A Master and His Mistress

The stream of people entering the dungeon ebbed and flowed. It wasn't a large room and yet so much happened in there -- the tumult of people, the punishments, the dominance and submissiveness, the creativity, the spectacle of an unusual underground world. The 'B' rated filmic version of cold, damp, slime walled dungeons, rats scurrying, their nails clicking on moist cobblestones, had never been further from the truth.

The room was dark, warm, womb-like - the tangy smell of leather emanating from the furniture heightening the senses. All the pieces were black wood and leather except for two red velvet thrones which elsewhere may well have looked kitsch but here reigned with suitable aplomb. A grope box was fully occupied -- the sub's mistresses inviting all around to prod her naughty plaything. With gusto, people pushed fingers and whole hands through the holes. One woman spat wine through a hole onto the submissive's cock. Every now and again, a satisfying squeal could be heard.

The St Andrew's Cross was no less an object of interest. On the wooden frame, a man was tied into position, hands and legs locked akimbo by ropes looped through the O rings at top and bottom. His bare back and buttocks faced the audience that awaited his punishment. True, they had much else to keep themselves entertained with; it was the element of suspense that his mistress worked so well, as she sat at the bar in the other room.

On the suspension swing, a blonde haired woman was tickled with a violet wand. Heavy silver weights, like Christmas baubles, hung from her nipple and clit rings. During the course of the her punishment, these weights were discarded and needles like those used by acupuncturists were slowly, gently, quite lovingly, pushed through her soft, supple flesh. Both the weights and the needles were incongruent accessories to her fragile frame. Her master wielded the electric wand as deftly as a magician would, violet electric lines flashing over her pale skin. Her skin really was beautiful -- creamy and almost unblemished. The only piece of covering she wore was a mask as if to stop her from catching sight of herself. The electric lines both caressed her with their warmth and tortured her with their exacting demand of self.

The walls of the dungeon were brick but covered in modern BDSM tapestries that showed a series of enticingly torturous play. Although the room was at road level, the bricks that showed between the tapestries added to a feeling of being underground and the woven pictures helped to soundproof the four walls.

The ceiling was hung with black velvet and tiny star lights like diamonds glittered within the swathes of thick material. Floor lamps, strategically placed, threw gentle lights on each piece of equipment and its participants.

Marti caught her reflection in a mirror that perched precariously above the curved doorway that led between the dungeon and the bar. She was wearing a deep pink PVC mini dress with buckles which helped the dress to cling even more tightly to her curvy body. Seeing herself dressed like that, so provocatively as her mother would say, gave her a sense of the theatricality of the situation. A mix of intimidation and of excitement coursed through her.

The heat in the confined room was making her feel very sexy. A tiny bead of sweat was edging its way down between her round ripe breasts, pushed up and held bulgingly in place by the wire of the buckles. She could also feel a dampness between her legs -- the tight PVC skirt kept her legs together, allowing little air to make its way between her thighs and the sweat was trapped on her flesh. She bent her body slightly and surreptitiously slipped a hand up her skirt and in between her legs, brushing away the sweat that gathered there. She stood up and her eyes locked with another's. A young man, sexily dressed in tiny boy shorts, suspenders, stockings and heels, naked from the hips up bar for the narrow collar around his neck which was locked in place by a tiny padlock that swayed gently as he moved.

He glided over to her. "Mistress", he murmured. "Does your hand need drying?" She felt a blush heat her body; she held her hand up, nevertheless. He took it in his, lifted it up to his nose and breathed her scent in, deeply. He blew on her fingers, drying them, and then raising his eyes again to hers, he took her middle finger and slipped it into his hot wet mouth. She jumped slightly. He released her finger, lay her hand by her side, clicked his feet together in a strange salute and then disappeared into the crowd. She was shaken but not yet stirred and she felt the dampness again between her legs. Not so much sweat this time she thought as desire, pure simple lusting desire.

