Sadist’s Fire: Intro And Canto One - Denied And Used free porn video

Devi

“You ready, Dev?”

I laughed on the medical table, my eyes closed against the rising terror in my throat. I’d had 15 piercings by that point and, amazingly, the terror of needles somehow never got easier. I kept expecting myself to get desensitized or to get used to this, but I never did. I had a phobia that made panic rise in my throat every time, made my heart race and made my palms tingle with sweat. And this was the worst piercing yet, or so I’d heard. “No! Okay, yeah. Yeah, I’m good. Just do it.”

Morgan Rede and his tattoo artist of a wife had gotten very used to my presence in his shop. Every so often, my world would become overwhelmed with stress and it would feel like everything was spinning out of control, so I’d get the itch to get a new piercing or tattoo. I could do the piercings a little more spur of the moment, but I always put more thought and care into my tattoos. My body was a canvas and I wanted it to be a good one, so I’d started spending a lot of time with Morgan. “Okay, you know how this goes. Just take a breath. We’ll do this fast together. Forceps, needle, ring. Breathe through my counts to three.”

I grinned in terror, waiting for him to start, my heart in my throat. My eyes were squeezed shut and exhilaration made me feel like I could fly with the thrill. “One.” I took a staggered breath. “Two.” I gasped, whimpered, but breathed. “Three.”

The forceps on my septum made my eyes snap open and tears sprang to them. I shook with terror when I saw the needle, but Morgan was so good at what he did. He punched the needle through quickly and I squeaked in shocked pain, a mouse-like sound that made me blush. He rapidly held the hollow point and fit the piercing through so that I flinched at a pinching sensation.

And that was it. It was over. My heart still hammered and there was a dazed after effect from the sheer rush of my own personal fear. A shudder ran through my body and I stared at Morgan, wide eyed.

He laughed because he knew me well enough to know that I was alright, that I was just riding a wave. It was a reason why I got along well Morgan and Trish. They both understood my thing, weird as it was. Oh, they didn’t have the same reactions as they were both on different sides of the kink spectrum, but they got it and they never judged. “Here you go. How’s that?” He held up the mirror and I took it, then grinned with a delighted laugh.

“That’s awesome! Thank you, Morgan!” Euphoria was rocking me, the release after the rush. Everyone always warned that tattoos and piercings were addictive but they weren’t kidding. They were so addictive. “Hey, I have a curiosity question. Do you know anyone who does body modification work?”

He nodded easily. “Yeah. Trish and I both do. What did you have in mind?”

“I want to be branded.” Okay, this wasn’t the real fantasy, but I didn’t think I would ever get the atmosphere I wanted with my brand fantasy. Hell, even getting one was a stretch for a few reasons.

“Ah.” He gave me an apologetic look. “Well, okay. So there’s a problem with that. A few legal problems, for instance.” I nodded because I knew that. This was something I’d wanted for a long time now and I was dead set on getting it, even if I couldn’t get it quite the way I wanted. “But we do live in a large city, so if you’re really wanting it then you could probably find someone to hurt you in any way you like here. The problem is, and it’s kind of a key problem, if they’ll do it safely and how much it’ll cost. I have an idea though, if you’re willing to explore some fringe edges and places with Trish and I.”

“I want it. I really want it, Morgan. Tell me what to do, please.” I gave him my most pleading eyes, my puppy dog ones. In the wake of the adrenaline rush, I was just bold enough to beg for it. Morgan and Trish had already introduced me to my fetish club of choice, I was getting out more, meeting new people and I was eager to keep going, especially if it meant I could get something even kind of, sort of close to my dream.

The truth was I had this fantasy of being tied down, naked, and a masked person taunting me with heated iron. I had this fantasy of whimpering and then feeling the sizzle of flesh with a kajira kef being branded into me, marking me for what I was. Of course, I’d also had a fantasy of being tethered while I shivered in terror when someone pierced my clitoral hood and I had had to settle for professional on that as well. It was both exhilarating and disappointing, but it was what I burned to have. So I would settle for professional on the brand too, so long as I could get one.

