The music thudded and pulsed through the private party. Female escorts provided for the evening mingled with executives and local politicians who networked and chatted in the bar area, or who clustered round the raised stage, waving paper money and begging for the dancer’s attention.
Raven was so used to this, but delighted in the knowledge that it was her lithe body, curling, twisting and looping round the pole that was having the most impact that night. To the urgent beat of Natalia Oreiro’s “No Soporto” she did everything but mount the men closest to the stage. She was a wanton slut teasing the men and promising a night of decadent coupling, and they responded by throwing their manhoods at her in increasingly bigger denominations.
Although by day a professional, working in an office, sober and professional, at night she turned her skin inside out and danced and displayed her way into men’s fantasies and lustful dreams. But like her more sober life, this too was just a game she played. Even as she posed provocatively as a slave to these men, she knew it was her body and her sex that had them in her chains, and the knowledge amused and frustrated her.
When she did private lap dances she would tease her clients almost to the point of them creaming themselves, delighting in the bulges they would beg her to touch with soft fingers, or rub with her thong displayed bottom.
But when she was ready to slake her sexual thirst, she would saunter past the macho executives, the alpha males who worked out as hard as they carved deals, with their expensive suits and gold watches. She ignored the self centred self assured men who saw her body as a right, or a reward for their attention. Instead, she would choose a more diffident man, someone who stayed in the back ground, who didn’t try because he assumed he wouldn’t win.
The look on that chosen man’s face would amuse her too; puzzlement, a touch of fear mixed with hope, and eventually a barely concealed lust that tonight they were the one would be playing with the exquisite creature.
And in turn, she would encourage their dark side to join the games.
“Shy boys always have a dark side.” she would tell her friends. “They have so many frustrations and wounds they need to express, but they are usually so nice about it too.”
So, grateful for her attention, yet persuaded by her urging, they would ensure that as they spanked, cropped, bound and used her, that she would also have her pleasure, her needs fulfilled with pain and pleasure both.
For even as she played the femme fatale, even as she targeted a man and reduced his self will to empty dust in her claws, even as she slaked her sexual hunger on some anonymous cock buried in her body, she would also feel the need for a form of penance, for a masochistic absolution.
For all that she embraced her slut side, yet part of her wanted to be punished, to be chastised, to pay for her sinful pleasures.
She was as good as she could be with her appetites…she was honest, truthful, brutal in her openness about her needs and desires as a nymphomaniac. She never promised what she could not deliver, and so, when her hunger for punishment was at its sharpest, she sought out the pain of redemption.
Whatever her “confessor” for that moment decided, she would accept and suffer for his sake, and for her soul’s healing. Any and all pain was embraced, as long as it was sincere in its turn. Her moans, her cries, her tears were then a both a sign of her desire for wholeness, and a gift to the one who healed her as he hurt her.
And tonight? Tonight her lust for absolution was particularly deep.
Later at that party, after her dancing was over, she went looking for her next father confessor. She wore a tight little dress that on any other woman would have screamed whore..but on her served as the bow to an expensive present. She prowled the rooms looking for her saviour, not knowing yet who it was, but trusting her instinct to find him when she saw him.
Graciously evading the pick up lines of the men who bored her with their interest, she watched the edges of the room, the margins where the dark things hide, and saw him.
He was tucked into a corner, but as a watcher, not a hider. Older, slim, bald, wearing glasses and dressed casually but smartly. His body language was relaxed, yet carried a nervous energy, as if he would suddenly decide he had seen enough, get up and walk out. No one sat near him, yet he filled his space with just being.
She felt her interest piqued, and sauntered over, watching him notice and track her with his eyes. She saw his soft smile as she walked towards him, and felt herself being assessed, judged, and yet accepted.
“May I?” she asked boldly, indicating a space that was further into the corner. Her first rule was always to take the initiative, to see how far she could seize control.
“He smiled, stood up and beckoned her into the place she had indicated.”
She liked his height, 6 foot, matching her 5 ft 8, lifted that night with 4 inch heels which in turn made her exquisite legs that much more devastating.
He waved a waiter over and ordered drinks for them both, a cocktail for her, a scotch for him,and then turned to her.
“Your dancing was really the most impressive performance I have ever seen.”
His English accent was educated, clear, but not with a particular accent. His voice invited you to listen, and to respond, gentle, but with an edge waiting to command where necessary.
“Thank you,” Raven smiled her winning smile, “though I don’t remember seeing you paying me for the pleasure.”
