions and behavior. She sees it as good training for the everyday hurly-burly of the corporate world.

But tonight she's here to have fun, if she can. Given her role here at the club she's never really 'off' but she'll try - once things get going I'll be out of her hair... her glorious hair which makes me love her more and more, every time I look at it. A fiery ginger, it complements, no, contradicts the cool intensity of her finely sculpted countenance with fervent heat, blazing across her crown to gather in a silver ring she inherited from her grandmother. After a jaunty bounce it cascades all the way to her alluring, slender waist. And now it's waving side to side with brazen abandon as she marches me double-time to the gallows!

Her body's enclosed from her neck to her boots in a lustrous black catsuit which really shows off her curves - every ripple of her lithe musculature telegraphs through the smooth, featureless leather. It rounds over her regal bust voluptuously, dipping into her cleavage ever so subtly, projecting her power-woman persona to perfection.

Yes, her boots do have spiked heels. In bare feet, like I am, we're about the same height, but now she towers over me by, maybe three inches. Her heels are just high enough to make a statement without being wildly uncomfortable, and I won't be surprised if she takes them off after a while.

About that voluptuous bust - it's a bit of fake news. Underneath she has on a padded bra - her breasts are really quite petite, taut and perky, and I love them. There are longer-time club members who are aware of this too, but I get a kick out of the looks she gets from the newer ones who aren't, and aren't going to find out. She won't play with her clothes off any more, but clothes on, that's another matter entirely. She's carrying a six foot singletail which she's ready to use if someone needs it. In her other hand she grips the chain which presently forms a straight line to my steel collar.

My outfit is simpler. Against my collar rests a big black ball gag, buckled loosely around my neck. My wrists, enclosed in leather cuffs, are locked together behind me - similar cuffs, soon to be but not yet locked together, adorn my ankles.

Other than that I'm naked.

Well, not quite. I sport a rather uncomfortable chastity cage. Samantha doesn't want me wandering about the club without it, as if I could, given that she has me on the leash. And time is of the essence. She tugs harder, urging me toward the action, hoping to claim the last available slot.

Snap snap snap snap snap! Owwww... The sound is quite a bit louder now.

As I'm hurried over I glance down at my own body. I'm a pretty average looking white man of middle-class privilege. So while I think of myself as working hard, the reality is I have more than enough leisure to keep myself in shape, lifting weights and swimming. I exercise because I enjoy it, because I can, and because I want to keep myself attractive for Samantha. She probably won't be watching while I endure my punishment, but as I zipped up her catsuit she described in no uncertain terms how much she intends to enjoy imagining my muscles rippling, my body squirming, my struggling against my bonds in my futile attempts to evade the relentless strokes landing on my chest and belly while she's busy working the room... owww. I mustn't forget about that cage.

The 'slot' she's after is a little shelf at the end of a row of five men fastened side by side on the wall, their wrists bound behind them like mine, their shoulders pulled back by leather straps snaking through their armpits to circle their biceps. Each stands on an individual shelf about five inches off the floor, ankles locked together and clipped to a ring set in the wall. Their chests are completely unencumbered by straps, and each has a ball gag loose around his neck, like mine. Talking is forbidden - an infraction will result in the gag being moved - tightened mercilessly into the offender's mouth - I won't make

that

mistake again.

Just past the vacant slot is a dispensing machine. If we'd arrived a minute later Samantha would have had to take a number. She would

not

have been pleased

****

Two burly attendants grab me by the arms and muscle me over to the empty shelf. In seconds the straps are wrapped about my arms and cinched, pulling me tightly to the wall, squeezing my wrists against my buttocks. A moment later my ankle cuffs are locked together and clipped to the ring - trying to defend myself by kicking would have been fruitless, and in any case I happen to know these men; none of us wants to risk an injury! Still, they try to make it seem as rough and realistic as possible - that's all part of the fun!

Samantha looks

far

more relaxed now I'm safely on the wall.

She heads for the huddle surrounding the Mistress of Ceremonies, a tall black woman named Kalisha with delightfully purple hair and a body capable of inducing awe in any man or woman who strays into the area. Her outfit is considerably more flamboyant than Samantha's, as befits her role.