Morgan’s idea turned out to be really awesome. He and Trish talked with me when she finished a tattoo session and he showed me videos of this thing called body suspension. Eight gauged needles were pierced through the back, or other body parts, of a model and then they were used to suspend them. In some of the videos he showed me, there was blood. In some, the model swung on the hooks while someone pushed her. In others, they took a chain and swung themselves. My blood raced at the thought of all of them. As soon as I saw it, I felt this kind of lust for it, this eager dread for the thrill and how terrible it would be to feel the sharp pain and then to fly so high while my flesh was tugged. I looked at Trish shyly while she watched and laughed. Trish had taken to me a while ago and she seemed to think of me in the same way she might think of a little pet. She had this strange form of affection for how reckless I was, how playful I was even while I was also hiding a hard fucking masochistic core. She loved how I wore pigtails and masturbated to Buffy fanfictions involving Angelus torturing Drusilla to madness.

“What do you think, Devi? We might not know someone who will give you the brand, but we can find out together there, if you’re game. We’re all friends, if not acquaintances, in that circle and I know one of them will either be willing to do it or will know someone who will.”

Alright, now I was three potential degrees away from maybe, possibly getting what I wanted. Which probably meant I had less degrees of separation between myself and Kevin Bacon. But I was game anyway because life was about the journey and not the destination. “Let’s do it. Name the time and place!”

“We’ll get in touch with some of the other piercers and send it to you, kitty cat.”

In the meantime, I stayed around the shop and neither Morgan nor Trish minded. By that point, I was counted as one of their friends and Trish thought I was someone to take under her wing and protect. She had made it clear that she thought I had a personality that would be easy to hurt. Which was probably true. Okay, it was definitely true and I had definitely been hurt and abused in some probably terrible ways, but I had some funny stories from it. There’s a bright side to everything in life really. Even fear, as awful of an emotion as it could be, had its fun parts.

I was a slave to fear, if I’m being honest with myself. I was terrified of everything from butterflies to the dark to the cartoon version of Ichabod Crain. And somewhere along the way while living with all of that fear, I had started to get off on it. Which was probably good, since the only other option was agoraphobia. 

When I got home that night, my new septum ring was still fairly sore and when I lay down in bed, my body pulsed with pleasant aftershocks from my terror rush of the needles. I closed my eyes and imagined the piercing had been a different story. I imagined myself in a dungeon, a cold and dark place where I was naked and shivering in terror. I pictured a shadowy masked stranger that came to my prison cell and pulled me up by my hair while I struggled. Maybe he would slap me or roughly grab me by my throat in threat when I resisted, so that I would cry miserably. And he would drag me and chain my arms behind me, chain me by a high collar to the wall so that my head would be forced up. I imagined myself squealing in terror while he applied the forceps... and I orgasmed to the memory of the needle punching through my nose, gasping in dark frenzy.

————

It was three weeks before the body suspension group got together to do their thing. Fortunately, I worked a 9 to 5 job at a weapon tech place called Ballistics and I worked on their engineering team, analyzing deviance shaves to make sure they fell within safety parameters. It was a wonderful job with a decent enough pay and, even better, they didn’t give a shit about how their engineers looked. If they ever had cause to, I could easily get rid of any visible piercings without problem and my clothes covered any tattoos. What was more, I had job security due to a contract agreement.

And, as if it needed any more bonuses, the hours were generally standard with weekends off, like most jobs. Which meant that when Morgan sent me a date, I could call Trish that night and tell her I was in. She let me video call her in all my excitement and listened to me ramble while I drew yet another portrait of Spawn. I had to start drawing again to soothe some of the excitement because I didn’t really know what to expect, but it felt like one step closer to my end goal.

And it was nothing like anything I could have expected anyway. For a start, Morgan led the way, while Trish fussed with my hair and cat ears, and he led us to this old warehouse of a building outside of the city. It was this wide open space with a pulley system for the suspension hook and chains. I’d never forget the setup. The hook hung from the middle of the room, with old concrete beneath it like something out of a horror movie. The lighting was bright and industrial. It was a crude atmosphere, almost cruel, but that was actually perfect for its own way.