Just a little bitch to test his mettle, to see if he was worth her supplication.
He smiled as if at a private joke.
“And I’m amazed that you remember one less honey bee clustered around your flower. To be honest, though, I was only watching from afar, I’ve never been fond of rugby scrums. However, I would be more than happy to show my appreciation in more concrete ways later if you wish.”
As a chat up line it wasn’t bad, and he wasn’t cocky. Maybe this man was the type she was looking for.
“Well, ” And Raven leaned forward and almost whispered into his ear, “I am certainly very open to the idea of being appreciated in any way you choose tonight”
He turned his face to her, his lips only inches away from hers and almost laughed.
“And you really think it’s that easy? Granted, you are an exceedingly attractive young woman, and by far the sexiest here tonight. But I don’t think you are quite ready to leave with me just yet.”
Raven sat back, slightly startled. This wasn’t right, he was changing the rules. Even as she offered herself, she normally still had a hand on the leash, and yet he had pretty much put her back in her place.
She was starting to like him, he was more of a challenge than she had expected.
“Let me tell you something about yourself. And then, after you have heard me out, you can decide whether you still want to leave with me. The choice will be yours, but what happens afterwards will be determined by me. Do we have a deal?”
Raven arched a perfect eyebrow and smiled back.
“Certainly sir. I will listen, and then decide if I want you to take charge of me tonight”
And even as she said it, her sex tingled a little at the thought of what he might say, or propose. There was something restrained, something dark and intense about him, as if, like her, he wore a public persona as a wolf wears fleece, to walk more freely among the unaware.
At that point, the waiter arrived, and deftly placed coasters and drinks in front of them, and slipped away as silently as he had arrived.
“You are at war with yourself.”
He paused, measuring his words, and Raven sat, startled by this brusque assessment.
“You are deeply sexual, incredibly attractive, and you delight in it. You could beckon your finger and have almost any man in the room at your service, and yet you choose not to. Having flaunted yourself and excited the lust of almost every male in the room, (and I do include at least half the gays here), you then come and sit with one of the few men who hasn’t been drooling over you half the night.”
He paused, and sipped his scotch, his eyes still fixed intently on her as if inspecting a rare butterfly or fresh cut gemstone.
“You crave to be in control, yet you are trapped by it, and you also know that. And that tells me that you are honest with yourself, even brutally so. You chose me because you want what most men can’t give you…freedom to be yourself.”
“You chose me despite our age difference, despite my somewhat some less than film star looks, and despite the fact that I don’t seem to have either riches or lots of friends. You chose me because I am a loner, because I am apart. And that is how you are, alone in your successful world.”
“And yet, here I think we have a slight touch of self deception. I imagine you thought you chose me because I would be more “grateful,” yet also someone who would understand your own dark side…the part that you cannot share with most people.”
“But, the truth is that whether you are aware of it or not, everything you do is controlled by you, even the times when you give up control, and that always leaves you frustrated and empty”
“You are offering me a deal, an “arrangement”. You are offering me your body, and I suspect a lot of freedom with it, and I, in turn, am expected to show the proper appreciation for it.”
Raven sat still, staring at him, her drink as yet untouched. In a few deft sentences, economical with his words yet abundant in insight, he had opened her up. Her games and her tactics; dissected, analysed and presented back to her.
“However, I also sense that you need something more than whatever darker pleasures a loner like me might have on offer. Oh yes, I am well aware that we “quieter” types tend to be a bit kinkier, a bit darker; as the saying goes ‘still waters run deep.’ But you need to do more than just lose control, you need to have it taken from you. You need to know that your control is only an illusion, to see that you have no control whatsoever.
“When you know that, when you are finally helpless and hopeless, then you can truly experience what you crave…to be used for someone else’s pleasure, to let go of your ability to feed yourself, and be wholly dependent on another’s choice.”
He paused, then leaned forward into her lips.
His monologue had so shaken her, so pierced her, that she didn’t move as he pressed his lips to hers, taking her kiss as casually as he might pick a button hole.
And as his lips pressed into hers, she sensed a hand caress a breast, slip inside her dress, and cruelly pinch a nipple with all his force.
Raven almost cried out, and for a brief second felt she should be shocked at this attack on her. But the greater part of her yielded, and embraced his pain..and as she did so, a white shock erupted into the space between her thighs. She climaxed without warning, as sudden in its arrival as summer lightning.
