A Betty's Pledge: Volume One (31 page)

“Before we begin, I want to give you all a quick reminder about respect and responsibility
when it comes to witnessing another couple in an intimate act: What happens here stays
here. Some of what you will see may be a little uncomfortable for a few of you who
aren’t into that sort of thing. You can leave at any time, but be respectful as you
do it. No one will look down on you for having to excuse yourselves. The girls and
I are staying in here in case there are questions about what’s going on, and I have
a couple minutes to answer any now.”

“What exactly is going on in there?” Sarah said.

“I’m sure you’ve been told by your Dames before that the Grants practice in varying
forms of sexual intimacy. Today you will witness one of these lifestyles. Like I’ve
said before, be respectful even in your comments afterward. Some of the Pledges here
may live this lifestyle or may have dabbled in it from time to time. Some of you have
even voiced your interest, and I know at least one of the Consorts dedicates his life
to this kind of play. That’s all I’m going to say about it.”

Diane took a step away from the large window toward the door. She lowered the lighting
in the Deck so that we could better see into the playroom on the other side. It was
only then that I noticed dim recessed lighting in the ceiling along the edges of the
room, serving as a soft spotlight and illuminating certain aspects.

From what I could see, the walls were painted in a dark plum, almost the color of
a deep bruise. There wasn’t much in the room, only a few things in the back that were
cast into shadow and a couple of tables that were draped in thick, red material, covering
what was underneath like a macabre sterilized surgical tray.

A quiet hush fell over the Deck as we took in the scene, almost as if we were waiting
for a much anticipated film to start. I half expected Sarah to bust out with some
popcorn and jujubes from underneath her blanket.

A moment later, another light had switched on, the same intensity as the others. Only
this one was aimed toward the center of the room, casting a soft light onto a figure
kneeling on the floor.

“Holy. Shit,” Sarah muttered, and I couldn’t help but agree with her. There, in the
middle of the room, was a well-muscled man kneeling on the carpet wearing nothing
but a black mask and black leather chaps. His cock was standing out erect, and his
head was bowed. It looked like his hands were bound behind his back, the muscles of
his chest and shoulders held tight due to the overextension of his arms.

He looked like an erotic warrior, down on the ground in both submission and supplication.
His firm muscles were taut and preening, his thick erection hard and ready. But for
whom?

From my point of view, I couldn’t tell who the male could be. His leather mask covered
the majority of his face, and his head was bowed so low that only the top of it was
the most prominent. I looked around the room quickly, trying to make out something
or someone else that could give me a clue as to what would happen next. I had an idea,
obviously, but in the anticipatory silence, the intrigue was both enticing and agonizing.

I almost felt bad for the male, with his rock-hard appendage shooting out of his groin
like a wild flower seeking the sun. I had no idea how long he’d been holding that
pose. And all the while I watched him kneel there silently, all I thought about was
how painful it had to be keeping that thing ready for use. I mean, all he had for
stimulation was a couple of strips of leather on his body and bindings keeping him
poised.

Perhaps that was a part of it, though. The thought of a man tying me up had always
sparked something deep inside me. Maybe some men got off on that kind of thing only
in reverse.

“It’s time to please me,” a woman’s voice sounded from within the room, a silky smooth
voice that held erotic promises—the stuff wet dreams were made of. “Are you ready
to serve?”

“Yes, Mistress,” the male replied without raising his head. “I’m always ready to serve.”

“I know you are . . .”

A tall woman walked into the room with her back to us, her gaze fixed on her prize
upon the floor. Her long, black dress fitted like a second skin, moving with her,
highlighting every curve of her body. The slope of her back appeared elegantly bare,
and the fabric dipped down and delicately kissed her tailbone. Her bronzed skin looked
soft and her ebony hair hung in soft curls along her shoulders. The elbow-length black
gloves she wore added grace and style, like she could’ve been going to the opera.

It was when she took a step into the room, closer to her subject on the floor that
her dress parted along the length of her leg, revealing a large slit in the fabric
that hit the top of her pelvis, leaving everything exposed.

“Do you know how much I look forward to our meetings?”

“Yes, my Mistress—as much as I do—and more.”

“Hmm, we’ll see . . .” She walked to the center of the room, looking down upon her
male with an air of scrutiny, as if she were looking at a piece of art worthy of interpretation.

And like she found her subject lacking in some way, she calmly walked toward a small
cupboard in the back of the room that was hidden by shadow, with purpose in her stride.
She opened the double doors and stood staring into its depths, contemplating the contents.
In a quick motion, she pushed her hand inside and grabbed a long, thin object. She
pulled it out, placing it behind her back and hiding it from our view.

“Are you willing to serve me?” It was the first time that she offered us a frontal
view, and now I realized that the woman was Colette, and I could only assume that
the man was Phillip.

I couldn’t see his expression or his face, but I felt the anticipation grow in the
atmosphere, as if what Colette held in her hand would ignite the lust he contained
under the surface.

“I am, Mistress,” I heard the yearning in his voice. He wanted the domination. He
wanted the hunger that came with submission.

“Good,” she replied with obvious approval, then brought the object she held in full
frontal view. I just had time to register that it was a black crop, strong and steady,
before it came swinging down onto the broad of his back. It made a sharp whacking
sound, making some of us jump slightly from the sound and flinch from the obvious
sting it caused him. He didn’t move, didn’t seem to register the pain. He held still,
not tensing nor flinching, and his lack of reaction seemed to please Colette.

“Perfect,” she almost moaned, as if his resolve was more of a turn-on than a response
would have been. She walked in front of him, her black gown trailing, following the
flow of her movement and parting to reveal the vast expanse of her bare leg from hipbone
to delicate ankle. Her expression was all but slight, however.