And it was in that light and place that I first saw him. I know that people talk about love at first sight all the time, but that’s not quite the right words. This was more like terror at first sight or transfixed by first sight. As soon as I saw him, it felt like a fall from grace. He stood out just that much for me. For a start, he didn’t have any visible tattoos like most people in that circle and place showed off. Granted, he wore jeans and a long sleeved shirt, with the sleeves rolled back some. He was clean cut, no piercings, no marks of interest. His dark brown hair had a slight amount of length to it, enough for him to part it to the side and have it neatly swept out of his way. He wore a mask for the moment, and even that was plain medical white. 

But it was his eyes that got me. They were lowered to his slightly gruesome task of inserting suspension needles... and they were empty, in a way that made me shiver in fear. I didn’t know him, didn’t know who he was, but he scared me more than anyone I’d ever met. There was something in his sure motions, something in the way he sat. Piercers were relaxed and professional, but he possessed this extra factor, this intensity, that he shouldn’t have had. I didn’t have a name for it, but it drew me to him. It was like being hypnotized by someone who wasn’t aware of the fact that I existed and I moved closer to watch him work.

His model lay still, calmly breathing into a chair. It was another guy, an extremely pretty one with colorful hair who I could instantly sense was not interested in my gender. His eyes were closed and his head was rested on his arms, his lips curving upwards in a sense of exhilaration that I found familiar. The man behind him had already pierced one of the 8 gauge gilson hooks through his back. While I watched, he applied forceps to the other side and what amazed me the most was the fact that he didn’t count. He didn’t give any warning at all for his model. Instead, he just abruptly pierced the needle through and I jumped in terror, feeling the expected cold sweat at the sight of needles and piercing work. Even after all of my piercings, my fear of needles still held some power, but I could never look away from it. There was a little bit of blood and I stared at that as well, transfixed by the way it bubbled to the surface so beautifully. He neatly used gauze strips to soak it until his model’s flesh adjusted to the hooks pierced through his back, and then he held the hooks and moved them beneath the skin. The sight of that always managed to make me feel a little faint as well, even in the videos, but it was a good kind of weakness that made my legs unsteady with pinpricks of adrenaline. And with this man, it was amped somehow, evolved into something that ruled me and made me feel as if I floated outside of my body.

I got to hear him speak for the first time when he was done, while I was still swallowing back my fear, and his voice didn’t help. It was both absent of key human emotions, while it possessed ones it shouldn’t have had. And again I didn’t even have words for what those things were. “There. Morgan’s wife can set you up on the hook.” I wrapped my arm around myself, feeling cold from that sound, taking note of the fact that he knew Morgan and Trish, too, at least enough to name them.

“Yes, sir.” The model he’d pierced hopped up, looking as if he was having the thrill ride of his life. What was more, he moved easily and with a security that said he’d done this before and knew how to play. And indeed, I turned to watch him briefly while he went to Trish and they talked with familiarity. She looked at him the same way she looked at me, with that sense of protectiveness.

I turned back to the man and his hooks. He looked like he belonged with that gleaming silver medical tray among the concrete and heavy iron setup. And for the first time he met my gaze, his expression empty and assessing. And then his eyes moved to a point behind me.

I jumped when Morgan touched my shoulders. “Like it so far?”

The question brought me back to myself a little bit and I grinned, leaning into him slightly for some courage. “Yes! It’s amazing.” And really, it was. My body thrummed with pleasurable tingling from the wake of terror and rush just from getting to watch the piercing process.

“I thought you might. This is one of the ones you might want to talk to, by the way.” The pleasant rush intensified when he tugged me over to the man I had been entranced with. The sense of surreality overtook me and I heard the exchange as if from far away. “Devi, this is Dr. Ezra Calloway. He’s a plastic surgeon.”

“Hello.” I cowered like a shy bunny rabbit, rather than an edge player who had a phobia of needles and masturbated to it after piercings. Instead of a girl with a hatchet man tattoo, I was a frightened mouse hiding in the night. I stood too close to Morgan, as if he might protect me, and hated myself for acting like I was.