She whimpered into his mouth, unconsciously arching her body to him, willing him to do more, to give her the pain she craved, to let her be obedient to his desires.
He pulled back, a knowing smile on his face.
“No my little one, not yet. I am about to leave, and you will have five minutes to decide whether you want to leave as well. If you do, I will be outside, but I will only wait five minutes, not a second more.”
“And just remember this, if you do decide to leave here and join me, that will be your last choice. After this, you will have no rules, you will have no limits, you will have no control, you will no more “No’s.”
“And I, in turn, will take you where you crave, but cannot go alone.”
And with that, he finished his drink, stood up, and left.
And Raven sat…and decided.
For three minutes Raven stared at her drink…knowing what she wanted, recognising that this man could well give her what she needed, but still feeling the fear that comes from finally being offered what she had craved all her life.
It wasn’t that she was afraid of what he might do…more that having done it, that this might not be be what she craved after all…that her dreams and darkest desires were just that; impossible dreams that could not survive the light of their reality.
But Raven also knew that she was not going to let this chance go; the memory of his kiss, the tingling of the nipple he had twisted, the wetness between her legs. These all told her that whatever happened, even if she didn’t find that mythical place where, at last, she could put down the burden of self-hood and control, it would be one fucking awesome ride getting there.
Abruptly, her mind suddenly set and in focus, she stood up and left the way he had gone…a man whose name she didn’t know, whose address was a mystery, yet someone she was prepared to follow into the night. She laughed to herself, thrilled at the sheer insanity of it, and grinned as she ran down the stairs to where he waited on the hotel steps
His back was to the door, and she saw him look at his watch, and without looking back, set off walking towards the car park.
“So,” Raven playfully asked as she caught up with him, “Where are you taking me?”
He stopped, turned round and looked at her. His eyes were stern, passionate, but not welcoming.
“Did I ask you a question?”
Raven stepped back, feeling almost that she had been struck. Unused to being treated so bluntly, almost brutally
“No, you didn’t. Is that a problem?”
His hand slapped her cheek. The blow was stinging…not particularly painful, but shocking for its suddenness. Raven’s hand flew to her burning face, and wide eyed she stood mute as he growled at her.
“You do NOT address me in that tone of voice, you do NOT question my methods, and you do NOT treat me like some casual pick up in a bar.”
He stepped closer to her, gripping the wrist that still hung by her side.
“When you followed me out of that hotel, you gave up your rights of control, you gave up your limits. As such you will follow me obediently, you will do as you are told, and unless you are asked a question you will keep your fucking mouth shut. IS THAT CLEAR?”
Those last three words were not said any more loudly than the previous muted conversation, but with such intensity and venom that she felt she was 6 years old again, gripped by the hand and eyes of the fearsome Mother Superior who ruled her elementary school as strictly as any petty dictator.
Raven found herself quailing at his power, his naked energy. It was as if his charm and good manners in the hotel had been a mask, and even as she wondered at the sanity of following through her promise, her cunt was leaking her desire for him. He wasn’t just commanding her, her was overpowering her defences with focused and directed force. His anger was almost palpable, but leashed with chains. Every action and word was calculated to perfection, and she knew without thinking that she could not leave, only follow..
“Yes sir.” Raven spoke meekly, submitting herself to his authority. “I am sorry sir, please forgive me. I meant no disrespect, and I forgot my place.”
She had been trying to be friendly, and he had turned on her, struck her, and then treated her like some annoying little brat. And she had responded to it. She found herself wanting to please him. This authority figure grew in size before her and found herself striving to placate him, to beg his forgiveness in submission. God, she was so fucking horny…and he had hardly started.
He looked at her, his eyes boring into hers, then dropped her wrist and set off towards the car park again. Wordlessly, feeling so very small, she followed him.
As he approached the car park he pulled the key from his pocket and pushed the fob button. With a musical chirrup and flash of the indicators, his car acknowledged his presence, opening itself to him. Even as Raven observed that, she found herself craving to be that car, to be so obedient that with one signal she would become as instantly available to his use as this car was. The eroticism of that thought almost caused her stumble, the force of it twisting her stomach and making her sex crave HIS usage.
He stepped to the passenger door, and opened it, waiting for her to sit in the leather seat. He appeared to an outsider as a gentleman, opening the car door for his lady. Yet to Raven, she was being controlled, guided, put in her place. There was no doubt that she would get into the car, he was merely ensuring there was no delay.