She found a seat, a high chair really, long chrome legs and a black leather seat and back. The leather felt very cool against the backs of her upper thighs. She pushed her bottom into the small gap between the seat and the upright back and pushed her spine up. Her totteringly high heels were playing havoc with her back but it was worth it for the incredible appearance she knew she made. It made her feel as naughty as a little whore child. There was a mix of the minx and the sprite in her and she felt a deep desire to show them both. As she sat there, musing on a mix of thoughts, the evening's dungeon master, Sam, came up to her and proffered her his spanking hand. He held still a whip in his hand and was seeking out naughty children to punish.

She laughed and said "For now, Master Sam, I will decline. Come see me anon, good man." What had come over her, she thought, to talk to the resident master as if he were her vassal? Dear o dear. She'd best watch her back (and her bottom) and this thought sent her silently chuckling.

Sam stood there, smiling and then he bent down close to her so she could feel his warm breath on her cheek. "Be careful what you wish for." This surprised her because she hadn't wished for anything. She looked up into his twinkling blue eyes. His smile was tight. He turned and left her.

She felt a tug on her right boot. She looked down and saw the sexy young man's bright face smiling up at her.

"May I, Mistress?" he asked, deference in his body's position though not in his voice. She felt a little sigh trickle through her as he began, with long licks, to clean the already spotless patent leather of her boots. Though she tried to concentrate on what was going on around her, she struggled with her attention span. The undeniably sexy boy was eroding her concentration to the point where she just wanted to be licked all over and the thought began to dominate her senses.

As that thought entered her consciousness, Marti became aware that her pretty boot licker had moved beyond the top of her boot and onto the flesh of her thigh. His tongue, warmed up from cleaning the leather, trembled on her skin. She felt a strong rush of desire, an urge to just open her legs, to throw caution to the wind. She was glad to be sitting down on the high backed stool. She placed a hand on his head, neither pushing him away nor drawing him closer. He was still for a long moment and then, so gently, began to nuzzle against her leg. He stroked the back of her thigh with his hand, moving up to her bottom. His touch was so delicate that she almost couldn't feel it. She held her breath. Another long moment passed. Then he moved his face against her pussy. He seemed to breathe her in, remaining stationary. She felt almost desperate to have him lift the front of her underwear and run his tongue along her wet crevice. She kept very still. Perhaps....? Suddenly, he pulled away and slithered down her leg until he reached the floor and leaving her right foot, he reached for her left one. He didn't look up at her, just kept licking and cleaning. She pushed the breath out of her. She was aware of the heat of her body. Calm down, she told herself. But, on and on, she felt the tingling in her crotch. She forced her mind away from the sexual current running through her; it had been such a long time since......

Through her haze of lustful thoughts and moist feelings, she sensed a sea change in the movements of the man below her. She opened her eyes and saw Sam standing in front of her, with the lithe body of the young man trapped between his oaken thighs. She felt a tingle run through her. The two men together -- what a treat that would be. One so long and supple, almost feminine, with quite an amazing tongue; the other strong, pulsating with life, fiery tempered, with a firm touch and a hell of a whip hand. She didn't need reminding.....

She'd had been on the end of an tool of punishment so few times in the past that it was not difficult to remember what it felt like -- the humiliation before an audience, the intensity of a whip cutting into her bare flesh, being forced to count each lash on her body, feeling her excitement building despite her embarrassment, feeling her wetness beginning to dribble down, wanting to be touched inside her pussy, raising her bottom slightly in the hope her master would realise and take her as roughly as she desired.....

Before Marti could think any further on this, Sam was taking her hand and lifting her out of the seat and away from the reaching tongue of the boy on the ground. Marti gave little thought now to the supple creature who had so recently plied his lips to her skin. Sam walked her to the leather spanking bench. Knowing Sam, knowing it was pointless remonstrating and especially not with an audience on hand, she hitched her tight skirt up above her thighs, climbed into position, and waited to have her body strapped down. Sam pushed her skirt up above her buttocks, then began buckling her ankles, then her knees, her thighs, across her back, at her elbows and finally her wrists.

"Comfortable?" he murmured.