Ezra Calloway. The name didn’t fit him. He needed the name of a demon instead and I couldn’t have said why I thought that. It was only when he took off his mask that I could even tell he had a polite smile, the slightest curving of the lips that didn’t so much as touch his eyes. “Hello back. How can I help?”

Polite, so polite, but so very distant as well. I opened my mouth to answer, then looked at Morgan who smiled calmly and nodded for me to go ahead. I pictured Calloway’s hands holding the needles and hooks and had to swallow to wet my tongue. “Scarification. I want a brand.”

He didn’t react with any shock or judgment and he spoke without a care in the world. “I could, but I wouldn’t suggest it for you. Brands don’t have very good projection on lighter skin tone after they heal. Cutting the image often works better.”

I considered that, trying to think it through while I was still nearly choking on fear. “What if what I wanted was less delicate and had thicker lines?”

He shrugged. “Branding would probably be easier then.”

“I want one, please.”

He stood up and went to his bag at the side, returning with his wallet and a business card. He sat the wallet on the medical tray and handed me the card. “Whenever you like, just call and I’ll give you pricing and set it up.” Still, no encouragement. No playfulness. No extra. No judgment.

I took the card, feeling emotionally flayed. This man didn’t even realize it, but he was a slap to my face. I was sexually aroused and eager to pay him to hurt me and I didn’t even care what the brand was anymore. I just wanted to feel more of this terror, while he held hot metal to my flesh and I whimpered in pain. Twisted? Yeah, but there it was. Maybe it was part of the reason why Morgan and Trish were so attracted to me because I had kind of been projecting this onto them as well. It was the closest thing I could get to my real desires. To be more exact, it was the closest I dared to get to my real desires. I dabbled in kinky forays and games, but I tried to get my fix through other venues. BDSM games could be really dangerous with the kinds of things I felt, so I was relegated to this. And at least with Morgan the sexualized aspects were easy to separate. He wasn’t scary and he was married, so I didn’t fantasize about him after the pain and torture of a piercing. I always pictured someone faceless instead.

This man got rid of my hope of that separation. I could already see his face with a cruel expression while he held me down and turned me into a slave by branding me, while he punished me for every slightest resistance. “Thank you, sir,” I said softly. It was the best I could do. Calling him “doctor” would have made me feel awkward, but I had to be respectful in some way because it felt right and the word tingled on my lips as soon as I said it.

“You’re welcome.”

I shivered, head bowed, wondering what was wrong with me that I pictured myself in that chair while he pierced me through with hooks and tethered me to the pulley. I pictured other things, worse things, and stayed by Morgan’s side when Calloway went his own way. I couldn’t stop glancing at him when he stayed around for a while, watching his model swing gracefully from the hooks. And his model obviously enjoyed himself too. Giddy glee filled his face when he swung in an arcing circle. Trish grabbed him by his ankles at one point and spun him around until he shrieked with laughter, still spinning with thin trails of blood forming beneath the hooks. But I saw all of that out of the corner of my eye.

It was Calloway I noticed. He watched the model absently for a while and I wondered why he was there. Some people went because they had a belief that hook suspension heightened the mind and spirit. Some were there for reasons kin to mine, because the thrill and ride were so damn fun. For the piercers, ones like Morgan participated because he enjoyed helping people find this experience. Others were there because this was a group of likeminded people and they played and played alike. But Calloway didn’t strike me as any of those.

Indeed, he left quietly without talking to anyone first. No one else seemed to pay it any mind at all, but I couldn’t help turning to watch as he left the warehouse with his bag. I shivered, wishing I knew more about him, wishing I could see him again in worse ways.

It was then that my eyes fell on the medical tray and I saw his wallet still there. I ran to grab it and a card fell out, one that made my eyes go wide because it was something I recognized. I picked it up as well, my body feeling numb and shaky, and I ran out the door to catch him just in time, trying to not give myself enough time to think about what I held.

“Wait! You left these.”

He stopped to my call, squeaky as it was, and turned to me in the darkness, waiting while I ran to him. I handed him the wallet and the card that had fallen. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” I answered softly, heart thundering.

What had fallen out of his wallet was a membership card to an exclusive fetish club called Sulfur’s. And I knew this easily.