Kalisha's strapless bustier presses her monumental breasts up and out magnificently, inviting us to gaze into the substantial cleavage still visible. It's a treat for us that her shoulders are bare - her glowing chocolate skin is a delight to behold, and though they aren't prominent her lacy tattoos guide us like a visitor's map, inviting us to explore further.

Some of those attractions require special privileges, which I regret to say I don't have.

We can explore in the other direction, across her muscular shoulders, down her commanding biceps and over the supple leather gauntlets which begin just above her elbows. They terminate at her wrists, allowing her unimpeded use of her surprisingly delicate fingers. Her gauntlets and fingers frame her solid, stud-spangled torso, guiding our eyes downward to the spandex mesh which covers her legs from the forbidden zone to the top of her menacing cross-laced boots.

There's plenty of metal; delicate chains, polished buckles, shiny zippers anywhere they might be useful or can find a place to make a statement. They sparkle in the club's lights like sunset on a waterfall, fascinating us with their glitter as she moves.

And she's moving a lot. I happen to know that those powerful arms wield a mean whip, but she won't be tonight, at least not that way. Kalisha's managing a sprawling operation, taking responsibility for the safety and entertainment of a vast crowd (well, a respectable crowd) of participants and onlookers. She's certainly up to the task! She

is

wielding a crop, which is handy for pointing and directing.

Oh yes. Kalisha's almost finished her J.D. She's interning at the same law firm where Samantha once dreamed to make partner. I'm amazed that any of us have time for these shenanigans, given how hard we all have to work at our day jobs, but I guess we're all pretty into it!

Kalisha has four assistants this evening: Maurice, Treyvon (the echo's a burden for him, but he'll carry the torch), Guan-yin, and Vanya.

Maurice and Treyvon you've already met - they put me on the wall. Guan-yin is Kalisha's administrative assistant. She's handling the paperwork and making sure everything runs smoothly. She's second generation, tall and solid, with shiny black hair and a smile to die for. Right now she's trying to manage the huddle surrounding Kalisha, the one Samantha's essaying to penetrate.

I hear Kalisha ask Samantha how severely she wishes for me to be punished tonight, but Samantha doesn't answer, she just passes Kalisha a slip of paper. Kalisha takes one glance at it and points the crop at me with an evil grin.

"You must have been a

very

naughty husband," she calls out with a little too much glee, turning several pairs of eyes in the club my way. She fingers her pad and a moment later a printer spits out another sliver of paper, this one a 2-D barcode. Guan-yin slides it into a clear plastic sleeve with a string looping from the top, and hands it to Vanya...

who walks over to me and slips the string over my scrotum-encircling prison, nestling it just behind my locking ring. She slides the tag's string-cleat up, securing the dreadful sentence to dangle just enough below my cruelly confining cage to be read reliably. She locks me in her gaze and shakes her head with disapproval, though I can tell she's smiling.

Vanya is an older Indian woman. She's dark and beautiful and sultry. Tonight she's wearing practical clothing since she'll be busy all evening - several numbers have been taken already. She's dressed in moderately tight blue jeans and a colorful Indian blouse which leaves much of her luscious bronze torso above and below exposed. Her only other accessories comprise a belt buckled by a pair of silver elephants hooking their trunks, a gorgeous woven gold and pearl necklace with matching earrings, and an inscrutable smile. She's a good friend - I don't have to use much imagination to peel off those jeans since I used to play with her before Samantha and I became an entity.

Vanya took my virginity.

Again I feel myself swelling, again my cage reminds me I'd best not.

Confident I'm in good hands, Samantha wanders off to chat with her friends and take the pulse of the club. I glance down the row. Each of us has a barcode, that's no surprise, but I seem to be the only one caged. Thanks, Samantha... oowwch.

****

We're not going to be punished on the wall, unless you consider being bound tightly to a wall with your wrists pressing into your buttocks punishment. The real punishment is already in full swing - it has been since before we arrived, hence Samantha's antsiness. We are just waiting, buffered up you might say, to be whipped by machine, with precisely the severity specified by our significant others. If your partner is merciful your marks will disappear in a day or so. If your partner is not merciful...