She just gave him her quirky smile, rather than the moue of annoyance she wanted to show. The straps were a little tight but in some way this just added to the torsion of her excitement. He leant over her and lifting a strand of her long black hair from her ear he bent low and said he would just give her 20 whacks and he hoped she wouldn't mind that it wasn't exactly a spanking. She remained silent but, in spite of herself, she felt the tingles of anticipation begin in her pussy.

Without warning and therefore with no preparation, he began to slice into her buttocks. As the whipping went on and the stinging got worse she bit down on her lip, but not a sound could she allow to pass through her lips, that would just make it worse. As Sam came close to the end a male watcher called out, "Make it another 20, Sam."

Marti opened her mouth and drew breath to cry out "red" -- the dungeon's safe word -- but before she could utter a sound, Sam began to administer the next part of her punishment. As the stinging grew and grew, she felt a heat wave cover her arse. God, the pain, the pain! And then the numbness took over and she moved into another space, that space that all submissives yearn for --letting go, and a resignation to fate aligned with the intense desire for the pain to continue so that she could show that she was as good a submissive as he was a dominant. She widened minutely the gap between her fettered legs, feeling the moistness between her legs, revelling in it, wanting something more. She could take whatever he gave her because the end result would be her power. When he finally finished, replete of his need to punish her, she would be able to make him do to her exactly what she wanted. It was always the way and she loved it. In fact, if her arms weren't strapped down now, she would release them outwards in a long lazy cat stretch. Considering the pain she was in, that would be quite an achievement. She smiled to herself.

The whipping stopped abruptly. It took some moments for her to realise her master had removed himself from the scene. She looked around, he wasn't anywhere to be seen. He hadn't even unbuckled her! What the hell was going on? As the moments rolled by and he didn't return, as the realisation that the game was long finished and she was simply his discarded play object, her body began to burn with both suffering and shame. She managed to pull her thin wrists and small hands through the wrist restraints and one by one she undid the elbow restraints. A flurry of busy-ness and her bootlicker was by her side, unbuckling her, murmuring to her words she didn't understand at first but gradually realising he was saying 'so sorry, mistress,' over and over again. She was sorry too. Oh, the shame and humiliation. She slid off the bench, pulled down her skirt, and head down, eyes on the ground, she made her way to her chair where her bag waited. She was furious. How dare he! She felt an ache in her hands, such a need to beat Sam half to death. She imagined him laughing with his friends, the other mistresses and masters, making a joke out of her. She couldn't even sit down, no leather would be cool enough for the heat coming off her backside. She stood at the chair, not knowing what to do. The sub stood a little behind her. She felt him really rather than saw him.

"What?", she almost shouted at him, would have raised her voice louder but was too embarrassed to draw yet more attention to herself.

"I'm sorry, mistress, I should have stopped him. Forgive me."

Marti felt anger surge through her. "Get over to that bench. Pull your shorts down. You deserve a caning for your insolence. Do you agree with me?"

He didn't hear her. Expectantly, he was already walking quickly over to the leather bench. She watched him for a moment, wondering at her own audacity. Here, she'd just been whipped into submission which had no end to it, in front of a roomful of people. Now she was asking them to watch the whipped whip. It would look pathetic and childish probably -- after all, it was Sam she should be beating.

The boy's butt seemed to hang in the air, as expectantly as his face which was turned awkwardly towards her. He watched her as she stood in place beside him. She felt a kind of tenderness towards him at the same time as wanting to really hurt him. She wondered briefly if mothers felt like this about their children -- a perverse need to punish the loved child. She ran a finger down his cheek. "I asked you if you wanted to be caned for your insolence. You didn't answer me. You can answer me now."

His face lit up, "O, yes, please, mistress, would you? That would give me so much pleasure - if it would give you pleasure." A nice mix of sly subservience. His excitement was palpable and infectious.