Because I had one too. It was the same place Morgan and Trish had introduced me to.

————

I hadn’t gone to Sulfur’s very often actually. When I had started going, it was with Morgan and Trish when I confessed that dating wasn’t my thing, but I wished I had a kinky place to go to for release, or something along those lines. I didn’t want a partner, but sometimes I had itches to scratch and that was the place that had been easiest to satisfy those. I calmed my more twisted desires with piercings and tattoos and things like body suspension and then sexually indulged in the lightest styles of play, keeping away from those fringe edges that enticed me too much.

After I saw his card, I went every night with a dangerous obsession and there was no pretense I could hide under. Most nights, I walked in and went around the place once, only to buy a water and go to the top balcony tables, watching some of the scenes while my real attention was on the door. Sometimes I wondered what the hell I was thinking or doing. What was I actually going to do when and if I even chanced along his path?

I was in the throes of one of these thoughts when I saw him a few days after I met him. He walked through the door and I sat straight up, eyes going wide. I swallowed nervously and watched while someone followed him in.

It was the guy who had modeled for him, the extremely pretty gay one with purple and blue in his bangs. But this time he acted a lot different than he had at the body suspension place. He glanced at Calloway with unmistakable fear in his stance. I couldn’t see his expression from where I sat but I could tell the way he cowered.

Calloway grabbed him with a fist in his hair and I crossed my legs, shaking a little. When he spoke, there was no mistaking that he was the top of the two, even from where I sat. His friend quivered at whatever he said and when Calloway released him, they went to one of the sides where there was a whipping post in a sectioned off area. I threw away my water and went down the stairs, staying out of the way as one of the voyeurs, except there was a difference in me and the rest. The others were there to be seen watching because exhibitionism was only fueled hotter with the knowledge of being watched. But I didn’t want him to see me, to notice that I witnessed his little scene.

I circled carefully instead, keeping behind beams and staying hidden, while he undressed his friend. When the other man was naked, Calloway gave him different things to wear instead and he started with a collar, a cruel one that made my sex clench with the thrill of dread. It wasn’t cute or pretty, wasn’t fake pleather or anything to fuck around with. It was high leather and restrictive, deliberately choking. His sub moaned and closed his eyes, seeming to know what else was coming, and Calloway didn’t even react to the poor guy’s fear. Most Doms I had played with and met would laugh or show some sign of sadistic playfulness at the obvious sounds of dread. Some would take the chance to taunt, but he didn’t do any of those at all and his eyes were blank with dark intent. I tucked my hair behind my ear nervously, in a sense of protective excitement and I was hornier than I’d ever been because he was evil, so dark... My body thrummed all over just thinking of him noticing me, just seeing his harsh gear.

But he was intent on what he was doing for the moment. And I swallowed when he applied a cock cage, squeezing my legs together at the thought even if I didn’t have those parts. I didn’t pretend to understand what those cages felt like, but I knew the gist of how they worked and it seemed to suggest that his sub wasn’t getting sexual relief from what was going to happen. It also seemed like this was meant to be an exceedingly cruel gesture on his part and next to it, the studded cuffs he used were tame.

Calloway chained his sub's wrists together and then tapped the post and it seemed clear that they had done this kind of thing before. For a start, neither of them spoke to the other one and his sub knew every step of this dance without the words. For another thing, he had an audience that seemed to know what was coming. I still stayed back, glancing at the owner of the bar where he stood to the side of the scene. Lavrov was his last name and, though I had never spoken to him in person, I recognized him from his picture behind the bar and where it was on his website for this place. He interested me insofar to the fact that he evidently had sought Calloway out for his scene.

And then I only cared about the man who terrified me again. Much like the night I had first seen him, he drew my attention and I was helpless to withstand his allure. No, I watched in quivering desire while he chained his partner to the post, securing his wrists to a metal ring above his head so that the bottom wouldn’t be able to move very far. He could twist and turn, but that was it, and when he was secured enough to satisfy, Calloway turned away and lifted two coiled bullwhips from his bag. “Oh.” The word escaped me, a soft little gasp under my breath while he shook the whips out, but then he set them to the side and lifted a soft flogger first. Excitement spiked through me, hot flashes of it that were tethered with fear. I stayed in shadow and just watched, body pulsing with a terrible, damning desire, a slave to a man who didn’t know he was chaining me.

