Thwack. Thud. Thud. Slap.
Stephen's blows were making contact, but at irregular intervals and with uneven intensities. It really annoyed me. It was as if he couldn't feel the rhythm. Or he didn't have the right wrist motion. Or he couldn't accurately calculate where the strikes were going to land.
My wrists were fastened to the bases of two legs of the kitchen table, too tightly, I too lately realized. My hands were getting numb and my fingers swelling, but being the sub, I felt I couldn't complain. My legs were stretched to the opposite corners of the table and leather restraints were securely holding my ankles there. Fortunately, Stephen had put a slab of memory foam down, and covered it with a sheet, so my torso was cushioned.
The next stroke made my right shoulder blade smart, followed by one which connected partly with my waist, but mostly with the memory foam. A harder one followed, obviously mirroring Stephen's responsive frustration, and it landed on my left butt cheek, but also stung my anus.
"Owww!" I reacted.
We were new at this. Both married bi-guys. Or, at least, I was still married. Stephen was twice divorced. My wife was reluctantly supportive of me finding a man to become sexually involved with, but Stephen's motivation was his own, and without a need to negotiate with his spouse. Though different in so many ways, we were alike in our reaching out in midlife to try out a relationship with a man.
In our several conversations on the subject, I learned that he, like me, had had a man or two on a brief encounter, a quick blow and go. Now we were interested in a longer-term affair. Or again, at least I was, and he seemed to indicate, by his recurring contact with me, that he was too.
We had agreed on a sub/dom type of relationship, mostly because his wishes were for giving only, and I was flexible, though probably more of a sub anyway. In our previous meet-ups, numbering three so far, he had taken the lead, by suggesting the activities—or, more accurately, by dictating what we would be doing—and, although initially reluctant, I had acted the model sub and went along with things. As it turned out, we had had a pretty fucking-good time every time.
Last weekend, we did lunch with his longtime friends, Bevaun and Virginia. In his effort to spice up their lives together and spark a renewed sexual fire, he had me attired as Maid Martha in a skimpy red apron, attending to their every wish, no matter how inappropriate. Even though I was shocked by his ask, and dubious that Stephen's plan would ever succeed, judging by what all had happened, I was personally gratified by all the sex that was had over the entire afternoon.
Surprisingly though, his little improvisation had succeeded, Stephen told me today, that Bevaun and Virginia were madly in love again, and were "fucking their heads off." So, to reward me for the role I had played, and to laud himself for the originality of the idea, he insisted that we celebrate by having a "flogging good time" tonight.
I writhed on the table—at least within the limits of my restraints. I managed a well-timed groan to a well-directed blow, but the whole experience was tormenting me. I wanted to instruct him, remind him of our flogging lesson, but being tied to the submissive role, I countered any such impulse by urging myself to be patient, allowing him to learn by experience, and by uttering an emphatic "Yes!" when he happened to hit the mark. Unfortunately, there were too few times when there was reason to reinforce what he had just done.
But there was more to it than being physically restrained or even being constrained by my role. I was becoming disappointed in Stephen, doubting him. This man, who had been so adept at being a master in our three previous roleplays, was a failure in this one. And I saw no hope that it would change. I had tasted—and liked—the pleasure and pain of our flogging lesson, so on our way home, I was so looking forward to, from Stephen, what I had felt in Mr. Hom's masterful hands...
.
We had entered Leather Folks two hours earlier, and had approached the sales clerk, a feminine appearing person dressed in a tight black leather vest and pants, with black collar, facial piercings, and body art the entire length of her arms. Stephen had inquired about floggers. She had done a double take, eyeing the pair of us standing before her, a tall and lean man beside a shorter heavyset one, maybe wondering who would be the flogger and who, the floggee. But she replied, "I'll get Mr. Hom."
Mr. Hom was a bit inscrutable. He clearly was Asian, and shorter in stature than Stephen, who was two inches shorter than I. He was clean-shaven with jet black hair slicked back, but wasn't obviously muscular. Nevertheless, he had a mastery of us mere mortals by virtue of his command of the so-called "spaces in between." In other words, he could control the silence. He was master of the pause. He could make us wait, sometimes uncomfortably, until he was ready to respond. And so, after a full minute of quiet appraisal of us, two men standing together in a leather shop, he inquired in a soft voice, in English very tersely spoken,
"You like to see floggers?"
"Yes sir," responded Stephen, with an excitement that I thought betrayed his inexperience, then adding, "and maybe some other things too."
Another lengthy silence followed. Mr. Hom, in his quiet way, replied, "You come with me to dungeon then." Though not completely sure, I thought I detected the trace of a smile.
He led us to the back of the store, switched on a light above the stairs, then took us down one flight to a wooden plank door that had a keypad entry. He punched in four numbers, a click sounded, he pulled the door open, and ushered us inside into the dark.
Immediately, four light switches were all flipped up, and although one would have assumed the room to have been intensely flooded in bright light, these switches activated yellow-orange lightbulbs spaced evenly around the dungeon's perimeter, each one in the shape of a flame, presumedly to resemble a torch.
We stood there in a bit of shock. Mr. Hom eventually interrupted our reverie. "Who do flogging?" he inquired, looking first at me, then at Stephen.
Stephen answered, "Me."
Mr. Hom waited another minute, at least. "You do before?"
"No."
A nod from Mr. Hom followed, another silent minute, after which he said, "Then I show you."