Silently she buckled herself in, and waited for him to take his seat.
Within minutes they were on a local highway, and after twenty minutes into the countryside. He drove with focus, his movements economical. He didn’t just drive the car, he guided it, controlled it, directed its energy in the ways to best serve his needs. He didn’t engage her in conversation, and she found herself patiently waiting, being still for him.
If her friends had seen her, they would have been stunned into silence. Raven was their party animal, their ring leader. Raven was the instigator of activities, and the one who led the conversations. She was never silent, and certainly not mutely still, passive, like a doll waiting for its owner.
But somehow, it seemed natural for her, a state of being that that had only needed a firm word and stern voice to have her obedient like a well trained bitch.
At a quite villa he had swung the car into the driveway, pulled up outside the front door, braked and switched off the engine. After the powerful sound of the engine, the random clicking of the metal cooling in the evening air seemed disconcerting.
She waited while he unbuckled himself and exited the car, coming round to her side again to let her out. Scents of jasmine and honeysuckle filled the air, and the cicadas called noisily to each other. Here in the countryside, the stars shone brightly in the moonless sky.
He took her elbow and led her up the steps to the large oak front doors with their inlaid bolts, and then into the house. When he turned the lights on, she found herself in a tiled hallway, some pieces of antique furniture dotted around, a stair case leading up to the next floor, and doorways to various rooms set in several walls. All of these were shut, and the hallway defined her line of site. She felt, somehow, closed off from his privacy, almost as if he had been expecting a visitor, and hadn’t wanted anything of his personal life to be on display.
His command disrupted her reverie, and she looked at him, shocked.
Again, a blow across her cheek, but harder this time
“I said strip. Don’t make me tell you a third time or your clothes will be shredded where you stand”
Somehow she didn’t doubt the truth of his words, and although the thought of her clothes being cut from her had a delightful air of rape play, there was nothing playful about his look or manner.
“Silently, she stripped off her clothes, passing the garments to his outstretched hand. She didn’t hesitate even to remove her thong…now sticky with her juices, though she blushed when she saw him glance at the tell tale residue.
Just as she was about to remove her shoes, he shook his head, and she paused.
She dropped to her knees, conscious of the cold unforgiving hardness of the tiles.
“Now crawl and follow me.”
On all fours, naked apart from her shoes, she crawled after this man, feeling humiliated and degraded, yet so deliciously aroused. She was learning that obedience to him, unquestioning and instant, brought its own reward…a fire that burned between her legs, and an ache that told her that her orgasm, when it arrived, would be deeply satisfying.
He led the way to the stairs, (which, thankfully, were carpeted), and up to the first floor. There, he opened a set of double doors and led the way into what could only be described as a dungeon. She had suspected that he was pretty experienced, but he had the kind of equipment that wouldn’t look out of place in a top class fetish club…and she knew from experience what they looked like.
There was comfortably room for at least 15 people, there were padded benches, a Saint Andrew’s Cross, a suspension frame and other pieces of furniture she could only guess at. Below the suspension frame, he told her to stand.
She did, her arms hanging loosely by her side. She watched him carefully as he picked up some pieces of leather with buckles.
He placed them on a near by bench, then picked up a wide posture collar. As he fixed it round her neck, her chin was lifted up, and its presence made her stand even straighter than her casual dancer’s pose. He fixed her wrist cuffs, then attached a short metal pole from the back of the collar. The wrist cuffs were fixed to the bottom of the neck pole, keeping her wrists fixed behind her, but clear of her naked arse cheeks.
He knelt and fixed on her ankle cuffs, and then attached an expanding spreader bar. Gently, firmly, but steadily, so she didn’t over balance, he pushed her ankles until they were about 80 centimetres apart. Not difficult for her, but with the potential of becoming uncomfortable over time.
Finally, he attached a rope to the back of the collar and then onto the wrists. Should she fall, she knew the thick collar would and the pole would carry her weight, but she also had no doubt it would be extremely uncomfortable, and even temporarily restrict her air supply.
All this time he had said nothing, setting her in place like some display mannequin.
He walked round her, testing the cuffs, ensuring that the rope was securely tight, happy that she was safe, if slightly nervous and on edge.
Standing in front of her again, he cupped his hand round full breast and weighed it. His use of her was so casual and yet right.
She gave a low cry as he brutally twisted the hardened nipple in his finger and thumb, yet made no attempt to stop him, feeling her cunt drip even more.
