The House of Pain
Authors: Tara Crescent
The House of Pain (A BDSM Romance Novel)
By Tara Crescent
Text copyright © 2014 Tara Crescent
All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
My eternal gratitude to Jim, who pre-read and edited this story.
Cover Design by James, GoOnWrite.com.
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Never on a Sunday:
Stephanie Rice has her sex life all figured out. She fucks six different men on six days of the week. Monday is the Chef. Tuesday, the Technician. Wednesday is the Playboy. Thursday, Mr. Buttman has his way with her. Friday, she has an appointment with the Doctor, and on Saturday, the Dominant works her over.
On Sunday, she normally does laundry. However, on this particular Sunday, her worlds collide. All six men find out about each other, and they are determined to give Stephanie an evening she will never forget.
It is an unobtrusive storefront in an ‘up-and-coming part’ of Toronto. The shop windows are tinted and the door is painted black. There is a discreet, hand-lettered sign tucked in a corner of the window. “Sex toys available.” It is lettered in sophisticated calligraphy, the elegance of the penmanship not matching the words on the sign. There is no other sign on the store front. Nothing else to indicate what the store sells.
I am fascinated. I bite my lip in slight nervous tension; do a hasty sweep of the street with my eyes. I don’t recognise anyone. It is a bright summer afternoon. Everyone is going about their business with the usual bustle of a big city. I am trapped in the moment; a mote dancing in the sunlight. I am the cat that is about to get burned for my curiosity. I push the door and walk in.
Most sex stores are similar. They are seedy. There’s usually a booth in the back; there are men who shuffle around, carefully not making eye contact. This one? This is a temple.
Discreet spotlights highlight the sex toys on display, and these are not the dildos you find in Victoria’s Secret. The dildos are made of steel and wood, they are displayed on pedestals, and each one is huge. I feel like I’m in a museum. I look around for the ‘Do Not Touch’ signs, and inwardly giggle. A giggle of pure nervousness. I’m reacting to the atmosphere of this place, and it is turning me on.
My eyes are drawn to a huge steel fist. Surely that can’t go inside a person, I think in horror. It has to be at least fifteen inches long, and about three inches of thickness. I gulp. My pussy, on cue, begins to moisten.
I wander around the store in silence. There is a man in the corner who must work in the store. He looked up when I walked in and nodded in greeting, but he hasn’t said anything yet.
Another wall has whips. I can feel my pussy react to the possibility of pain. I am creaming in my panties, and I’m convinced I smell of arousal. Each whip is mounted on the wall; spotlights catching the leather; the leather sparkles under the light. My hand reaches out, mesmerized. I touch a flogger, imaging the leather strands being dragged over my skin, before it is cruelly brought down on my body. My entire face flushes. My lips part very slightly.
The man sitting in the corner eyes me expressionlessly. I can tell he knows how aroused I am. I want to flee. I find myself pulled towards him.
“Do you want to see the back?”
His voice is smooth, easy. Like a fine wine, with hints of depth. Warning bells start to ring in my mind, but that’s the good girl in me. Right now, I’m ignoring her. I am a moth drawn to the flame.
“Yes.” The merest whisper.
He moves out from behind the counter. Walks over to the back, opens a door. I walk in.
It is a small auditorium. Perhaps twenty seats. He flicks a couple of switches, and spotlights light the stage. The place feels intimate, dangerous.
“What happens here?” I ask in an undertone. “Sex shows?” I’m a little surprised. Toronto is an unlikely city for live sex shows.
“No. No sex. Just pain.” His words are direct.
He looks at me, his eyes wandering all over my body. They linger on my breasts. My nipples are erect, visible under the thin sundress I’m wearing.
“What’s your name?” he asks me.
“Sara.” Run, Sara, run, the warnings scream in my head. There is danger here. Not in this man or in this place, but in the way my body is responding to this place. I’m helpless here. This place fulfils some secret hidden longing in me, and I have a feeling that if the man standing in front of me orders me to sink to my knees and suck him off, I would obey. There’s something in the air, something that’s bringing out every secret erotic fantasy I’ve had.
He silently hands me a business card.
House of Pain.
There is a phone number underneath.
“What do you mean, just pain?” I whisper.
“People pay to watch,” he waves his arms towards the seat, “while I whip a girl.” He sees the look in my eyes. I’m mesmerized by the idea of being whipped under the spotlight by this man. He hands me a sheet. “These are the current rates. Call me if you are interested.”
