The House of Pain (2 page)

I am bound, helpless. There isn’t anything I can do to protest, but I find I believe John. He has no reason to lie to me. I nod my consent. 

“Now gentlemen,” John laughs, addressing the audience. “Sara thinks I’ve forgotten about how many times she stepped out of her circle. You guys counted though, didn’t you? How many times did Sara step outside the circle?”

Crap. I had forgotten about the circle as I navigated the pain. How bad is this going to be?

“Six!” “Five!” “Ten!” The voices cry out. I’m not sure if they are relaying the count of how many times I stepped out of the circle, or if they are just expressing how many additional strokes they’d like me to have.

John grins at the range of numbers shouted out, but finally raises his hands for silence. “I counted five,” he says. There are a couple of boos in the audience, but they subside quickly.

“Twenty strokes on the ass, Sara, plus your extra ten.” John’s voice brooks no dissent.

I gulp. In the aftermath of my orgasm, I’ve forgotten that my ass was pretty heavily spanked at the start of the evening. Flogging on my already reddened ass will be, to put it mildly, intense.

John swishes the flogger through the air. It makes a sound that can only be described as ominous. I clench every muscle in my body; writhe a little in my bonds. The audience chuckles.

Again, John swishes the flogger in the air, drawing out the moment, building the anticipation. I am tense. Every nerve in my body is on edge.

Finally, when I think I’m going to break and beg John to please, please just flog me, the flogger swings down on my butt. I struggle in my bonds, my body writhing as the pain flows through me.

“Assume your position, Sara.” John’s voice is implacable. It takes me a few seconds, but then the words register, and I move to obey.

“Good girl.” There’s approval in his voice as the flogger comes down again, and then, again once more. He’s striking me carefully, avoiding my pussy. I clench my teeth, but a moan escapes me as the blows rain down. My flesh feels like it is on fire.

John pauses and strokes my ass. His fingernails graze my cheeks, causing me to whimper as the sensation courses through me. I moan. My pussy is once again creaming in response, and because of the way I’m positioned, my response is very, very visible.

“Looks like she likes it, gentlemen.” John laughs, the audience laughing with him. He resumes the flogging. I moan, writhe, shudder, but I feel myself drift into my special place again, the place where I can’t tell what is pain, and what is pleasure.

He stops. He must be done. I can feel the tracks of tears on my face, but I don’t remember crying. I am floating.

“Ten crops on your pussy, Sara.”

This forces me to pay attention. All evening long, this particular item on the sushi menu of pain has been the one that has given me the most anxiety.

The first stroke falls on my pussy. Whap. My nerve-endings explode in pain, my hips writhe, almost lift right off the table. I feel an orgasm start to build again instantly, my traitorous body unable to distinguish between pain and pleasure. 

And again. I scream this time, my voice filling the room. John is unrelenting though. The crop makes contact again and again with my pussy lips. I moan, shudder, flinch. My pussy leaks. I can feel the wetness drip down towards my asshole.

John pauses at the half-way mark. He spreads my pussy lips open and shows the audience the wetness in my pussy. “I think you are enjoying yourself, Sara,” he says.

He turns towards the audience. “Gentlemen, we are almost done. Would you count down the final five strokes with me? Let’s start with five.”

The crop falls sharply on my pussy. I hear the audience collectively yell “Five!” as my body struggles in my binding, and the flaming pain flows through me. My pussy feels red, painful, very, very aroused. The strokes and the shouting audience are all pulling me up, raising my arousal, taking me to the edge.

Crop. “Four!” I dance in my bindings, jumping as I react to the pain. My body shudders. I am so close to the edge.

Crop. “Three!” There’s cheering now, as the waves of pleasure start hitting that point of no return. I feel my orgasm build, expertly controlled by John’s crop.

Crop. “Two!” There’s steady applause now, whistles. I don’t hear any of it though. I am at the edge of a massive, shuddering orgasm.

Crop. “One!”

