Stage Siren

I can feel my blood dancing, pulsing under my skin as I close the books for this week. Carefully I sweep up paper shreds, unplug monitors; and close the off-colored blinds that hold 8 years seniority on me at the office. Generally at close over our crackly office speakers there would be some easy listening cold play cover band crooning; but tonight must have been one of those throwback nights at our local station, because I could just faintly make out the words to the same Zep CD I had playing on my way in this morning. I didn't mind, I thought to myself; you could never have enough of the truly good stuff.

A chill rockets down my spine as the vague thought strays, wanders and finds a definitive home in other places of my mind, reminding me of the night that lay ahead of me. 'You really can never have enough of the good stuff', a smirk plays across my face and I hit the last light-switch, practically floating out the office doors.

I cross the staff lot, plop down in the driver of my outdated Audi TT, and begin my trek across town to my condo. Absorbed in my own thoughts, I realize seven or eight miles into the drive I never even turned the radio on. The silence should've been eerie, but my brain was buzzing with longing, the promise of flashing lights, excitement... release. It's been an enduring period since I've been on stage, and I need tonight badly. Truthfully, I don't know how I've stayed away for so long. To let fear take this from me, and irrational fear at that... I could kick myself.

I pull into my driveway and park my car under the partial awning my late husband had installed, gather my work supplies, and start towards the front entry. I hear Roger wiggling behind the door as I fumble with a set of keys I don't even need; there hasn't been crime on this block in a decade... much less a B&E. At long last, the key is located on the ring, and i stumble inside right over Rogers fuzzy ass; nearly losing my balance while he blissfully barrel-rolls under my feet. Dogs, I tell you, will act like they are the beneficiary of your life insurance policy. I toss my purse on the island, pour him out a new bowl of kibble and retreat back to my bedroom. The bedside alarm clock reads 8:40pm. I need to get moving if I'm not to be late tonight.

In the low light of my master bath I'm reminded of my own individuality and personality, as the layers of office casual slide off, makeup is removed and my hair can finally tumble out of the tight ass styles required by HR. Sweet scented makeup scrub melts away the signature concealer I had to buy to cover my tattoos, and my skin no longer feels caked and heavy. I feel free.

I don't hesitate much on what to put on, rationalizing it won't matter much what I wore to the function when i arrive and immediately take it back off. On account of this I end up in a plain black long sleeve and my dark-wash ripped jeans, my favorite lace set hiding underneath. I look in the mirror once more and feel a bit more comfortable with who's looking back. Gah, No makeup, no time, its 9:30. Doors open at 10. Gotta move fast. I throw my boots on and start for the door, giving Roger a few pats on my way out. The moment I hit the interstate, the pulsing of anticipation under my skin begins again. It has been far, far too long. I accelerate exponentially, hoping no pestilent police lie in wait on my trip there... after all, The main attraction can't be late.

Tonight, none are manning the door just yet. In lieu, the entrance has donned a new cautionary sign detailing the possible exposure and triggers lying behind these doors. Realistically, I suppose per local mandates SOMETHING had to spell out 'Warning, hot whores, bare skin, & blood'… I feel no need to read the new sign myself, and push my way in through the heavy doors. My nose is immediately permeated with the smell of sex and warm liquor, and I breathe deeply welcoming it in. This smells like home to me. I sign my alias on the board for 'volunteer entertainment' and show myself to the back-stage un-dressing area, meeting eyes and exchanging smiles with a few club employees on my way.

The partition back-stage is heavily embellished with different instruments to be used on any willing volunteer, selections ranging widely from riding crops, to weighted nipple clamps, knives, there was even a variety of electro-stimulation tools. As I begin to strip down, admiring all the devices spread before me, my hand grazes my crotch and I realize I have thoroughly soaked my lacey panties. My nipples harden when I realize how wet I am, but before I can manage another stroke two of the other people set to be shown enter into the (un)dressing area, their gabbing snapping me out of the dirty thoughts trespassing through my mind.

The thrumming of a developing crowd set on the other side of the curtain grows and grows, and i fidget only a bit with my Lacey appendages as the music is lowered and mic checks begin. I no longer feel my blood pulsing like a flowing river under my skin, instead my entire body is alive with anticipation.

The curtain parts, and my skin prickles as tonight's host approaches the wall full of almost-evil devices serving as ornaments. He surveys them all, strutting back and forth until reaching his decision. Stoically he turns around with chosen his tool and returns to the stage, the awaiting crowd once again increasing in volume and, presumably, size. My pussy is throbbing and my mind begins to wander once again when I'm shoved violently from behind, multiple times. The lights blind me as I'm thrust out onto the stage, falling roughly onto my hands and knees.

Tonight's host, introduced by himself as Master Richard, paces around me in circles. Taking requests called out from the crowd, he commands me into different positions. In each position, a different part of my body is exposed, teased, and shown off to the crowd. Once he feels like both he himself and the audience is thoroughly sated, i am lifted to my feet and helped to the Saint Andrews Cross which adorns the stage. I feel i may be practically quivering with need as they strap my ankles and wrists onto the impressive board, and i find myself blushing only a bit at the thought of my juices running down my legs before they have even begun their fun.

Without warning, his first strike rains down on me, each strand of the flogger individually illuminating my skin, and it takes everything I have not to immediately beg for more. The reprieve i've sought from my own brain crashes over me without warning, washing over my entire body and providing me with a sense of calm I have not been given in a long, long time. I'm lost in the feeling of freedom when the next blows land, and I can manage to do nothing but moan loudly; grinding my hips in the air, desperate for any friction against my soaked pussy.

"She loves it! What a slut!" The throngs approving cheers float around me as I'm struck again, and again.

My smile widens and all i can think is 'I'm home'.