Without a word, and without buckling him in place, she pushed the sub's face down into the leather of the bench. She walked the length of him, to the bottom of his stockinged feet, heels discarded under the bench. She ran the cane along both soles, watching his body quiver. She slid alongside him, and positioned herself beside his pale soft buttocks. She ran her hand over his soft and compliant flesh. She loved the coolness of his satiny skin, to feel the heat pulsating just beneath. She ran the cane across his skin. He moaned so softly but she still heard him. She slowly stroked his butt cheeks, with each stroke pressing a little firmer, gently kneading the flesh, making it warm, watching as the skin became marked with the imprint of her fingers. He was motionless. She laid the cane across both cheeks. She waited. She felt an expectancy in the air, as if the room held its breath. She raised the cane. With a certain amount of force, she brought it down on the boy before her. The thwacking sound made her jump. The boy wriggled slightly and then lay motionless again. She raised the cane and brought it down again, harder this time. He barely moved. Two light red lines lay across his skin. It was so milky and innocent looking and for some reason this made her angry again. She thought of her own backside and sensed it turning black and blue even as she stood there. She brought the cane down again, harder and, again, her arm thrashing down, the air around her ripped by the slicing of the cane.

Now and again the boy made a mewing sound or moved slightly but he was a citadel unable to be breached it seemed. This made her angrier. She began to flog him with a surety and a consistency that gradually caused her arm to cramp with exertion but she would not give up. Now he made a sound, now he began to wriggle around on the bench. This was better. His skin was sliced with thin red welts. Her backside pulsed in sympathy with his. She could feel it. Slowly, she began to ease up. Her arm ached, she wanted a drink. She felt the sweat covering her body, sticking the PVC to her. She put the whip down and began to walk away from the bench, legs shaking, heels in danger of toppling her over.

The submissive literally threw himself off the bench, and ran after her.

"Mistress, Mistress," he said over and over again, almost gutturally, as though he couldn't say the words enough. And for the next hour or so, he was at her beck and call. Nothing she wanted was too much for him to provide for her.

She didn't see Sam again over that next hour before the sub drove her home. She had planned to take him into her bed, after all they had shared a good deal that night, but when she reached her door, she begged off with an early start and a promise to call him very soon. He was clearly not happy about the ending but like the well-behaved sub he was, he bowed to her desire.

She was inside before she heard the car start up and drive away. She was bone-weary. She climbed the stairs, walked into her bedroom, pulled off her sticky costume and dumped it in the corner.

She climbed into bed, pulling the sheet over her head. She lay quietly for a few minutes, wanting to think about the young man but images of Sam and what had happened kept coming back to her and with them, incredibly strong sexual urges kept pulsing through her. Her body spasmed lightly and slowly the need to orgasm began to build but she would not allow herself the satisfaction of her vibrator. Her hand moved down to the soft flesh of her stomach but she refused to go lower. She really did deserve punishment now. She turned over onto her stomach, pressing her face into the pillow. Then she turned on her side, legs pulled up like the little child she thought she'd long outgrown, gazing at the wall in front of her; she would never sleep tonight.

It was as she lay like this, that she heard the front door open. She sat bolt upright, sweat breaking over her. Her mind raced. Was it the boy? But he didn't have a key and someone had used a key. Sam? But he'd given her back his set of house keys when they had agreed to end their relationship. Maybe she'd heard wrong and they hadn't used a key but smashed a window like they did in TV programmes, using a stone or a fist wrapped in a blanket. Fucking hell. She had to get out. She jumped off the bed and ran to the window. She pushed the sash open and began to climb through. Her body was only half way through when a pair of hands grabbed her waist and began to pull her back into the room. And none too gently at that. She filled her lungs to scream and at that moment her feet hit the floor, and she was spun around to face -- Sam!

"You bastard," she gasped, adrenalin still coursing through her. "What the fuck do you think you are doing? Get out, get out of here."

Marti began pushing him, pushing until she was punching him, on the arms, the chest. All that intensity of feeling, both in the club and now in her room, needed an outlet and she found it momentarily in hitting at him. He seemed to almost not be there, just his body accepting her puny flailings. Suddenly he grabbe, futile though of course it was. It was like he never felt her. After a few bored seconds, he threw her on the bed, climbing on after her and leaning on all fours over her. She looked up into his face and almost didn't want to fight the feelings she had - that intense desire to touch him, to feel his body on top of hers, pushing her down into the bed and forcing her breath out of her, to wrap her legs around him and pull him inside her.