A subgroup (ouch, sorry) of the club including myself organized a subscription to purchase the equipment in use tonight; we thought we'd be the only ones to take advantage of it so we didn't want to burden the club with its expense. We continue to pay for its maintenance, which isn't all that much but it's not trivial. We're happy to oblige!

But what a happy surprise! It's turned out to be a lot more popular than we anticipated. We didn't plan the wall lineup initially but it soon became obvious that managing the queue would have to be part of the process. And here I am, part of the queue being managed.

There's no denying that the six of us lined up, naked and immobilized,

do

present a tempting target for anyone skilled with a whip. Now and then a club member will ask if they can take a swat. The conditions for approval are strict; only if the requestor is well known will permission be granted.

If permission is granted and they proceed they're taking a serious risk - actually striking one of the malefactors is strictly forbidden. It could cost you your membership, or at least earn a severe reprimand. Few take the chance, but now and then someone who knows they're up to the challenge turns up.

I remember one night - sadly I was not on the wall - watching an extraordinarily gifted Domme engage in ten minutes of target practice with a four foot singletail - I expect she left a few sore nipples and cocks even though she scrupulously avoided actual contact. By the time she coiled her whip the entire club's attendance was watching, mesmerized - sign-ups for punishment night ticked up considerably afterwards.

Their cock-soreness may have survived the evening. But I doubt that any of the targets could feel the slightest trace of thenipple-soreness

she

induced once they'd endured their real punishment. I don't see her tonight - I doubt she'd be here this early anyway. Oh well...

Regardless of whether your partner is merciful or cruel (within the limits the club permits!), the appearance of a skilled dominant taking target practice while you're on the wall will not temper the severity of your sentence.

Snap snap snap snap snap.

Ooo...oww... There it goes again.

The real action is taking place at the carousel, which accommodates three of us at once. The miscreant-at-whip faces the machine in position one and receives five strokes in quick succession, evenly spaced from two inches above the nipples to an inch or so below the navel. Once those five are delivered the carousel rotates 120 degrees, a third of a circle, bringing the next offender into position.

Snap snap snap snap snap.

Yeowww...

We rotate again, another third of a circle.

Snap snap snap snap snap. Owww...

In position three, the first position those of us on the wall will experience tonight, our frantic squirming will telegraph our escalating anxiety (or mounting arousal!) as we hear the whips snap and their target groan. The anticipation is almost beyond bearing, knowing our own turn is just seconds away - that's a huge part of the experience! We'll develop exquisite sensitivity to the slight jerk signaling the onset of the carousel's rotation.

Around and around we'll go, until we've received as many strokes as our barcodes specify. Each time we're up the machine will move the rows so that the singletails do not strike the same spot twice. When we're done we'll each sport a bright red raster - provided our sentence specifies enough strokes! For those of us doomed to that fate, as I'm pretty sure I am, the last ones will be the toughest - they'll be almost on top of earlier stripes and while the system's aim is good, it isn't perfect.

The machine hasn't been running all that long this evening, yet one of the first complement of three - I don't recognize him, he must be a new member - has already finished serving his sentence. That's not a huge surprise - many significant others are quite merciful. Perhaps their misbehaving partners relish the strict bondage and intense anticipation more than the actual whipping, so they're off the carousel in just a few revolutions after receiving relatively light impacts. Once the concluding strokes landed and the carousel rotated its contrite cargo to position two an overhead hoist lifted him unceremoniously, pole and all, and swung him away - he's being released right now.

I watch him stumble off the pole, smiling, trying not to touch his welts - his partner comes running up to give him high five. They're given a tube of aftercare lotion which will sooth his stripes almost completely. He may have a little trouble sleeping tonight, but he'll be fine. He howled quite a bit in the machine though; perhaps he just needed to get something off his chest.

His replacement is already prepared to be lifted on board. He was the fourth to get here this evening and like the first three he didn't spend any time on the wall - he's been moored just off position three since he arrived, bound a little more strictly than we are. His wrists are secured behind the pole and his ankles are locked together and clipped to a ring extending from it, like ours at the wall. But in addition to the straps pulling his biceps back, a pair of bands pass over his shoulders and under his armpits, pulling him even more tightly to his pole. Two more straps circle his thighs, passing between his legs high in his crotch, holding him in just the right position - he can barely move at all in the area where he'll be whipped.