And that’s it. I explode hard, fists clenching, body dancing, as if I was waiting for that last stroke before I gave myself permission to come. There’s loud, sustained applause, but I don’t hear any of it. My awareness has narrowed. My clenching pussy is all I am conscious of right now, and I am in my private world of pleasure.

John is uncuffing me and helping me on my feet. I bow. He walks me off the stage, escorts me into the antechamber, and leaves me alone to process the last hour.

I am huddled in my dressing gown, sitting in the antechamber. My body is criss-crossed with red marks; the proof of my recent flogging. I have orgasmed twice while being whipped, and I am drained.

Possibly twenty minutes later, there’s a knock on the door. It is John.

“How do you feel?” he asks me.

“Okay.” I am not able to form coherent sentences.

“Take off the robe, and lie down,” he orders, gesturing to a massage table in the corner. I obey. He has a tub of cream in his hands, and he massages it into my body, expertly soothing the reddened skin. “This will help the healing,” he explains.

His hands feel good. Not a sexual kind of good; I am not attracted to John. But his hands are strong and steady, and they soothe my muscles.

“You are good at this,” I murmur, as I turn over, and his hands move over my breasts, midriff, and pussy.

“Mmm. Spread your legs.” Another order. I do.

He’s checking my pussy for signs of damage from the crop. There isn’t any. Before the session, he has assured me there will be no bleeding, and there isn’t any. There aren’t a lot of welts either. John has caused plenty of pain, but the effects are transient.

“Good,” he says in satisfaction. “You won’t have too much soreness, you can even have sex tonight, if you want.”

With Colin? My boyfriend has reacted in shock and horror when I told him I wanted to be spanked. I shudder to think of Colin’s reaction if he sees my body now.

I dress as John waits. I glance at my phone. It is late. One thirty in the morning. John hands me an envelope of cash. I look. There’s $1200 in there. I raise my eyebrows in surprise. This is almost double of what I was expecting.

“There’s the $500 first-time bonus,” John explains, “$100 for the extra flogs we added on the fly, $200 you earned, and the remaining money there is a tip from the audience.” I flush. I’m mortified, really. I didn’t do this for the audience; I did this because I wanted to be whipped.

The whole evening has been magical. I want to blurt out that I want to do this again, but there’s a small voice of caution in my head that stops me. I have a real life, a boyfriend who would be appalled if he ever found out what I did tonight. This behaviour is insane.

John’s watching me. He can probably tell what’s going on through my mind. After all, I’m not the first girl who’s ever been whipped at the House of Pain. “It’s a lot to process, I know,” he says, his voice gentle. “Take your time to decide what you want to do next.”

I nod. Now, his voice turns fatherly. “It’s late, Sara, I’ll put you in a cab, okay? Don’t take transit at this hour.”

I laugh silently at this. John’s whipped me for the last hour, but he’s concerned about me taking transit? I don’t say anything though. I nod again.

I fall asleep as soon as I get home. I sleep well and deeply.

***

It’s a busy week at work. There are rumours of layoffs and I resolve to get my resume ready. Our department is well regarded, but in the brave new world we live in, there’s never any certainty about employment.

When I’m not working, I’m pondering what to do. I’m torn. I want to go back to the House of Pain, but I know how risky it is. And, there’s Colin.

***

I’m having dinner with Colin. We’ve only dated for three months; but I like him. He’s funny, kind, easy to hang out with.

And he won’t spank me at all.

This is a cliff I’ve reached. I cannot lie to Colin about the House of Pain. It isn’t technically cheating, but that’s a technicality. I know that what I did was wrong, and the worst of it is that it set my pulse racing, and my body aching to do it again.

A great sadness comes upon me – Colin deserves better than me. He deserves someone who doesn’t wake up moaning as she dreams of a flogger descending on her pussy. At the end of the day, no matter how much I like him, Colin doesn’t meet my needs, and I don’t meet his.

We break up.

