Ecstasy in the White Room (3 page)

Several blows land, and she makes ugly, animal-sounding noises,
jerking against her bonds at hand and foot. Whatever she’s feeling, my own
gouging lust is almost too much for me, and as if he’s read my mind, Simon slips
an arm around my waist, and with his free hand, he cups my crotch through my
dress. As he squeezes me, I see several pairs of eyes note the action, despite
the histrionic woman being cropped. It’s Simon’s signal that we’re game to join
the party.

Me, I don’t care what it is. I circle my hips, working myself
in his grip. I’m so hungry to come that I don’t care who sees me. Bloody hell, I
want
them to watch. The idea of orgasming right
now, at my darling’s hand, with all these avid watchers watching
me,
almost makes it happen for real.

“Tut-tut...behave yourself,” he whispers in my ear, then rubs
me harder, the devil. His finger pushes the cloth of my dress and my G-string
between my sex lips as he rocks it on my clit. Most people are still watching
the woman over the trestle and her agonies, but at least half a dozen folk are
turned toward us now. Simon slides his other hand from my waist to my breast,
squeezing there too. I close my eyes, leaning against his strong torso and
jostling my buttocks, still gently glowing, against his hips.

“If you come, I’ll punish you, you know that, don’t you?” It’s
not a whisper this time. His voice is quite distinct. With eyes tight shut, I
can’t see the avid faces, but I can imagine their interest sharpening. Men
licking their lips in anticipation, their cocks growing hard in their elegant
trousers, just as Simon’s has done in his. It’s like a knot of iron pushing
against the soreness he’s created in my bottom cheeks.

I don’t speak, but I bear down on his fingers, rocking my
pelvis for stimulation. He exerts more pressure, his touch rough against my clit
through the cloth while he pinches my nipple and twists it.

A circuit completes between breast and sex. “Oh God,” I groan,
my voice sounding shockingly loud as waves of pleasure surge. Simon maintains
the contact, even though I’m wriggling shamelessly, riding the orgasm.

For several moments, I’m wrung out, barely able to stand,
relying solely on his strength as I recover. I guess some people are still
watching, but noises from the direction of the trestle reclaim the general
attention, even mine.

While my own small drama has been playing out, things have
moved on. The hapless woman’s buttocks are almost covered with stripes of
crimson, and trickles of arousal are oozing down her thighs. Her disciplinarian
seems to have deemed her “done” now, and is inspecting his handiwork, both
visually and manually, squeezing the punished flesh with the same cruelty he
employed wielding his crop.

After quite a bit of pinching and poking, he abruptly turns and
makes an impatient gesture. A man steps forward, holding out a black glass jar.
He screws off the top, and the disciplinarian plunges his fingers into it,
scoops up something, then appears to slather it onto his victim. From where
we’re standing, Simon and I can’t see exactly where, but he repeats the action
several times, almost as if he’s packing her with the stuff. When he’s satisfied
with his handiwork, he indicates that the other man move around, towards the
woman’s head.

Oh, oh my God. Are they? Are they going to do what I think
they’re going to do? Simon holds me close, not pinching or rubbing now, just
sustaining me. Part of me wants us to move around, so we can see more precisely
what’s about to occur, but the rest of me almost doesn’t need to. Imagination
shows me everything I need to know.

The first man, the one who wielded the crop, now unzips
himself, and gets out his cock. It’s thick and stubby, nowhere nearly as nice as
Simon’s elegant equipment, and its owner treats it almost casually, frisking it
a bit, then rolling on a rather heavy looking condom. Then, with no further ado,
he moves into position and starts working himself into the woman in a series of
determined shoves.

Is he fucking her or sodomizing her? Who knows? She starts
keening into her gag, but almost immediately, the other man unfastens it and
flings it aside. Her moans don’t sound to me like the cries of a woman in pain,
but they’re very quickly stifled when her second paramour unzips also, and,
taking her head in his hands, pushes his cock between her lips.

What follows is like poem of human syncopation, somehow both
animal and peculiarly beautiful all the same. Bodies in motion, pumping,
rocking. Someone from outside this world of sex would see the woman as degraded,
yet to this audience of cognoscenti she’s exalted, her punished flesh worshipped
by two men, not just one. And as matters draw to a crisis, she clearly comes
again and again, her struggles ecstatic and the orgasms of her partners an act
of homage.

