Wicked Game

I was bored out of my mind. It was my first business trip to New York City. Summer months and NYC do not mix well. On my first night, the temperature never dipped below 80 degrees. I stayed in my hotel room and tried to interest myself in HBO movies. Even prolonged masturbation, that finally put me to sleep, yielded only a mild orgasm. I slept fitfully.

I awoke to Wednesday morning. Where was the sun? Where were the birds? I looked out the window hoping for a glimpse of my beloved Pikes Peak but found only the dullness of brick and steel. Wednesday. Two more days in hell. I ordered breakfast in my room. The scrambled eggs were cold. The bacon was overdone. The orange juice was watered down. The coffee was the only thing that wasn't fucked up. All this for $225 per night and a $20 breakfast, and that was a bargain.

Mt first meeting was at 9:30. I needed to take a taxi to 52nd Street. Or was it 46th Avenue? A poor country girl lost in NYC. The saying "You can take the girl out of the country, but you can't take the country out of the girl" kept wafting through my mind.

I hadn't taken a lot of clothes with me. Just enough to fill a carry-on. With a change of planes in Chicago, I was afraid that my luggage would get lost in the shuffle. My dress was wrinkled, even after a night in the closet. Thank goodness there was an iron and an ironing board.

When I walked out of the hotel I was greeted by the irritating noise of busses, cars and trucks. Traffic was backed up for blocks. Taxis were full. Where was the doorman? Fuck! I remember thinking to myself that this would be my first and last trip here. I walked down the street, looking back from time to time for an empty taxi, when my eyes came upon a row of vending boxes filled with newspapers and magazines, each of them touting the joys of sex in Manhattan. One caught my eye—"BDSM Journal." I looked around, almost too shy to pick it up. I grabbed it quickly and folded it to preclude anyone from seeing the smut in my hands. I quickly shoved it into my purse, for later perusal.

Meetings all day. Men with yellow-stained teeth and ugly ties. Women with big butts. The stench of car exhausts. On my way back to my hotel room, I stopped long enough at a local bar to enjoy a Vodka martini. Back in my room, I shed my dress and pantyhose and plopped down on the bed in a lacey white bra and rayon panties. It was my first feeling of comfort during the whole day. Suddenly I remembered the newspaper in my handbag. I pulled it out and began reading through it.

Most of the rag was pure sleaze. Invitations for men to be whipped by women, and, once in a while, vice-versa. Stores that catered to the S&M crowd. Hand-crafted leather whips that started at $150. Tight-fitting black leather corsets. Women with huge, silicon-filled breasts. I had almost thrown the newspaper in the trash when I noticed a quarter-page ad for an establishment called The Vault. Despite the fact that it obviously was a place for S&M pleasures (or pains), it was one of the more tasteful ads. What caught my attention was the banner "Wednesday Nights—Lesbians Only."

Well, it was Wednesday and I was a lesbian. Both requirements met. What the hell. Lower Manhattan wasn't all that far and taxis were easier to find after 9:00 p.m. By the time I had eaten one more course of the lousy hotel food and showered, it was 8:30. I pulled the same red dress I had worn all day out of the closet. It was far too fancy for an S&M hangout, but it was better that the drab gray dress I was saving for tomorrow.

Out on the street, I hailed a yellow taxi and gave him the address of The Vault. I closed my eyes for most of the trip, fearing for my life as the taxi somehow missed major collisions with half a dozen cars. Twenty-eight dollars (and a five dollar tip) later, I exited the taxi in front of a small sign signifying I had found the right place. THE VAULT. An arrow pointing down led me to steel stairs. I opened the door to the establishment. It was dark and dank. I almost turned around. A woman in a booth looked at me with an expressionless face.

"Twenty dollars, please."

I almost turned away again. Oh well, what's twenty dollars for a trip to fantasy land?

I paid the twenty bucks and walked forward, letting my eyes slowly adjust to the room's darkness. There was a bar to my left, but it served only non-alcoholic beverages. Hmmmm. Local laws? Several women clad mostly in dark colors sat at the bar; none of them looked at me. To the left of the bar were several empty cages. Along the other side of the room were tables with only half of them filled. It amazed me how many S&M lesbians smoked cigarettes.

I suddenly realized how out of place I looked in my business dress. Fuck it. I am what I am. I moved forward. A door led to a back room. Inside the back room was a stage that looked more like a boxing rink. More tables, all of them empty, surrounded the stage. At least there was no smoke back there.