I apologise, but Colin is genuinely a nice guy.  He reaches out, holds my hands in his. “Whatever you are looking for,” he says softly, “I hope you find it, Sara.”

The tears start falling on the subway on my way home. I cry myself to sleep. Right now, I’m hating myself for craving the pain and for ruining my relationship with Colin.

***

A month passes. I focus on work. I’ve applied to a couple of jobs I find online that seem in my wheelhouse. I get a call back from one of them. I have an interview scheduled.

I find my interview suit, dry-clean it and interview for the job. The first interview goes well. The second interview goes better. I’m excited about the prospect of this job. It is a promotion, which will be good financially. I’m reaching the point where I’m exceedingly tired of my tiny studio apartment, and would like to move somewhere a bit nicer. Plus, I’ve learned everything I can from my current job, and promotion opportunities don’t seem too likely, given we might all get laid off. I keep my fingers crossed.

***

My sadness over the breakup with Colin has receded. I know I did the right thing. I want to be able to explore my sexual fantasies with my partner. I don’t want to hide a part of who I am. As I process this, my thoughts go back to the House of Pain. John’s whip on my breasts. I bite my lips and clench my thighs. A powerful shudder of arousal flows through me.

I’ve managed to go five weeks without calling John; without setting up the next show. I don’t last six weeks. That Friday afternoon, once I’m done with work, I call John.

***

John’s words are a curveball.

“I’ve had a cancellation – one of my regular girls is sick. She has the flu. She just called me. There’s a show tomorrow night. Do you want to do it?”

I hesitate. “So I don’t get to pick what’s in store for me?” But as I speak, I’m checking my calendar, trying to see what I have planned to do tomorrow. Not a lot. My pussy is moistening and my nipples perk up. I realize I’m clenching my thighs in arousal.

Who am I kidding? I want to do this.

“No.” John’s voice is level. “The audience’s expecting certain things. I’ll go easier on you, but the program’s basically set. Want to do this?” He’s slightly distant, impatient. If I say no, he’ll call the next girl on his list, and then the next one. He’s running a business here.

“Okay.” My voice is the merest whisper.

“The show’s at midnight. Show up at 10.30pm at the store, and I’ll prep you for what’s coming.”

“Okay,” I say again. We quickly go through the names of the audience. None of them are familiar. I’m going through the motions, and I know it. My pulse is racing; anticipation surges through me.

***

As John goes through the details of the show with me, I only have one thought in my head.

This is going to be interesting.

***

There’s some music playing, some kind of dystopian trance/electronic music that softly pulses in the room. The music fits the scene well.

I’m already on stage when the curtain is raised. This time, I’m hanging suspended from the ceiling, facing the floor. My breasts are tightly bound together, and they are rapidly reddening and ballooning under this treatment. My arms are drawn back in a cruel tie. My hair has somehow been woven through the bindings so that I can’t slump my head. My calves are tied tight to my knees, and my legs are spread open, and tied in place.

There are cameras on the floor, ready to project my every quiver and moan on the screens off the side.

I’m already in a bit of pain. The rope is cruel, and my body is contorted for the viewing pleasure of the audience.

I am utterly helpless, and I love it.

The music increases in volume. It is now filling the room in a stormy crescendo. And then, silence.

Utter, perfect silence. The eyes of the audience are upon me, and though I can’t see them, I feel their hunger in the air.

The feel of this show is different. In the last one, John was joking with the audience; the audience was hollering, whistling, cheering. This show will be different, John has said. This one will be more solemn. There’s a sense of ritual in the air. There is a spotlight on me; and the screens off to the side are lit as well, but the stage is otherwise dark.

Crack.

Out of nowhere, the flogger has struck my ass. I jump involuntarily and feel a line of fire beginning to rise on my skin. The force of the stroke sets the suspension spinning. I slowly start to revolve.

The strokes come steadily. Music has started playing again, softly; something with a pulsing drumbeat. John times his strokes to the drumbeat, keeping the pace slow and deliberate. Every stroke is hard though and I’m flailing in pain. I concentrate on breathing.

