The House of Pain (7 page)

“No, let’s take a break, come. Let’s go upstairs for a bit.”

I groan in protest, but he is unyielding. “No, we need a break from this room. You’ve taken a pretty painful punishment, and there will be pleasure tonight. But first, a break.”

He pulls me up, pulls his t-shirt off his body and hands it to me. “Here, wear this,” he says. “Your jeans will chafe against your skin.”

I wear his t-shirt. It smells like him. Soap, a slight aroma of aftershave, but mostly a smell that I realize I’ve come to associate with Doug. My insides tighten as my body reacts to that scent. My nipples perk up against the t-shirt as the fabric grazes my tender behind.

I follow him upstairs.

We sit on the couch; we are eating chilli. It is good, spicy and delicious, with a dollop of sour cream on top.

“You can cook,” I comment, with some surprise.

Doug grins. “I can make three things with competence. Spaghetti, chili and a pretty tasty burger. Beyond that, I’m lost really.”

I laugh. We watch TV and eat our food. Things feel mellow. The storm of the spanking has passed, and it has left calmness behind.

“How are you feeling?” Doug asks as we finish.

“I’m okay,” I say. The pain has receded. I’m still a little sore, but I’m mostly fine.

“Not exactly what I had planned for you this evening,” Doug says ruefully.

I’m curious. “What did you have planned?”

“More pleasure.” He makes a face at me. “Sara, I think your view is a bit warped,” he says, seriously. “I know the BDSM conventions as well as you – the kneeling sub, the instant obedience, no talking in the dungeon, blah, blah, blah. They don’t work very well for me.”

He takes a sip of beer; continues. “I get the sense you are struggling with this journey,” he says. I’m a little alarmed. He’s eerily perceptive.

“Can I tell you the story of my journey?” he asks. “It might help you with yours.”

I nod assent.

“I grew up in your typical middle-class family,” he says. “Both my parents worked; they divided chores, it was all very normal and progressive. And then, when I was about thirteen, my cousin Charlotte came to live with us. She was ten, a quiet girl, scared of her own shadow, scared of anything and everything, it seemed.”

He takes another sip, puts his arm around my shoulder and pulls me in towards him. I lean on his shoulder and listen to his story.

“Over the course of time, I found out that Charlotte’s father was a great believer in corporal punishment. Charlotte was routinely beaten, black and blue, for even the slightest of infractions. When my parents found out, they took her away and brought her to our home instead. Gave her a more loving home.”

His voice is wry. “So you can imagine, with that history, how torn I was when I started my sexual journey, and found out I liked to spank women. How much I hated myself for what I wanted.”

This is… interesting. He’s right. The story of his journey is helping. The fact that he has struggled with his desires is actually reassuring. I don’t want to ever date someone who thinks men spanking women is the natural order of things. I want to date someone who’s introspective enough about this need, and who’s thoughtful enough to realize that there’s a balance between control and respect.

“Over time, I’ve come to terms with this need.” His voice is level. A slight inflection at the word need. “The way I can live with myself is that I’ve realized – this need of mine, it is entirely sexual, and nothing else. Outside of the dungeon, I have not the slightest desire to be anyone’s master, to control every aspect of someone’s life. If I had that desire, I don’t think I’d be able to deal with it very well.”

Another sip of beer; a slight pause. “Plus,” his voice is lighter now, “my mother will flay me alive if she thinks I’m disrespecting a woman in any way, and I’m petrified of my mother.” He sounds indulgent, not petrified.

“That’s what I want from you – control in the dungeon. Nowhere else.”

“What do you want from me in the dungeon?” I ask. “What am I expected to do? How am I expected to address you?”

He sighs. He’s exasperated again. “No preconceived notions, please. You can call me whatever you want.” He pauses, searching for the right words. “In the dungeon, I’ll lay out the rules at the start of a scene, and I’d like you to follow the rules. If you follow the rules, you’ll get rewarded. If you break the rules, you’ll get punished. But that’s just the scene. What happens there doesn’t spill over outside the dungeon. What happens outside doesn’t transfer to the dungeon.”

I take it in. He’s said this to me a few times in various ways. Intellectually, I believe him, but I guess in my heart of hearts, I’m still a little hesitant. It all sounds a bit too good to be true. He’s good looking, he wants to spank me but yet treat me with utter respect. I’m waiting for the rug to be pulled out from under my feet.

