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No, all the men weren’t clothed. Some of them had their cocks out, stuffed in their submissives’ mouths or hands, or between their thighs. A couple of men were working over a hissing, squealing woman, whipping her as she flailed on a rack. In farther corners, women danced in agony, suspended by sturdy chains from the ceiling. I’d expected frenetic beatings, noise and commotion, but The Gallery’s vibe was of elegant, picturesque pain.
“Forsyth St. Clair,” said a deep voice.
Fort turned, and I turned with him, hiding myself, then remembering that I couldn’t do that. I stood at his side, regarding the same blond man who’d accompanied Fort to Goodluck’s art opening. He was dressed in a white shirt and dark dress pants like Fort, but with a lighter colored tie. It didn’t make him look any less dangerous. When he noticed me, his eyes widened, then narrowed on Fort.
“Really?” he said, with an ironic tilt to his mouth.
“Juliet, do you remember Mr. Kincaid from the gallery opening?”
“Yes, Sir,” I answered, keeping my attention on the man I’d come with.
Devin chuckled as I inched closer to Fort. “Come out, little sub. Let’s see what we have here.”
I glanced at Fort but he was looking at his smirking, muscular friend with an impenetrable expression. I took a step forward and tried not to look scared or ashamed while Devin ran his spooky-pale eyes over me.
“Isn’t she a picture?” He didn’t touch me, but he looked at every part of me. That’s when I understood, really understood, what it meant to belong to every man there. “Enjoy your visit, Juliet,” he said.
I felt Fort’s hand at my back, guiding me away from Devin toward the far end of The Gallery. “Thank you,” I murmured, and I didn’t know if I was replying to Devin, or to Fort’s possessive touch. “What was that about?” I asked, as soon as we were away from him.
“He doesn’t think you should be here,” Fort answered tightly. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s get you settled somewhere so I can get to work.”
Get to work, the work of hurting me, and probably fucking me. Across the room, the sub who’d been squealing through her whipping was now enthusiastically thrusting her hips against one of her tormentors’ cocks. The other man was rolling on a condom. There were sex noises everywhere, mixing with the pain noises in a heady soundtrack of lust.
Fort led me to a padded bench with an adjustable ‘V’ beneath it. He showed me where to place my legs against the ‘V’ so he could bind my thighs to it with leather straps. This part of the bench was adjustable, so the victim could be spanked with their legs together or pried open wide. He fixed my legs somewhere in the middle—wide enough to make me feel vulnerable, but not so wide that anyone who walked by could look up inside me.
The “uniform” I wore hid nothing, of course, not on me or any other woman there. It could hardly be called a garment, more like seductively placed bits of fabric and binding. When he bent me forward over the static part of the bench, my exposed nipples rested at either side of the narrow chest support. My torso wasn’t bound, but my hands were cuffed to short chains at my sides so I could only move so far.
I looked back at Fort in his formal tie and starched shirt. His belt was opened, his erection bulging against the front of his pants. No words were needed for this scene, although a few soothing words would have been welcome. The situation was enough. The bench, the cuffs, the leg-spreading ‘V,’ even my skimpy costume. He pulled the belt from his pants with a whooshing sound and doubled it over as I strained to peer over my shoulder.
“Eyes to the front,” he said.
I obeyed. A moment later, his belt thwacked against my ass, sounding louder and scarier than anything else in the room. I gave a strangled groan as the next blow fell, followed by another, then an entire volley of steady cracks. I didn’t want to cry out, didn’t want to bring attention to myself, but it was hard under his sustained assault.
The worst thing was that I knew this was only a warm-up, that he was only reddening my cheeks all over to prepare them for harder punishment. Something about the bench and the bondage made the belt feel way worse than it was.
I started to squirm, clenching my cheeks, tossing on the bench, but with my legs bound I couldn’t go anywhere, and with my hands bound, I could do nothing to shield myself from the continued belting. My fists clenched and unclenched until he finally stopped. Only then did I take stock of my body, of my feelings. I was hot. Aroused. Not shocking, considering my recent sexual history. My nipples seemed to wait to be hurt by him. My ass throbbed as if chanting formore, more, more…
He rubbed my lower back, a fleeting, comforting touch to ground me, then walked across the room to a row of cabinets. He opened one that was ostensibly his. I thought of high school lockers, even though these cabinets were dark, polished wood. I saw lube and a medium-sized butt plug, and clenched my ass in reaction. There was nothing like the feeling of watching your Dominant walk toward you with something like that in his hands.
I tried to relax as he pressed the tip to my hole, but even with lube, the plug stretched me. His progress was slow but inexorable, opening me millimeter by millimeter. I couldn’t stop the whine of discomfort as the widest part slid into my hole. When the plug was finally in, he eased it free again, adding more lube, fucking the plug in and out of my asshole so I couldn’t get too comfortable with the invasion.
“How does it feel to get fucked with this plug?” he asked.
“It feels bad, Sir,” I said hoarsely.
“It’s not even close to the size of my cock. When I fuck your ass later, it’s going to hurt a lot more.”
What could I say to that? I moaned and raised my head to look around the room, saw some men watching me, some other subs checking me out even in the midst of their sadistic scenes.You’re in The Gallery. You are submissive flesh on display for the pleasure of these wealthy, perverted men.The wealthy, perverted man behind me withdrew the plug until the broadest part was clenched within my sphincter, and held it there.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asked, rocking the plug a tiny amount. “Should we try something else?”
“I don’t know.” The “something else” would undoubtedly feel just as bad, or worse, than what he was doing to me now. With a chuckle, he slid the plug home again, allowing my tight ring some respite as it closed around the narrower base.
“Are you still tied down tight?” he asked me. “Your arms and legs are okay?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Let’s make a few marks on your ass before we move to another area. A rattan cane should do the trick. It’ll feel similar to the dowel I used on you. Perhaps a little more painful.”