He spun the flogger in careful circles, so that the tails fell in rhythmic slaps against his sub’s body and he worked with a purpose too, in a way that said this was obviously a warmup for the whips. He started at the guy’s ass and thighs, striking in a circuit. Left, right, left, middle, right... His very obvious experience had this way of making him all the more terrifying to me when it showed off in how swiftly he moved, how confidently he worked. I shivered when he went higher, gently priming his victim with a decidedly calculating look. My only regret was that I couldn’t see his submissive’s face, mostly because he was turned away from me, but he was also hiding, trembling in fear or excitement or both. I had perfect view of Calloway, though, of his movements, his dark coldness, his blatantly cruel facial expressions.

It felt like a relief when he finally finished with the flogger and picked up the whips. He stroked a hand down one of the coils in a gesture that was twistedly loving before he straightened and shook them out. My fear and desire both soared at the sight and how delicately he brushed his hand down the hard leather that was made for pain.

He looked like he was at home, even more so than when he had been sitting by the medical table. For one moment, it felt like I was granted a rare insight into the man that was Ezra Calloway. The whips seemed as an extension of his being, as if he should always have them and getting to see him with them felt like seeing a god. But not the good kind of god.

And then he struck with one and it was even worse. He moved as if it was a dance and for the first stripe, he twisted the whip with a deliberately theatrical flare. For the first time, a small taunting smile lifted one corner of his lips, as if this movement was an indulgence on his part when he knew he was being watched. It was beautiful, painfully so, and even more terrible when his sub cried out. His fists spread open with the shock of the first stripe and Calloway tilted his head while he watched the motion with those void like eyes. He lifted one eyebrow as if in mild interest and then spun the other whip in a harsh gesture that made me jump in shocked terror. It was so hard that it had to draw blood.

Except it didn’t. Because he didn’t strike his sub that time. The stripe landed perfectly right by the ring that held his friend’s wrists, making a loud crack sound. His friend shouted in terror, shaking even while I was shaking with him, just from watching this because oh my fucking God and holy hell. Ezra was a monster, an evil demon of a man.

The next one did hit and the answering moan of pain was almost relieved. Calloway worked for what seemed like an age, leaving cruel weals all over his sub’s back, down his ass, even on the tender flesh on the back of his thighs. He left horrible amounts of time in between each strike, enough for the full weight of pain to sink in and not enough for an ounce of relief for the guy he tortured. It was so perfectly gauged and done that it seemed like I was watching a form of satanic sex. The amount of attention he had to put into just something like the timing of stripes felt like a private intimacy.

It seemed even more like that when he finally finished because he didn’t finish his scene like most people finished them in Sulfur’s. Most people finished off a hard pain and sadism scene with sex and orgasms and cries of pleasure, like a hot as fuck grand finale to keep the interest alive, but it seemed like the whip was the cry of pleasure for Calloway. Because, when his victim was shaking and so weak he could barely stand up, when he had ceased to even cry out or shriek with fear, when he was beaten into pure submission, Calloway set the whips down and sauntered so casually to his side. Even then, his gaze was a void except for a mild curiosity and he crooked his fingers, lightly dragging his nails up the marks in his sub’s back. The answer was a soft moan of need, but it wasn’t Calloway who responded to that need. Instead, he deftly undid the cuffs, leaving them attached to the post, and unbuckled the collar to drop it to the ground before he finally unlocked the cock cage. And his sub had to lean against him for all of it. His eyes were glazed over with so much hard pain and his cock hardened as soon as it was free.

Calloway helped him stagger to another Dom, though, and that’s who took him to a private room, presumably to fuck like animals after what had just happened. As for Calloway? The people he’d attracted to his display evidently already knew how this went. They had already left to other scenes, but I stayed in my shadowy place to the side, watching him coil his whips back up.

That’s when he looked straight at me, his gaze piercing. “You’re shit at stalking, little coward.”