But for the moment, I’m here. My ass is not throbbing in pain and it has been days since I’ve orgasmed. I’m leaning against his bare chest, and the heat from his body is a warm embrace. I look at him.

“Can we go back to the dungeon?” I ask.

In response, he stands up and pulls me up. “Sure, let’s go downstairs,” he agrees.

***

I make a resolution as I walk down the stairs. I will give myself to Doug fully, willingly, sexually. Beyond that, I’m still doubtful; still afraid. But here in the dungeon, I am his to do what he will.

***

“Take off your t-shirt. Stand in the middle, hands behind your back.” Doug’s voice is firm. I obey quickly, moving to the spot he’s indicated.

He moves around, opening closets and dressers, grabbing objects from around the dungeon. He then brings them towards me and sets them down on a table off to the side. My eyes fix on the table.

Rope. A flogger. A crop. Nipple clamps. Weights. Handcuffs. A ball gag. A huge butt plug. Cuffs. Spreader bar. I bite my lips as I look at what he’s laid out. My insides churn and my pussy clenches. I can’t wait.

“Sara, the rules for this scene.” Doug’s voice is steady. I meet his eyes.

“You will speak only if spoken to. I’d like you to acknowledge all my instructions verbally. And Sara, you must ask me for permission to orgasm.”

I nod. He raises an eyebrow in slight displeasure. Oh. He wants me to acknowledge instructions verbally. “Yes, Doug.”

He smiles at me. “Good girl.” His voice is approving. “Do you remember your safe word?”

“Yes.” I say. Red.

“Ready?” he asks me, his eyes glinting.

I close my eyes for a quick second and take a deep breath. I remember that I’ve resolved to give myself to Doug fully, willingly. I open my eyes. “I’m ready,” I whisper.

***

I’ve been simmering at the edge of arousal since Wednesday night. Earlier today, desire flared when he held me against him and spanked me, and I could feel his erection against my body. In a few short days, his voice, the feel of his body have become synonymous with arousal. When I’ve wanted to masturbate, I’ve stopped because he’s told me to. I’ve kept still when I’ve wanted to wriggle, because he’s asked me to.

He’s done all of this without raising his voice. While still retaining his warmth and radiating friendliness. Doug is a very dangerous guy.

He moves towards me, spreader bar in hand. Kneels, cuffs one ankle in. He runs his fingers up my leg idly as he buckles the cuff in place. I whimper softly. His fingers are maddening in their deliberateness, and little waves of lust are curling around my body.

“Spread your legs,” he orders me. I comply, spreading them as he’s indicated. I can feel my pussy’s wetness and I know I will not be able to hide my arousal from Doug. And indeed, I can see his nostrils flare as he smells my heat. I close my eyes for an instant as a powerful surge of hunger runs through me. I shiver slightly.

He puts his hands on my thighs and nudges my legs still wider. I grab his shoulders so I don’t fall. I want to protest but I remember the rules, just in time. No speaking till I’m spoken to.

Doug’s hands are on my other ankle, and I’m quickly cuffed.

I bite my lips as I consider my vulnerability. My legs are spread impossibly wide, so wide that I am finding it difficult to balance. I wonder if falling during a scene is acceptable. I grin a little as I imagine falling on my face and breaking my nose. That’d be a mood killer.

“What’s funny?” Doug’s voice is silken. Oops.

“Nothing,” I mumble.

Doug rises to his feet and picks up the flogger. “Perhaps you’d like to reconsider your answer,” he says, and the threat in his voice is crystal clear.

My pussy creams. My knees almost buckle. This is so insanely erotic. The easy going guy upstairs has receded. Here, his voice is level and he expects to be obeyed instantly. Every nerve in my body tingles with arousal, as longing snakes through me.

“What’s funny?” he asks again.

“My legs are spread so wide, I think I’m going to fall and break my nose,” I mumble, mortified. My face is beet red.

Doug laughs, a sound of utter male amusement. “Oh, don’t worry, baby, I’m going to take care of that in a minute.” He moves something behind my back. Now I feel his hands on my neck, he is gathering my hair into a rough ponytail, and I feel a cuff go around my neck, and my neck is suddenly restrained, and I can’t move it.