I don’t want to be with another man, but in that moment, I
almost wish there were two of my beloved Simon.

A second later, one is more than enough, and all I’ll ever
need. He casts one last glance at the trestle then slips his forefinger beneath
the ribbon around my neck, giving it a tug. With a little wink, he starts to
lead me across the big white room, toward a rather fine upright chair, fashioned
from black-painted wood, with a slightly asymmetric back and a seat cushion of
pistachio-colored leather. I sense a few of the watchers from the trestle scene
discreetly moving in our wake.

“Time to pay the price for being a horny trollop, my dear,” he
says softly as we reach our destination. Standing before the chair, he draws my
face to his, using my “collar” and kisses me hard on the lips. As his tongue
plunges in, ruthlessly subduing mine, for just a fraction of a second I give
thanks for long-lasting lip-stain, rather than sticky, messy gloss, then I
forget that completely as he comprehensively ravishes my mouth. Trembling, I
stand, accepting his dominion, my nerves firing, my glands pumping hormones, my
entire skin surface sensitizing.

Pushing me from him, he sits down, plucking at the knees of his
beautiful trousers, settling his strong thighs and making a lap. He’s clearly
got a prominent erection, but he seems happy to flaunt it. I’ll bet he’s not the
only man with a hard-on in this room, far from it. Probably all the males in the
small circle gathered around us are feeling just the same.

“Come along. Over my knee,” he says crisply. “You know it’ll do
you good.”

Nonsense seems to make perfect sense in this environment, and
several people nod, as if approving his wisdom. Simon takes my small evening bag
and sets it beside the chair, before helping me into position with
irreproachable gentleness and consideration. But just when I think I’m settled
and balanced, he pushes me farther forward, bringing my bottom up more
prominently and making me feel precarious again. I flail a bit, but suddenly,
there’s a snap and flick and I see the silk length of his tie flutter in the
corner of my eye. Then he catches my hands at the small of my back, and secures
me with it.

The demon. This seems to be his preference at the moment,
shackling my hands, making me helpless. I feel dizzy, but not from blood running
to my head. I’m giddy with lust.

“Now then, let’s see your bottom, shall we?” He sounds like one
of the stern, authority figures from the old pictures in the Blue Book, one of
those lascivious Victorian gentlemen, the kind he likes to play in our
reenactments. He’s had me like this many a time, with him sitting in one of our
lovely red chairs, and me face down, bare bum up, like a naughty housemaid.

But never with an audience, at least, not a real one. I’ve
imagined my discipline being watched often enough.

With pomp and ceremony, he plucks at the hem of my dress and
meticulously eases it up, tucking the fullness at my hips, beneath my bound
hands. The room’s warm, but I feel as if there’s a cool draft playing over my
buttocks as he bares them. A murmur of approval goes up when their already
reddened state is revealed.

What can they all see? How much is on show. My G-string is
pretty, made from gorgeous black lace, but it’s skimpy, about as abbreviated as
they get. Can the assembled watchers see my pussy, my anus? The heavy gleam of
arousal on the hair peeking from beneath the lace.

Are the men thinking,
What a horny little
bitch...I wish she was mine.
And the women,
God,
I’d cream myself too if I was across his knee. He’s gorgeous!

“So willful,” he purrs, leaning low over me, making this public
act intimate, just for us. I know that’s why he’s chosen to take me over his
knee rather than wait our turn so he can toss me across the trestle. It’s a
fantasy fulfilled, but still he keeps me safe. “So lewd, aren’t you?” he curves
right over, kisses the back of my neck. “I might have to keep your bottom
perpetually red, at this rate. Keep you sore all the time, so you learn how to
behave yourself...so that I know you’re always tingling beneath your clothes, to
keep you mindful.”

He wouldn’t do that, but just the concept of
it makes me squirm, trying to stimulate myself against the hard muscle of his
thigh, and perhaps the hard thrust of his cock if I can wriggle sufficiently in
that direction. There have been times at work, and out with friends, when my
bottom’s throbbed and glowed in secret, from his attentions. Even this morning,
at the most solemn moments, I could feel heat down there.