I made my way back to the U-shaped bar. There was no one sitting on the right side. I slid into a chair and ordered a coke. Three bucks for a 10 ounce glass. More ice than coke. Across from me, on the other side of the bar, two girls were lip-locked. The girl on the left had opened her companion's blouse and moved her hand under the girl's black bra. They seemed oblivious to everyone around them.

As the evening moved on, more girls entered the establishment. Sometimes alone, sometimes in two's, sometimes in small groups. By 11:00, the place was astonishingly filled with women, some of them in outlandish S&M garb. Most of them wore way too much make-up. Many of them had their tits or buns hanging half-way out.

Someone turned up the music. It blared loudly. When the music softened, several women moved to the dance floor. Their bodies pressed tightly against each other; they swayed back and forth. Two of the dancers kissed so passionately I thought they would end up fucking right there on the dance floor. The girl-on-the-left grasped girl-on-the-right's leather shorts-covered ass tightly and pulled her close. I watched in amazement as pubis ground against pubis. The sight was erotic enough to send a familiar tingle in my loins.

So entranced with the lovers on the dance floor, I didn't even notice a girl move sit next to me. I heard her order a Sprite. "No ice," she said.

The bartender, a scraggly-looking blond with dark roots, pushed the drink in front of her. "Four bucks," she said.

Mmmm. Prices go up after 11:00.

When the bartender left, I turned to her. "For four bucks I could a six pack. Two six packs when they're on sale."

She smiled. Besides the two dancers on the floor, it was the only human emotion I had seen all night. She had dark brown hair, cut short. She wore dungarees and a black cut-off with the word "Bitch" emblazoned in white across the front. "That's why I don't order ice. You get more that way."

"Frugality is a virtue," I quipped.

She laughed. "It's probably my only virtue."

I don't know why she belittled herself. She was rather cute. Only half the make-up of most others. Maybe the only really "cute" girl in the house.

"So how long have you been into the scene?" she asked.

It took me a while to comprehend what she meant by "scene." I almost forgot I was in an S&M club. "About two years," I replied.

"Top or bottom?" she asked.

I had to think again. I wasn't used to the S&M vernacular of the New York "scene." "Bottom, but I switch every once in a while."

"Me too. Mostly top, but sometimes I need a good whipping to adjust my equilibrium."

She wasn't pulling any punches, yet somehow I didn't feel intimidated by her.

"You from Jersey?" she asked.

I laughed. "Colorado. I'm on a business trip."

She laughed again. "You look like a Jersey girl. I like your dress. And your perfume."

I had no doubt she was coming on to me. Her voice was soft, almost pleasing. I looked into her eyes. Dark brown. Thin eye lashes. Just a touch of mascara. Full lips with light-pink lipstick. "It's White Diamonds perfume," I said. "My favorite."

She nonchalantly put her hand on top of my arm. "I'm Rachel."

"Pleased to meet you, Rachel. I'm Claire."

We chit-chatted for fifteen or twenty minutes. She was a touchy-feely type. Her knees brushed against mine. Her fingernails lightly scraped against my arm. She leaned in close when she talked, her breasts pressing into my arm.

"Wicked Game," one of my favorite songs by Chris Isaak, suddenly came through the loudspeakers. I felt emboldened. "Would you like to dance, Rachel?"

She smiled. "I'd love to."

We moved to the dance floor. I was nervous at first, but when our bodies came together I felt quite comfortable. Too comfortable. "What a wicked game to play, to make me feel this way..."

"Do you like wicked games?" she asked as our bodies swayed softly to the music.

"Sometimes," I replied.

Her hand brushed lightly against my left breast as she moved her fingertips to the side of my neck and lightly scratched the soft skin. Her thighs pressed into mine. "I feel wicked tonight," she husked.

"I do, too."

"Really wicked," she continued.

I took a deep breath. "What does 'really wicked' do for me?" I asked.

"It just might get you a nicely striped ass."

I felt my pussy tingle again. It was speaking for me. "I just might like that."

"You'll love it!" she said. "Let's get out of here."

We danced until the song ended. Not a word was said until we were in a taxi on our way to Rachel's Eastside apartment. Anticipation is wonderful. So are first times. It was almost midnight. Rachel sat close to me as the taxi wended its way through traffic. Her hand rested lightly on my thigh. When I uncrossed my legs, almost in invitation, her fingertips moved boldly to the inside of my left leg, just above my knee. I wanted to open my legs wide and give her freedom to roam, but I didn't want to give the taxi driver an eyeful. I was satisfied with her fingers where they were. Her touch was mesmerizing.