————

I shivered and had to force myself to step forward. He said it with such disdain that it terrified me on top of all the fear I already felt after his display. “Y-yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

He snorted. “Why are you following me?”

I was pretty good at lying in life, if I thought people would rather hear a lie than the truth, but not with him. The truth rushed from me. “I saw the card that night and r-recognized it because I have one, too. And I wanted to see you again. Er, to see more a-after the needles.”

He seemed satisfied by that explanation, probably because he knew it had to be true the way I stuttered through it like a terrified ferret. At least he didn’t look at me with such condescension anymore. His eyes were back to emptiness, without even that trace of mild interest he had given his sub. “By all means, then, watch to your heart’s content.”

“Will you do it to me?” I shuddered at saying the words, but once they were said, it felt like a relief. I needed him to hurt me. I had to have him torture me until I screamed from it and it was an almost suicidal fixation after his scene.

Now he did have an expression, but it wasn’t his sadistic interest. It was a flat darkness. “This? No. Go back to Morgan and Trish’s cozy cage with your tattoos, girl.”

He turned away and I felt wounded somehow, but I persisted. It had taken so much courage just to ask and I couldn’t let it go just like that. “Please? I can do it. I can take it, I can.”

“No, you can’t. You’re a thrill seeker and it’s been my experience that most females aren’t built for the things I’m into. It’s not their thing and most males are harder and grapple harder, so why would I bother?”

But I knew a reason why he should bother. I had to squeak it out though. “B-because you’re not gay.” He stopped in putting his things up and turned to me, gaze stony. How did he do that? He was so mean without even trying. Just his eyes made me shake, made me feel lower than low. But I had his attention so I pressed on. “Putting on a cock cage didn’t do anything for you a-and you don’t get to finish.”

He barked out a laugh, but not a nice one. His was a demon laugh that made me whimper. “I have to admire the boldness, if nothing else. Since you have a hard time saying the words plainly, I’ll do it for you. You don’t get the whip. I’m not going to let you embarrass me with a shitty whip scene when you can’t take it and I’m for damn sure not soothing you afterwards when it’s not what you wanted or expected. So unless you’re offering to be my whore after I’m done, then go back to watching and stay with Morgan and Trish.”

He kept saying that like there was something I was supposed to go back to and maybe I would have found that an interesting fact some other time, but I was too distracted for the moment. With him. “I’ll be that.” I said it breathlessly, so afraid, but his whips had been like pendulums and I was still under their spell. What was more, I was horrifyingly horny, riled into a strange excitement that was nothing like my usual thrill ride from the needles.

He finished and zipped up his bag, closing off my sight of the whips, and I felt a surreal sensation of being denied the sight of a deity's grail that I would do anything to have a glimpse of, anything. I couldn’t even think straight enough to realize how crazy I was being. There was no thought, no rationalization, nothing but this desperate desire. “Strip and go to the post then. Grab the ring and hold it until I’m done with you.”

“Here? Now?” I squeaked it, heart thundering, and some form of logic did manage to come back to me then, if only because I was standing in the middle of a sex club and there were people around to see us, so I was crossing the line from horny voyeur to horny exhibitionist.

He crossed his arms. “Let’s get this straight right now. If we’re doing this, then it’s an exchange and on my part, it’s to use you. So you don’t question me, don’t argue, don’t talk back. The next time you do, that’s it and I’m done. If you want it, then do what I say and when I say it.”

Did I want that? I must have on one hell of an animal level because I was already lifting my shirt over my head in obedience. I stepped out of my jeans, moving quickly for fear of having him irritated with impatience, feeling a sense of humiliation at the actions and what this was, what I had stupidly begged for. I couldn’t even look at him when I walked to the post and grabbed the ring, could only take deep breaths.

I jumped with a shuddering inhalation when he touched me, one hand snaking in an almost hug-like motion to stroke my abdomen. To my shock, his touch was warm, so warm. His other hand stroked up to my breast and I gasped when he tugged the nipple, pinching. It started easy, a light sensation that was arousing, but he added slow amounts of pressure until it amped to exciting pain and then to torment and then, so slowly, to something that felt like more than I could take. I whimpered, my back curving as if to defend myself from him in some way. His voice was low when he spoke, cruelly at ease and conversational while I was losing my mind with foul desire and humiliation. “Don’t let go of that ring. Whatever I do and whatever you feel, I don’t care. Don’t let go of it. And don’t fight me.”