“Do you think you could bear that?” he demands, quite sternly.
I can sense our audience is unexpectedly impressed by we pair of newcomers, even
before Simon’s displayed his splendid technique.

“If you will it...master.” It’s a bit melodramatic, but I know
he likes that.

“Be careful, minx.” He leans in close. “Don’t milk the role,”
he whispers, his soft voice full of laughter.

He rests his hand on the crown of my right buttock, and I feel
every finger distinctly, quite cool against my heat. He gives me an affectionate
stroke, then lands a crisp wallop on the very spot he’s just caressed.

“Ow!”

Even now, when we’re accustomed to playing this game, and I
know what to expect, the first spank of a session always catches me by surprise.
Every time it’s new. Sharp. Fierce. Exciting. He smacks me again, on the other
cheek, starting to make the pattern, lighting the fire. I squirm, but his free
hand is firm on the small of my back, keeping me steady despite the perilous way
I’m balanced and the fact I can’t cling on because my hands are tied.

“Quiet,” he reprimands, reinforcing his rigor with more
stinging blows. Tipped as I am, they’re catching me on the underhang mostly, the
most tender part. I want to scream and howl, but I know I won’t. Not unless he
really lays it on in a way he’s never done thus far. I always try to obey him,
if I can.

Spank. Spank. Spank. It’s like a metronome. Hypnotic. Again and
again, a blast of stinging, sizzling heat, roasting and ravaging me. Not being
able to clasp my pulsating buttocks with my hands is killing me. Not being able
to reach beneath my belly and touch myself is making me into a madwoman.

And yet, within me somewhere is a cool, clearheaded observer. A
watcher who’s able to rise up out of my body and hover somewhere near the smooth
white ceiling and take in the proceedings, noting everything. These secret eyes
of mine see the avid audience around us, the admiring attention of men and
women; libertines all, but still impressed by the natural skills of this pair of
new faces. The carefully aligned blows of the handsome disciplinarian. The lush
bottom of his submissive and the way it marks so vividly. The way she fights her
desire to cry, and moan and writhe about. Not always achieving a state of
perfect decorum, but always striving for it.

Perhaps these connoisseurs would like to see a sterner
punishment? The submissive put across the bar, beaten with the crop, the lash,
the cane? Maybe they’d like to see her shackled and tormented, fucked and played
with, plagued with toys, with plugs and dildos?

The submissive herself isn’t sure. Perhaps she does want those
things, perhaps she doesn’t? It’s possible that she’d relish them, but only
alone in the privacy of her own white room in the presence of the man she
loves?

Simon whacks me harder now. The pain knocks the breath out of
me. A hand can do anything a device can, and the intimacy is stunning. I’m
panting now. My head’s gone light, my bottom is all flames. I know there’s silky
fluid oozing down my thighs, my brimming arousal plain for all to see.

Suddenly, the blows cease. Simon leans down low, right over
me.

“What do you want, love?” he whispers, for my ears only.

“More. Everything.” My chest is heaving, and I can hardly form
words. “But just with you...just with you. Back in our room.”

His answer is to place his hand flat on one of my buttocks,
like a strange benediction. It’s the conclusion to these proceedings, the very
public show. When his hand retreats, I make an attempt to rise, tottering. Simon
helps me, supporting my elbow as he stands too. A thoughtful onlooker retrieves
my bag and hands it to him and, unconcerned, he carries it as we walk from the
room, my hands still secured and my skirt still rucked up around my bottom.

Part of me sighs with relief when, at the door, Simon puts my
clothes to rights, unfastens my hands and returns my bag to me. But another
insane, enraptured part of me thrills to the idea that he might
not
have done all that, and that he might have
compelled me to cross the foyer with my red bottom on show and my hands still
bound behind my back with his tie.

We don’t speak. Not in the foyer. Not in the lift. He does draw
me close to him though, hard up against his body, so I can feel his erection
while he squeezes and massages my buttocks through my gown, stirring the
soreness and making me squirm. In retribution, I massage him with my pelvis. His
lips are against my neck, just brushing the skin below my ear, his breath
hot.