Her apartment was tastefully furnished. The décor was modern. The sofa was tan, made of pure Italian leather. I sat down on the soft leather. My body molded into it. "Your apartment is absolutely beautiful," I said.

"Thank you," she replied. "Would you like a drink?"

"Do you have a Merlot?"

"Is Forest Glenn okay?"

"Perfect!"

"I'll have one, too," she said.

She returned with two glasses of red wine in hand, smiling broadly. My skirt had ridden slightly up my pantyhose-clad legs, almost to mid thigh. I had nice legs and didn't mind showing them off. She looked down at my skirt. She liked what she saw.

"What do you do for a living?" I asked.

"I'm a patent attorney. Most boring job in town, but it pays well."

"Are you from New York originally?" I knew I was a tad nervous, and it must have been obvious I was stalling on the reason she had brought me here.

"I was born and raised in Tampa. Too many bugs and too much humidity in the summertime. I got my degree from the University of Florida. My uncle owns the firm I work for. He made me an offer I couldn't refuse."

I sipped on the Merlot. "How long have you been in New York?" I asked.

She suddenly changed the subject. "Claire, did you come here to discuss my life or to play some wicked games?"

I felt my face flush profusely. "For wicked games," I admitted, lowering my head submissively.

"You've been a naughty girl?"

I put my half-full glass of wine on the cocktail table in front of me. "Very naughty."

The spider was about to pull its prey into the web. "And what happens to naughty girls?" she asked.

My fingers fidgeted nervously on my lap. "They get punished," I boldly replied.

Rachel put her glass next to mine and arose, standing over me. I was afraid to look into her eyes. Without a word, she extended her hand. I accepted it and she helped me arise from the sofa. My heart was beating a thousand times a minute as she led me down a hall into a strange room.

"This is my Punish Room, Claire," she said as she turned on the overhead light.

I looked around. A variety of whips hung on the left wall. A chair with wrist and ankle straps was just to my right. There was a sawhorse in the middle of the room, directly under the light, likewise adorned with cuffs on the bottom of each of the four legs. I gulped. What was I getting myself into?

"This is where I bring my naughty girls," she said.

My mouth was suddenly and inexplicably dry despite the fact that I had only recently tasted her wine. My eyes opened wide at the sight in front of me.

"It's very impressive," I said, my words giving away my nervousness.

"I think the sawhorse would be just fine for starters. Move forward, Claire."

I moved nervously toward the sawhorse and stood in front of it, my head lowered, my heart pounding. Suddenly I didn't feel as brave as I had when we were at The Vault.

Rachel looked down at my legs. "Are you wearing pantyhose?" she asked.

"Y-yes," I stuttered.

"Take them off. They only get in the way."

With Rachel standing behind me, I raised my dress almost all the way to my hips and, easing my thumbs into the elastic waistband, drew the pantyhose down and off my legs. I kicked them to the right and let my skirt fall back into place.

"Open your legs wider. I need to get these cuffs around your ankles."

I had to raise my skirt again, this time only to the top of my now bare thighs, to accommodate her request. She knelt behind me and grasped my right ankle. She pulled it toward the right leg of the sawhorse and fastened the cuff around it. She fastened it just tightly enough to hold it in place. She pulled my left leg over and repeated the process. From her position behind me, she had an unobstructed view between my parted legs, all the way to my panty-covered crotch. I was sure she took advantage of the view.

She arose from behind me and moved to the right side of the room. She opened the top drawer of a two-drawer chest and located a red cushion made of soft cotton. With the cushion in hand, she moved in front of me. I looked down at my bodice. My nipples poked smartly through the material, telling a wordless tale of my obvious arousal. She placed the cushion over the cross bar of the sawhorse.

"Your tummy won't hurt this way," she said. "Bend over."

I leaned over the sawhorse, my stomach pressing into the softness of the cushion. I was thankful for her thoughtfulness. I could only imagine how the wooden two by four would have cut into my stomach muscles without the cushion. The blood rushed to my head as I leaned all the way down. I knew exactly where my wrists needed to be. Rachel pulled each of them to the cuffs and fastened the metal buckles, again just tightly enough to immobilize me. She stood up and pulled a wide leather belt over my lower back. It fit more tightly than the wrist or ankle cuffs and held me firmly in place.