“Yes, sir,” I choked out, cringing. He let go and I breathed in a sense of shock, accepting the fact that this was happening. I’d gone to this, begged him, and he was actually taking me up on it. But then his next touch stopped my thoughts altogether.

He didn’t indulge me with foreplay. He didn’t give any other touches or warnings, didn’t say another word. He just stroked his hand down to spread my pussy and I moaned a loud, broken sound, not caring who saw or heard. He didn’t even touch my clit, making it clear beyond words that he didn’t fucking care about my own arousal. But there was a lot of that arousal and he had to notice. I was hotter than hot by his callousness, by how needy he made me feel. His fingers slicked with mess as soon as he touched me and I spread my legs wide, staring up at the ring where I held it in a death grip. I cried out when I felt his cock, hard and huge against my slit, and the condom he’d donned made me choke. It felt like sexual icy hot being stroked over me but he didn’t give me time to process that before he surged inside of me and, wet as I was, he slid so easily that it made tears of more humiliation come to my eyes.

But the pleasure was terribly addictive. My head fell back against his shoulder and I moaned again, a soft pleading sound that he ignored. And that was even worse. He didn’t bother to pet my pussy, to even give the pretense that he cared about what I felt at all. Instead, he grasped my breasts with two rough palms and fucked me with possessive prerogative, as if it was his right to have me, and it didn’t matter that he didn’t help me. I came anyway, almost immediately, squeezing his cock with my orgasm. I didn’t look back, didn’t say a word, and he didn’t break the atmosphere. His hands worked me while his cock pumped in a fierce rhythm, as if I was nothing more than an interesting toy he used for release. Every touch was gracefully rough, purposeful in intent. Every breath he took was calm, as if he was at ease and not fucking me into my own form of Valhalla. In sharp contrasts, my own breaths were punctuated with gasps and whimpers of desire, and I shouted loudly when he drove me to another orgasm, shaking around him. I clung to the post’s ring and milked him for all I could get out of his selfish abuse.

I could get a lot, so much that it was pathetic. Even worse, he fucked me for what felt like forever after that and after two orgasms, that was apparently it for my body. I climbed the ladder of pleasure again but not nearly as far and he refused to help me or care about me so I moaned instead, little sounds of desperate need, internally begging him for harder. Even more pain would be better than the terrible way he callously took what he wanted, all he wanted from me. I felt like a body to him and it was wonderful in the worst way. Some form of coldness numbed over my emotions, any of them that remained, some form of terrible emptiness that made me feel hollow while I was so full of him.

I closed my eyes, rolling them with the brutal pleasure, taking it, falling in sickest love, and it seemed like he could go forever. He never once broke his silence during his fucking either, didn’t touch me beyond using my breasts for his leverage and that was a painful touch. I shook when he finally came, a soft, savage growl escaping him with his pleasure.

It was the worst thing I’d ever done to myself and the best thing that had ever happened to me. I felt worthless when he was done, felt less than even the whore he’d called me. Whores got paid. I was just a toy, a filthily used one that he didn’t even care about. I held the ring in a death grip above me, staring up at my hands and acknowledging that I couldn’t let go until he told me to. Angering him would feel like too much of a blow on top of so much preexisting devastation and I didn’t think I could handle it, was too scared to find out.

“Get dressed, leave, and come back ‪Thursday night at 9‬.”

I finally dared to release the ring to turn around and glance at him. But he was already facing away from me, had already taken off the condom and fixed his jeans while I was out of it, and he picked up his bag and walked off without so much as a glance backward, leaving me naked and shivering at how cold I suddenly felt. His turned back made it clearer than any words that he was done with his new toy. I moaned when his words sank in. Thursday at nine. So he could use me again. Dread shuddered down my spine, a sense of self horror at what I had just done and what it meant.

Because I couldn’t fucking wait ‪until Thursday‬.

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