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I hush. She places the tab of the crop against the middle of my back and trails it down through the cleft of my ass before moving it to the side. She presses it against my right buttock. I shudder, balanced in that place between wanting the pain and not wanting it, between craving and fearing it.
The first blow is gentle, just a tap, really. Tandy is like an artist, raising the caliber of my reaction from gasps to whimpers to cries with alternating blows of the crop. There’s enough of a sting when she’s finished to make me want more. She moves to the paddle. It’s thin, but she tells me not to be misled. It hurts, she says, and she’s right. I cry out and pull against the cuffs to evade the second blow after the first one lands, but of course I can’t and being utterly helpless is both terrifying and exciting. A trickle of arousal trails down my left thigh.
“Daddy’s little slut,” Tandy says, and I flush with shameful pleasure. “Daddy’s good little slut. I love how you’re taking this pain. I love how you love it. I couldn’t be prouder.”
She moves on, using the strap, the tawse, the nipple clamps to make me moan and cry and scream. I don’t love everything in her toybox and the things I truly hate she tells me will be reserved for actual punishment, like the Loopy Johnny and the paddle with the holes.
By the time Tandy unhooks me, I’m sore and horny. When she tells me to lay on the bed and spread my legs, I can’t comply fast enough. I expect her to join me, but instead she takes a chair and positions it at the foot of the bed. She sits down. She’s in the same pose as she is in one of my favorite pictures.
“She ne how excited you are,” she says, and for a moment I don’t know what she means. Then it dawns on me. She wants me to masturbate.
My mother said masturbation was a sin and even though I know it’s not, I’ve always had a block when it comes to touching myself. Does Tandy somehow know this? She seems to sense my hesitation.
“Seeing you please yourself will please me,” she says. “Don’t you want to please your Daddy?”
I do. I spread my legs and slide my hands between them. I look between the peaks of my knees, watching her watching me. Her eyes are riveted on me. I imagine her touching me, eating me out, praising me, scolding me, spanking me. My clit swells and hardens beneath my fingers. I slip one, then two digits inside my pussy, my hips rising and falling to the rhythm of my thrusting fingers. Her grin feels like a reward. She’s controlling me without touching me. And I can’t, I can’t, I can’t…. I can’t stop myself from coming hard. The fingers I trail up across my belly are slick.
She tells me I’m a good girl and as a reward I can pleasure her. There’s a zipper built into her pants. She opens it, exposing her pussy. I get off the bed and crawl to her, mewling like a kitten. I lick her labia, slide my tongue up through the dewy slit, tease her clit. She leans back in the chair, playing with my short hair, telling me what a good girl I am.
I’ve never been happier.
Chapter twelve
TANDY
The Black Orchid is a BDSM club about fifty miles away. It’s private, small, and exclusive with a hefty membership fee that keeps it that way. Back in the day, the owner, Maxwell Reed, hired me to do workshops and offered to make me a member. I’d politely declined, not because The Black Orchid wasn’t an amazing club, but because the members of Club Cross took a dim view of The Black Orchid’s exclusivity. They thought it was an elitist establishment; I knew some of my friends didn’t even like that I did workshops there. Joining would have caused too much gossip.
Now, it seems like a good choice. Max is glad to hear from me. He asks me if I’m back in the scene. I tell him I’m thinking about it, but not like I was. I tell him I’m in a relationship with a newbie and am looking for a safe introduction to club life. Fortunately, he doesn’t ask me why I’m not going to Club Cross so I don’t have to tell him how awkward it would be with all the memories in that place, and with Inez still being an active member.
I wait until I’ve cleared things with Max before surprising Bliss with an outfit for her introduction to the club scene. She squeals with delight; her gratitude, like her passion, is genuine and enthusiastic.
I sit on the sofa and wait while she changes. When she comes out of the bedroom, I can’t help but to look at her like a hungry person looks at an all-you-can-eat buffet. The leather bustier lifts her breasts and hugs her small waist. Her black thong panties are visible beneath the skirt made of leather netting. I note to myself that she’s mastering the high black heels much better than she did the heels she was wearing the night I met her.
“Damn,” I say.
“Thank you, Daddy.” She walks over to kiss me, and I rush to change before I forget what we’re doing and take her to the bedroom.
We wear coats over our outfits. It’s a beautiful evening and the traffic is light, so we reach our destination in less than an hour.
Club Orchid is located in the basement of a restaurant. To reach the entrance we have to go through a back alley and navigate a narrow stairwell to a heavy wooden door. Maxwell has done a magnificent job soundproofing the interior. While nothing can be heard from the outside, once we enter, we’re greeted by the hypnotic, sensual techno beat that will provide the rhythmic backdrop for our night of fun and exploration.
Maxwell greets me warmly. A tall South African with a model’s build, he came to the United States on a student visa in the eighties, majored in finance, and ended up becoming a citizen. He built a successful brokerage company, sold it for a profit and now invests in real estate. Not only is he one of the most gorgeous people I’ve ever seen, but Maxwell is also one of those rare men who doesn’t seem to age. Tonight, he’s wearing a white silk shirt that contrasts brilliantly with his dark skin and tight leather pants and I can tell that Bliss is in awe of him as he takes her hand and raises it to his lips.
“So, you’re the little dove who has tamed the heart of our fierce Mistress T,” he says. Her pretty brush elicits a deep, melodious chuckle from our host. “Why so shy?” little dove? He looks at me. “Does she not talk?”
“I do,” Bliss says. “I’m just nervous.”
“Put your mind at ease, my dear.” We are standing on a mezzanine, and he sweeps his arm out in a graceful motion. “All you will see tonight, the pain and the pleasure, they are nothing to fear. Your name is Bliss, no?”
She nods.
“Perfect. You will live up to it.” He turns and claps his hands. A beautiful male waiter wearing tap shorts and a crop top with a bow tie comes over. His black hair is slicked back from his smooth face. He is carrying a tray with two drinks. Maxwell takes them and hands one to me and one to Bliss. “On the house.” He winks at me, and I know the free drinks aren’t really free. For all of Maxwell’s cordiality, he’s taken my refusal to join The Black Orchid personally. He will expect me to join what he calls his “tribe,” and as I look around, I think that I just may, provided that Bliss enjoys it here.
We take the stairs leading from the mezzanine to the lower level. The walls were hung with heavy crimson curtains. Ornate chandeliers cast a seductive glow around the huge room. The atmosphere is thick with anticipation and desire. Conversation and the occasional cries of pleasure and pain mingled with the music.
The main area of the club is a sprawling space designed to accommodate various activities. There’s a well-stocked bar against one wall; the mirror behind the bar lined with shelves stocked with bottles of expensive liquor. The black-clad bartenders are busy expertly blending concoctions for a line of patrons.
Adjacent to the bar, a central stage dominates the room. A red spotlight points at the stage, accentuating the curves and shadows of the performers. I know this stage well. I’ve done demonstrations here. The club has a hierarchy; a member or guest has to earn their right to perform on the stage which is reserved for the most seasoned players.