Suddenly I was aware that I was totally at Rachel's mercy. If she was some kind of weirdo sadist, I was in deep trouble. I wondered what I had gotten myself into. She moved behind me. Looking back from between my legs, I watched her take a thick leather strap from its place on the wall.

Soon she was standing to my left, looking down at my skirt-covered but nicely proffered buns. "The safe word is 'red'. If you say the safe word, I'll stop what I am doing. If you make too much noise when I pleasure you, I'll have to gag you. When you are gagged, you can shake your head back and forth instead of using the safe word. Do you understand?"

I nodded my head in agreement and hesitantly whispered "Yes." My hair hung all the way to the floor. Surely my heart was about to pump its way out of my chest.

I felt Rachel's hands on the back of my thighs. She whisked my skirt up in one smooth motion, all the way to my hips, exposing my white rayon panties. She brushed her right hand over the softness of the material, pressing lightly into my ass. The touch felt good. I knew it might be the last time I would feel any tenderness for the rest of the evening. Her fingers wandered all over my soon to be reddened buns before reaching into the top of the panties and pulling them down. Because of my spread legs, she was able to move the panties only to the top of my thighs. They were far enough down, however, to leave the fleshiness of my derriere totally exposed. I was now completely at Rachel's mercy.

Her fingertips played soft music on my naked buns. I felt her pry my ass cheeks apart, apparently to check out my crinkly rosebud. I had never felt so vulnerable in all my life. When I sensed that she had arisen to a full standing position, I began to brace myself for the wicked-looking leather strap.

I heard the tell-tale sound of the leather biting into my flesh just milliseconds before I felt its pain. I promised myself I would be brave. For the first stroke I was. I grunted loudly enough to be heard, but I took the stroke stoically. It was the same with the next five or six times that the leather strap snapped against my naked ass. I gripped my hands tightly to try to fight the pain. I knew Rachel was starting out slowly, building me up and leading me toward more intense pain.

It was near numbers nine or ten that I made my first real sound of pain. A gaspy and breath-filled "ahhhhhhh" as the leather bit into me with a searing sting that made my whole body shake. "Hit a nerve there, huh?" asked Rachel.

"Oh, yes!" I cried. "Damn, that one really hurt." My knuckles turned white from gripping my fingers so hard.

"Are you okay? What's the safe word?"

"Red," I answered, "but you will never hear me say it."

"I like your spunk, young lady. We shall see."

She rubbed the barely pliant leather over my already beleaguered ass. She tapped it softly over the reddened flesh, then brought it back and took careful aim. I tried to brace myself by clenching my ass cheeks. She noticed my action and held back until I reflexively unclenched my buns. Hardly had I relaxed when she cracked the hard leather right across the middle of my ass. This time I squealed, mustering all the power in my mind to hold back a scream that would have likely meant a gag in mouth. I hated gags.

"I'm impressed," said Rachel. "You have a high threshold of pain." Suddenly she moved a hand between my legs and pressed it against my vulva. Her middle finger eased into the puffy lips of my pussy and slid easily into my vagina. I could hear the familiar sound of slurping wetness as she delved the finger in and out.

"And the little girl is so very wet!" she exclaimed. "Does she like the strap?"

"Yes," I admitted.

"Can you take it even harder?" she asked.

"If you want to." What the heck was I saying? My derriere was already stinging like hell.

She pulled the finger out of me and wiped it clean on my panties. I steeled myself once more. She waited a long time before the next stroke, purposely I was sure. Once or twice she pretended to bring the strap forward, only to stop at the very last second. The wait was unbearable. I wanted her to get on with it. She was teasing me maddeningly.

When the next stroke came, it was like a fire across my entire ass. My arms and legs shook wildly against the cuffs that bound them. Tears welled in my eyes. I gasped. I let out a long, slow breath. But, miraculously, I did not cry out. The pain lasted much longer than my almost futile gasps for air. I had taken a dozen swats, each one harder than the one before.

"Your ass was made for this," she said.

I was afraid to tell her I lived for these moments. The moments when pain suddenly becomes pleasure. It's far too hard to explain, even in my own mind. At times like this, there was no such thing as pain. More often than not, I was able to cum soon after the pain turned to pleasure. Tonight was no different. I needed only Rachel's hand between my legs once more to push me over the top. I came on her hand, coating it with my copiously flowing juices.