House of Pain Ch. 01

It is an unobtrusive storefront in an 'up-and-coming part' of Toronto. The shop windows are tinted; the door is painted black. There is a discreet, hand-lettered sign tucked in a corner of the window. "Sex toys available." It is lettered in sophisticated calligraphy, the elegance of the penmanship not matching the words on the sign. There is no other sign on the store front. Nothing else to indicate what the store sells.

I am fascinated. I bite my lip in slight nervous tension; do a hasty sweep of the street with my eyes. I don't recognise anyone. It is a bright summer afternoon; everyone is going about their business with the usual bustle of a big city. I am trapped in the moment; a mote dancing in the sunlight. I am the cat that is about to get burned for my curiosity. I push the door and walk in.

Most sex stores are similar. They are seedy; there's a booth in the back; there are men who shuffle around, carefully not making eye contact. This one? This is a temple.

Discreet spotlights highlight the sex toys on display, and these are not the dildos you find in Victoria's Secret. The dildos are made of steel and wood, they are displayed on pedestals, and each one is huge. I feel like I'm in a museum; I look around for the 'Do Not Touch' signs, and inwardly giggle. A giggle of pure nervousness. I'm reacting to the atmosphere of this place, and it is turning me on.

My eyes are drawn to a huge steel fist. Surely that can't go inside a person, I think in horror. It has to be at least fifteen inches long, and about three inches of thickness. I gulp. My pussy, on cue, begins to moisten.

I wander around the store in silence. There is a man in the corner who must work in the store. He looked up when I walked in; nodded in greeting, but he hasn't said anything yet.

Another wall has whips. I can feel my pussy react to the possibility of pain; I am creaming in my panties, and I'm convinced I smell of arousal. Each whip is mounted on the wall; spotlights catching the leather; the leather sparkles under the light. My hand reaches out, mesmerized. I touch a flogger, imaging the leather strands being dragged over my skin, before it is cruelly brought down on my body. My entire face flushes; my lips part very slightly.

The man sitting in the corner eyes me expressionlessly. I can tell he knows how aroused I am. I want to flee. I find myself pulled towards him.

"Do you want to see the back?"

His voice is smooth, easy. Like a fine wine, with hints of depth. Warning bells start to ring in my mind; but that's the good girl in me. Right now, I'm ignoring her. I am a moth drawn to the flame.

"Yes." The merest whisper.

He moves out from behind the counter. Walks over to the back, opens a door. I walk in. It is a small auditorium. Perhaps twenty seats. He flicks a couple of switches, and spotlights light the stage. The place feels intimate, dangerous.

"What happens here?" I ask in an undertone. "Sex shows?" I'm a little surprised; Toronto is an unlikely city for live sex shows.

"No. No sex. Just pain." His words are direct.

He looks at me; his eyes wandering all over my body. They linger on my breasts. My nipples are erect, visible under the thin sundress I'm wearing.

"What's your name?" he asks me.

"Sara." Run, Sara, run, the warnings scream in my head. There is danger here; not in this man, or in this place, but in the way my body is responding to this place. I'm helpless here; this place fulfils some secret hidden longing in me, and I have a feeling that if the man standing in front of me orders me to sink to my knees and suck him off; I would obey. There's something in the air; something that's bringing out every secret erotic fantasy I've had.

He silently hands me a business card.

House of Pain.

There is a phone number underneath.

"What do you mean, just pain?" I whisper.

"People pay to watch," he waves his arms towards the seat, "while I whip a girl." He sees the look in my eyes. I'm mesmerized by the idea of being whipped under the spotlight by this man. He hands me a sheet. "These are the current rates. Call me if you are interested."

There's a dismissal in his voice. He's made his pitch; it is now up to me to act.

I leave. My eyes squint in the bright sunlight outside; the interior of the shop had been dim. The traffic, the city noise, the pedestrians darting about, all feel strange after the feel of the shop. I walk along in a daze, walk into a nearby coffee shop. I need to sit down.

I realize I'm still clutching the sheet he handed me. I don't even know his name. It isn't the guy that's causing the reaction in me though; it's the place. House of Pain. The words hold a world of promise.

