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Before I had time to wonder any more, the singer jumped from the stage and strode toward us as she belted out the lyrics of her song. She took the whip from Daniel and pointed it at the ground. I watched, riveted, as he knelt and curled over. Moving to the music, she thrashed his upper body through his leather jacket. As he pulled the jacket tight I became aware that there was something under it. Daniel was wearing a bondage harness under his clothes. My pussy clenched.
The singer handed me the whip and smiled, before leaping back onto the stage. She hovered at our side of the stage, where the light poured down onto us. There was a moment of fear, a moment of confusion, and then it happened: a rampant urge to do it, to take control, rose up inside me, as if a switch had been tripped. I knew what to do, and why. I stepped over to where he was crouching, looking up at me with expectation. I clenched the handle of the whip, running the strands of leather across my other hand. What would it feel like, whipping a man? My body told me how it would feel: good. Any doubt I had was pushed aside as I reminded myself that he wanted it, and he enjoyed this. So would I.
The audience had created a semicircle around him, and I stepped
in front of them, facing the stage. Music pounded in my ears, powering me up even more. My senses were being overloaded, and yet I was strangely honed and clear-headed. I was in this scene. More than that, I was in control of it now.
Oh God, how good it felt. I was wet, my sex clenching.
I ran the strands of leather across his back, testing it out. The line of his bondage harness was obvious now. As I considered how it might feel for him, and for me, something flared inside me: need, and desire. I thrashed him across the back of one shoulder, then the other, moving in rhythmic patterns. He flinched at each thrash and my pussy gushed. The rush of power I got, heady and deviant, startled me with its intensity. Pleasure ripped through me. I bent down and put my hand under his jacket and T-shirt, grasping for the harness. Pushing my fingers under it, I gripped, applying enough tension so that he would feel it all over his body.
His hands went to the floor, bracing himself, and I knew I had tuned in to something. “You naughty boy,” I said with delight against his head.
Shame poured out of him.
I lifted and stepped away from him, returning to my pillar at the stage, the whip dangling from my hand. My heart was pounding. I couldn’t believe what I’d just done and, most of all, I couldn’t believe the way it made me feel. Daniel rose to his hands and knees and padded over to me, like a pet panther. He stayed by my feet for the rest of the gig, his head rubbing against me affectionately. As I stroked his head in between taking photographs of the band onstage, a feeling of inner calm washed over me. Even though I was still aroused, startled, and confused by my reaction, it was like a feeling of honesty and true realization.
This has empowered me.
The whole experience had been like sex itself, with its arousal, its peak, its transcendence. I’d had no clue I would enjoy dominating a man, whipping him publicly, but I had. And, judging from the adoration at my feet, it was a two-way street.
As the gig ended, the lights went up and everyone was suddenly far too real for me. I didn’t want the staring eyes anymore. I needed a drink. I needed space to think through what had happened to me. The band members were with Daniel; he was on his feet, chatting. Maybe if he hadn’t been with me, he would have gone to someone else. Whatever his reason for choosing me to approach, it had altered my life. Grabbing my stuff, I headed to the bar downstairs, where I ordered a double shot and downed it quickly. My legs were like jelly as I put down the glass and made ready to leave. Daniel was on his way down the stairs, and the mask was gone.
I wanted to go home and think about it, savor the strange sense of euphoria that had overcome me back there. But if I left now, would I ever see him again? Unsure how far I wanted to go along this path, I headed for the door and out into the street. It had rained and the street was different from when I had gone inside. So was I. I ran up the hill, passing underneath the railway arches toward the station. When I heard his footsteps echoing under the arches behind me, I knew it was him. I stopped and turned back to look at him.
He held up his hands in a sign of peace. “I wasn’t going to come after you, but something made me.”
I nodded. I wasn’t afraid of him; I realized it was me that I was afraid of. The unknown me who had risen up so quickly, so unexpectedly. My inner vixen, as I would later identify her.
“You were so good,” he whispered and reached to stroke my arm affectionately.
“Why did you come over to me?”
“I could tell you wanted to play. You did, didn’t you?”
He was right, but he had known and I hadn’t. That was unnerving. He was still stroking my arms. I noticed that we felt like equals now. In fact, his seductive movement against my skin felt as if he was taking charge of me. Uncertainty reigned. “I have to go.”
“Don’t go. Don’t deny it.” He smiled hopefully, but I saw a flicker of regret in his eyes. He thought I was leaving.
“I’ve never done this before,” I confessed, needing him to know that.
He stared at me, and then after a moment he stepped closer, that mischievous smile of his surfacing. With his hands around my upper arms I felt strangely secure, and yet curious and aching for more. A complete stranger had this effect on me? It was because he recognized his opposite in me. The thought crossed my mind, and I didn’t reject it.
“Did you want to do it again? Did you want to do more? Somewhere private, perhaps?”
Images flashed through my mind; images brought on by that suggestion, images of fantasies I hadn’t ever recognized that I had, but were suddenly growing fast and multiplying in my mind, assailing me with their erotic potential, their absolute promise of pleasure.
“Maybe,” I murmured.
We stood there in the gloom of the damp tunnel, with the sound of cars driving down the rainy streets surrounding us. There was no need to say more. When his head dipped and his lips brushed over mine, my inner vixen whispered to me: Don’t turn away.
I didn’t.
I couldn’t.
And so here we are, months later, and I am so glad I didn’t turn away that night. Reaching down, I unbind him before I grab the whip. The mark of my heel on his back is like the center of a bull’s-eye. I use it to focus me, because whipping him gives me such a rush that I need that anchor. When I’m done and he’s shuddering with need, I step in front of him.
His forehead rests against my pussy. “Thank you, Mistress.”