Suddenly I jump in surprise. John has shoved a vibrating dildo into my pussy; he does something with the ropes to keep the dildo in place. Tremors are running through me now, fuelling my arousal.

The flogger continues its work.

Pain. Pleasure. Pain. It’s a confused whirl. Am I jumping in pain? Or am I flinching because the vibrations in my pussy are causing me to rise, higher and higher? I ache for a touch on my clitoris. I am so, so close.

Through the haze, I realize what John is so cleverly doing. He is expertly blending the boundary between pleasure and pain, and I’m not sure which side of the line I am.

And now, John moves towards me, two nipple-clamps in his hands. A quick pinch of my nipples, and they are on, and… wow. My breasts are already red, sensitive because of the rope, and the nipple clamps are painful, and oh-so-intense. I feel my nipples start to throb. I bite my lip, moan a little. The microphone sends my moan around the room, a counterpoint to the pounding drums.

A chain connects the clamps, John adds some weights to the chain. Then, he sets me spinning through the room. As I spin, the weighted chain swings, and I shiver as the sensations roll through me.

I’ve lost track of where I am. I’ve forgotten there’s an audience watching me. That’s the beauty of being whipped. There’s an intimacy to it. The room shrinks, and it’s just me and the whip and the clamps and the vibrating dildo, and I’m entirely in John’s mercy.

John resumes whipping me. Each stoke sends me swinging, causing my nipples to stretch painfully as the chain connecting the clamps sways. I clench my thighs and try to push down harder on the vibrator. I am so close! But I’m pretty well-immobilized and I’m in John’s mercy.

He is in control of my body. I will orgasm if he wills it, and if he does not, I will not. I find this control strangely, hugely arousing. My body is not mine tonight and I revel in my surrender.

I’m spinning again. I come to rest facing the stage; my face clearly visible under the lights.

And then, a well-placed crack. Right at my clitoris. Pushing me over the edge. I scream, my face contorting; every muscle clenching, as a powerful orgasm rolls through me.

The curtain is lowered. Dimly, I hear applause.

Has it been an hour already?

***

I’m in the antechamber, recovering. John’s simply cut through the ropes to release me; he massages me, applies the cream on. I put on a robe and process the experience.

I realize I love the feeling of surrendering control probably as much as I like the actual pain. Interesting. I’m learning all kinds of things about myself from this experience.

John hands me $500.

“You’ve made quite an impression on the audience,” he says.

“Why?” I ask. I’m not sure how I’m different from any of the girls who perform at the House of Pain. Not that I’ve met any of them, so really, how would I know?

“Every single emotion runs through your face. It is fun to watch.”

Oh. Mortifying. I’m far more embarrassed by the idea that my emotions are on display that by the fact that I was naked in front of twenty men, being flogged.

***

Two things happen Monday.

The first thing in the morning, I get a call from the place I’ve interviewed at. They want to hire me. They make me a generous offer. Aside from a significant raise, I will also get an extra week of vacation. I’m thrilled, I accept on the phone.

The second – at about 10.00am, I get a call from a woman. I glance at the Caller Id: Maija Jones. It’s an internal number, I pick up.

“Is that Sara White?” Her voice is competent; professional.

“Yes.” Mine is distracted. I’m trying to find her on the company directory at the same time.

“I’m Doug Patterson’s admin,” she says. Am I supposed to know who Doug Patterson is? “Doug asked me to set up a meeting - can you meet with him today? He’s only open at lunch though.”

“Umm, sure.” Is this about the new marketing program I’m supposed to be working on? Why wouldn’t he just talk to my boss? I’m entirely confused.

“I’ll send you an invite.”

She hangs up, I look up Doug. I whistle silently. Doug is the Vice-President of Strategy. I vaguely remember meeting him about a month back, just after I’d broken up with Colin, at a work meet-and-greet. He reports to the COO – he’s a big deal. I wonder what the heck he wants to meet with me about.