Reading the contents of the sheet, I feel wetness trickle out of my pussy. The sheet reminds me of the slips of paper in most sushi places -- you fill in what you want; and how many. This sheet lists acts --bare-bottom spanking, whipping (bottom), whipping (breasts and nipples), whipping (pussy), caning, electricity (breasts and nipples), electricity (pussy), and much more. I feel my face flush again; my forehead has a sheen of sweat on it.

There are also rates. Taking 20 bare-bottom swats will pay out $10. 10 strokes with the flogger on my breasts, and I'll get paid $30. There's a footnote at the bottom of the sheet. Minimum order $200. I gulp. That's four hundred bare-bottom swats; a world of pain.

My coffee cools next to me, forgotten. My nipples brush against my sundress, sending licks of longing running through me. I can feel my pussy quiver, my orgasm faint, but definite. I have come just from the idea of being whipped.

I am on autopilot. I want to call; I hesitate. Doing a sex show in a sex store? This is not me.

"There will be no sex," a voice in my head reminds me. I'm totally drawn to the idea of being whipped under spotlights.

"You have a real life. Don't be ridiculous. What if you run into friends there? Or your family? What then, Sara?" Practical, good-girl Sara intervenes angrily. I sigh. This will have to remain fantasy.

Two days later, I pick up my phone and call the House of Pain.

***

"Can my face be hidden somewhat?" I ask the guy. I tell myself that I'm just curious.

"No." His voice brooks no opposition. "Watching your face contort with pain is part of what my clientele pay for."

"Oh." My voice is small. "I'm concerned about being recognized."

"If you sign up, you'll sign a non-disclosure agreement," he says. "The clients do as well. And if you have a non-disclosure agreement, I'll show you a list of client names for each show. That way, if you see someone on the list that you know, you can opt out."

"Oh." That could work. There are a thousand holes in his logic, of course -- there are a lot of people with the same name, and a lot of people in the city that I know casually, but I don't always know their last names. Still, there is a safeguard of sorts.

I am drawn. I can't keep away from the flame, though I know there is a risk of getting burned.

"How many shows do I have to do, if I sign?"

"At least one. After that, you decide if you want to come back, I'll decide if I want you back."

"What's the $200 minimum?" I ask.

"I like my shows to be an hour long, that's to make sure you pick enough things to fill up the hour."

The warning bells are still ringing. One hour of pain. I've never even been spanked before, my boyfriend looking horrified when I suggested it once. This craving for pain, this is a hidden part of me, a part that has never seen the light of day.

I find myself saying, "Yes, I want to do this."

***

I've asked if I can be spanked or whipped before the show, so I can prepare for the pain. John (I finally ask his name) declines. "I've been marketing you as a virgin to pain... the clients are really excited about you. Plus, you get a $500 bonus for it."

I go along with him. There's an excitement in me, excitement that for an hour, I will be at the mercy of this guy. He's suggested I just start with the beginner mix of pain -- no canes, no fisting. I bite my lip. "Fisting?" I mutter.

"I noticed you were rather captivated by the fist dildo when you first came in." His voice is amused.

He had been watching me. I flush. "We'll work our way up to it, not this session," he says kindly.

***

I've been told I am to obey John without question during the show. "You can moan, cry, scream in pain, all of that is ok. No talking though." John promises there will be no sex. He will stay fully clothed during the session. The audience will as well, though they will be in darkness. I imagine some of them will be touching themselves. I've proofed the list; made sure I don't know anyone. I'm good to go.

***

I've reviewed my sushi menu of pain. I'm going to be spanked bare-bottom thirty times, flogged on my butt and thighs, cropped on my breasts, and most worryingly, my pussy. I survey the list. I think I'm insane. My fingers steal under my jeans to find my pussy, soaked. I bring myself to orgasm.

***

It is the evening of the show. I'm wearing an old sundress. "Wear something that can be ripped," I was told. I've also shaved my pussy, as instructed.

I am at in a small room off to the side of the stage. I can hear soft music playing, the shuffling of footsteps as people come in, take their seats. I have been teetering at the edge of arousal all day, but I don't finger myself. It feels wrong. I want my arousal to come entirely from the anticipation of pain. I want to orgasm as I'm being whipped.

I hear the applause begin. That's my cue. I walk out under the spotlight.