I can’t help it. I whimper, a little anxious mewl. I’m well-immobilized. The cuff around my neck is wide and stiff, and it is keeping my head staring straight ahead. I can’t move my neck either left or right.

“Relax,” Doug soothes. He comes around the front, where I can see him. “It’s a rod, with a cuff holding your neck in place,” he explains. “It’ll keep you from falling forward, and breaking your nose.” His lips twitch and he winks at me.

I want to pout that he’s laughing at me, but he’s approaching me once again, this time with the rope, and I shut up and focus on what he’s doing next.

He starts winding the rope around my chest. He keeps grazing my nipples as he does this and I groan in longing each time. My nipples are erect, eager to feel his touch. When he finishes, he’s created a sort of rope cage for my breasts. They are squished between two parallel lines of rope.

He steps back and eyes me with satisfaction. “How are you feeling?” he asks.

Oh good. I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to speak, to beg him to touch me. “Doug,” I groan. “Please touch me.”

He shakes his head at me, though his lips twitch. “That wasn’t an answer to my question, Sara,” he says, as the flogger comes down on my bound breasts.

I hiss. His stroke stings. I feel the heat rise on my skin, I feel the familiar twitch of longing deep in my pussy. He eyes me. “How’s that for pain? Too much? Too little?”

“Just right,” I say.

Doug grins at me, and this time, there’s pure amusement in his gaze. “A couple more things, before the flogging begins,” he says, and I can hear the anticipation in his voice. He moves behind me and suddenly, there’s a dildo at my pussy.

It feels huge. I can’t look down to see how big it is but my pussy lips part impossibly wide as Doug’s steady hands guide the monster into my waiting pussy. I groan. I feel so tight, so full, so stretched. Doug kneels, does something behind my back and then straightens. The dildo stays in place. He’s secured it somehow.

I know what’s coming next. And sure enough, the massive butt plug is being lubed up. Doug walks to the front and looks into my eyes.
“I want you to trust me,” he says quietly. “I will never put you in more pain than you can take.” But then he smiles, a smile of pure evil that has me creaming in lust. “But this is going to be intense.”

It is. I’m already stretched wide by the dildo in my pussy, and I instinctively clench my ass muscles as I feel the tip of the butt plug touch my asshole.

“Sara.” A curt warning. I take a deep breath, steady myself and force each and every muscle in my body to relax.

It hurts; there’s no getting around it. But Doug is gentle and patient, and eventually, my butt swallows the monstrous intruder. I groan, as my body gets used to the sensations. So very, very full.

Doug moves in front of me again, his eyes searching mine. “Okay?” he asks.

“Yes,” I whisper. There’s no sass this time. I’m in the throes of lust and longing, and I am teetering at the edge of orgasm. If he just grazes my clitoris, I’m completely going to explode. I dig my nails into my palms, clenching my fists, trying to control myself.

Doug watches me, his expression implacable.

“Remember,” he says, “you have to ask for permission to orgasm.”

I whimper. “Please can I come, Doug?” I beg. I’m so close. I’ll come if he just touches me, the slightest lick of his tongue or the tiniest brush of a fingertip. My hands are untied but it doesn’t occur to me to touch myself. I am in Doug’s hands. I will do as he tells me.

Doug shakes his head at me. “Too soon, baby,” he chides. “I haven’t even started flogging you yet. Put your hands behind your back.” My pussy gushes yet again, sending my juices dripping down the massive dildo.

He’s turned on some music. I hear the instantly recognisable opening bars of Bolero. “Bolero?” I ask, before I can catch myself. I’m surprised. I didn’t think he was the classical music kind of guy. Doug has many surprising sides to him. 

“Remember the rules, only speak when you are spoken to,” Doug chides. I nod and I flash him a look of apology.

The music plays and the flogging starts. The melody is slow and gentle and contemplative at the start, and in keeping, Doug is gentle with the flogger. The strokes on my tied breasts produce more heat than pain. I’m shuddering as the tremors run through me, as my body responds to the feel of the tails wrapping against my tender flesh and to the pleasurable sting of each stroke.

I find that I’m trying to move on the dildo, to feverishly try to quench my arousal. But my legs are spread wide, and I don’t get any rhythm going. The music is the only rhythm in the room; that and the steady strokes of the flogger.