The hand that had been torturing her nipple moved south to her spread cunt, and without any hesitation, forced two fingers into her.
She couldn’t help it…her orgasm burst through her and she shuddered and jerked like a puppet…held by the ropes and his fingers in her sex.
His dominance, her humiliation, and an act that had seemed only a step short of rape had triggered her climax, and she realised just how much he had primed her, opened her, aroused her without trying. Unconsciously she tried to thrust her breasts at him, wanting him to take something, to show her that he desired her with even one tenth of her lust for him.
Instead, he had waited until she had calmed, then pulled his fingers from her and wiped them casually on her face. She felt intense shame as she felt the moisture dry on her skin, and the fires of her lust started to build again.
He walked away, and came back with a thin cane and a set of clover leaf nipple clamps connected with a silver chain. She breathed heavily as the rubber grips bit onto her nipples, focusing on the discomfort to find her equilibrium.
He stepped away, He used the cane to tap the chain now swinging under the curve of her thrust forward breasts, and she expelled the air through her nostrils at the sharp tugging on the sensitive points.
And then the caning began.
Many people have the entirely false impression that a cane is about brutal strikes, six of the best applied as corporal punishment…or belaboured over arse cheeks to raise instant welts.
He was more creative, and so more cruel. He flicked the thin rod over and around her body, and each blow felt like a hornets sting, a cut that flared briefly, and then dulled to an ache. He didn’t rush the beating, taking his time to mark her thighs, her arse, her stomach, her breasts.
Raven struggled to process the pain, feeling almost but not quite overwhelmed with the sensation. She started off grimly keeping quiet, determined not to give way to any display of discomfort.
But as he worked her body over and over, so his strikes became more and more intense. As they did so, he focused more on her thighs and arse cheeks, knowing that he could strike those areas with much more force and not do permanent damage.
Raven’s mouth opened and she started to cry out, a low keening at first as the fire burned across her skin, and then louder…punctuated with louder screams as a particularly harsh blow struck a sensitive area.
She needed this so much, this dark intensity, this absence of play, just a beating that became fiercer and fiercer, breaking down her pride, breaking through her self control, demolishing her will.
And then, he struck her bottom with brutal cutting blows than lashed her and made her jerk forward with each impact.
With each one she screamed in pain, and after the fifth, the tears started, tears of pain, of anguish, of remorse, of grief, of cleansing.
And still he struck her with the same intensity, fifteen more times, driving the tears out of her body and soul and onto her cheeks where they rolled to the ground.
Never, in all her time, had Raven been so thoroughly broken, so comprehensively taken apart and shown her vulnerability, and in pain and release, she cried and wept and howled her agony.
After the twentieth stroke had seared across her flesh, he threw the cane to one side.
He stepped to her front, and pulled out a small object. Part of Raven craved intimacy, and she hoped he would hold her tight against the storm of emotions that flooded from her.
But he wasn’t finished. He twisted the small device that seemed the size of a lipstick holder, and she heard a buzzing sound from it.
He pushed it against her cunt, his other hand holding a handful of her hair to keep her face towards him.
Through her tears she begged.
“Please sir, no sir, please sir, fuck me, use me, take whatever holes you want, but let me feel you in me. I want to be your slut, I want to please you.”
He smiled, a smile of conquest and victory. ”
You forget cunt, I already have that, I have all of you whenever I want it. What you haven’t yet learned is that I do what I want…not what you beg. When want me like this as naturally as you breath, when I can use your fuck holes without warning and you are as eager and passionate as this…THEN you will truly understand that you are mine.”
“But for now, this will be sufficient”
And with that, he rubbed the infernal buzzing toy over her swollen lust engorged clit, and her last vestiges of self control melted away. She screamed loudly in her orgasm. It’s power was raw, uncivilised, fuelled by humiliation, by pain, by degradation, by HIS control. She felt wholly his, wholly under his control, knowing that she had nothing but what he chose to take, in his time.
As the wave after wave or pleasure surged through her, she felt free at last. He had fulfilled his promise and shown her that she really did have no control, and she flew on wings of ecstasy.
Afterwards, when he had let the rope gently down, her untied her, wrapped her in a warm blanket and led her to bed. She was asleep almost as soon as her head sank into the soft pillows. And yet, she could have sworn she felt a soft tender kiss on her lips as she faded into unconsciousness.
Her eyes closed, she smiled softly and murmured,
“Buenas noches, papá.”