She started in short, sharp strokes, striking Phillip upon his bare chest and on the
side of his face. The strokes themselves were not harsh, but they had to have left
a small bite afterward. And yet, he didn’t move. He knelt there in the same position
he’d started in: head bent, face down, knees parted, cock ready and hard.

“I like how responsive you are,” she told him, and at first, I was confused by her
statement. To me, he wasn’t responding at all, as if her strokes were hitting nothing
but concrete. Taking a closer look, I saw that his cock was impossibly harder than
before, and his body was just as tense as his shaft, almost like an electrode had
been placed on every muscle in his body, charging them into readiness. “So good. So
well behaved.”

She landed a couple more blows, leaving several spots on his skin bright red. I could
see a slight sheen of sweat building on Phillip’s pecs, but he didn’t seem to notice.
Neither did Colette. I switched my gaze to her, watching how she used her tool of
torture. She seemed never to hit the same place twice, only warming the skin enough
to cause an automatic reaction to the flesh itself, keeping her male’s senses heightened
and primed.

She moved her riding crop lower and lower down his body, hitting the rounded peaks
of his well-muscled abs. He didn’t tighten them when she struck; he had already been
hard and coiled. When she landed a few swipes to his pelvis, I started to get worried
for the poor boy.

Now, I wasn’t a man, but I knew being hit in the junk was not a picnic in the park.
In fact, I seemed to remember getting sent to the office in the sixth grade when I
kicked Tommy Peters in the ’nads when he tried to kiss me. The poor kid was limping
for a week. So, keeping that little experience in the back of my mind, coupled by
all the comments I’d heard from the opposite sex and their sensitivity to their bits,
I watched closely at Phillip’s reaction as she inched her little crop lower to his
happy land. It was almost like one of those train wreck scenarios—you know it’s going
to be gruesome, but you can’t look away.

Yeah, my eyes were glued to the scene before me.

With sure, steady strokes, Colette brought down the end of the crop onto his thick
erection, making the stiff rod bob a little. She moaned slightly, and then did it
again in quick succession.

“Nice,” she said in a whisper, then stepped back abruptly, resting her crop on her
hip as she looked down at her reddened erotic warrior.

“You did well, my love. You may thank me.” Immediately, Phillip bent down and kissed
the small ankles of his Mistress in reverence, one right after the other.

Colette took a step back from him and he quickly resumed his previous position: head
down, knees apart, arms bound tightly behind him.

“I like seeing your skin all red like that,” Colette told him as if in passing as
she made her way to the red-covered tables. In a quick motion, she removed one of
the towels that draped what looked like several thin steel rods. Lying next to the
instruments was a pair of sterile latex gloves. “The way you deal with the pain, keeping
it inside of you and channeling it—there is nothing about our time that turns me on
more. Let’s see if we can both have our fun, shall we?”

Abruptly, Diane rose from her seat and walked toward the glass just as Colette finished
donning her gloves and grabbing one of the steel rods. With a couple of soft raps
on the glass, Colette looked toward the two-way mirror with a look that could have
killed Medusa on the spot. She paused briefly, searing whoever had dared interrupt
her session with a gaze of death, and then just as quickly as it appeared, her vicious
expression retreated.

“I guess we’ll have to save those for another time,” she said almost absentmindedly,
setting down the rod on the table and turning back toward Phillip with a pensive look
on her face.

“What was that about, I wonder?” Sarah said in a soft whisper.

“It’s called a sound,” Marissa replied, looking toward the rods that still rested
on the red-draped table. “They insert them into a male’s urethra for stimulation.
It’s part of pain play in a scene.”

Sarah and I looked at her incredulously, our eyebrows disappearing into our hairlines.
Besides the fact that I was incredibly surprised sweet, innocent Marissa knew what
that was, the thought of that coming anywhere near my pee-hole had me cringing and
clenching simultaneously. I didn’t know which was more shocking, the idea of the sounding
or the fact that Marissa knew what it was.

“What?” Marissa asked, shrinking down into the blanket at our expressions. “I know
how to search the Internet . . .”

“I think I have a better idea,” Colette said from behind the glass, bringing our attention
back into the room. “Since we cannot venture into our more favorable pastime, I think
we can teach the girls a thing or two about endurance.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Phillip replied.

“I want you on the table.”

“As you wish.” Phillip rose from his position, and while keeping his head down, he
turned toward a long table in the back of the room. The flat surface was cushioned,
almost like the ones I’d used at my gyno’s office. Only this one didn’t have any of
those leg-spreader things that always made me cringe when I’d see them out.

Phillip sat on the table, careful to keep his gaze down, as Colette approached him
from the side. She unbound his hand from behind him and instructed him to lie on his
back. Once he was in position, she refastened his arms above his head, tying the bindings
to the table so that he couldn’t touch her. She repeated the same action with his
feet, keeping him sprawled out on the table, completely at her mercy.

Suddenly, those stirrups at my doc’s office didn’t seem so intimidating.

“Yes, this is much better,” Colette purred as she circled the table, her expression
like a hunting feline ensnaring her prey. With quick strides, she returned to the
red table and picked up her crop, a gleam in her eye that made me incredibly curious
as to what she was thinking.

“I am going to give you very specific instructions,” she told him as she returned
to his bedside. “I want only the response I’m looking for, and that is it. Do you
understand?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

At his response, Colette brought down the crop onto his skin, a sharp thwack resounding
throughout the room. She repeated the same movements she had before, only these seemed
more intense, designed to bring about an entirely different result.