There’s a dismissal in his voice. He’s made his pitch, it is now up to me to act.
I leave. My eyes squint in the bright sunlight outside. The interior of the shop had been dim. The traffic, the city noise, the pedestrians darting about, all feel strange after the feel of the shop. I walk along in a daze, walk into a nearby coffee shop. I need to sit down.
I realize I’m still clutching the sheet he handed me. I don’t even know his name. It isn’t the guy that’s causing the reaction in me though; it’s the place. House of Pain. The words hold a world of promise.
Reading the contents of the sheet, I feel wetness trickle out of my pussy. The sheet reminds me of the slips of paper in most sushi places – you fill in what you want, and how many. This sheet lists acts –bare-bottom spanking, whipping (bottom), whipping (breasts and nipples), whipping (pussy), caning, electricity (breasts and nipples), electricity (pussy), and much more. I feel my face flush again; my forehead has a sheen of sweat on it.
There are also rates. Taking 20 bare-bottom swats will pay out $10. 10 strokes with the flogger on my breasts, and I’ll get paid $30. There’s a footnote at the bottom of the sheet. Minimum order $200. I gulp. That’s four hundred bare-bottom swats. A world of pain.
My coffee cools next to me, forgotten. My nipples brush against my sundress, sending licks of longing running through me. I can feel my pussy quiver, my orgasm faint, but definite. I have come just from the idea of being whipped.
I am on autopilot. I want to call but I hesitate. Doing a sex show in a sex store? This is not me.
There will be no sex, a voice in my head reminds me. I’m totally drawn to the idea of being whipped under spotlights.
You have a real life. Don’t be ridiculous. What if you run into friends there? Or your family? What then, Sara? Practical, good-girl Sara intervenes angrily. I sigh. This will have to remain fantasy.
Two days later, I pick up my phone and call the House of Pain.
***
“Can my face be hidden somewhat?” I ask the guy. I tell myself that I’m just curious.
“No.” His voice brooks no opposition. “Watching your face contort with pain is part of what my clientele pay for.”
“Oh.” My voice is small. “I’m concerned about being recognized.”
“If you sign up, you’ll sign a non-disclosure agreement,” he says. “The clients do as well. And if you have a non-disclosure agreement, I’ll show you a list of client names for each show. That way, if you see someone on the list that you know, you can opt out.”
“Oh.” That could work. There are a thousand holes in his logic, of course – there are a lot of people with the same name, and a lot of people in the city that I know casually, but I don’t always know their last names. Still, there is a safeguard of sorts.
I am drawn. I can’t keep away from the flame, though I know there is a risk of getting burned. “How many shows do I have to do, if I sign?”
“At least one. After that, you decide if you want to come back, I’ll decide if I want you back.”
“What’s the $200 minimum?” I ask.
“I like my shows to be an hour long, that’s to make sure you pick enough things to fill up the hour.”
The warning bells are still ringing. One hour of pain. I’ve never even been spanked before, my boyfriend looking horrified when I suggested it once. This craving for pain, this is a hidden part of me, a part that has never before seen the light of day.
I find myself saying, “Yes, I want to do this.”
***
I’ve asked if I can be spanked or whipped before the show, so I can prepare for the pain. John (I finally ask his name) declines. “I’ve been marketing you as a virgin to pain. The clients are really excited about you. Plus, you get a $500 bonus for it.”
I go along with him. There’s an excitement in me, excitement that for an hour, I will be at the mercy of this guy. He’s suggested I just start with the beginner mix of pain – no canes, no fisting. I bite my lip. “Fisting?” I mutter.
“I noticed you were rather captivated by the fist dildo when you first came in.” His voice is amused.
He had been watching me. I flush. “We’ll work our way up to it, not this session,” he says kindly.
***
I’ve been told I am to obey John without question during the show. “You can moan, cry, scream in pain, all of that is ok. No talking though.”
John promises there will be no sex. He will stay fully clothed during the session. The audience will as well, though they will be in darkness. I imagine some of them will be touching themselves.
I’ve proofed the list and made sure I don’t know anyone. I’m good to go.
***
I’ve reviewed my sushi menu of pain. I’m going to be spanked bare-bottom thirty times, flogged on my butt and thighs, cropped on my breasts, and most worryingly, my pussy. I survey the list. I think I’m insane.
***
It is the evening of the show. I’m wearing an old sundress. “Wear something that can be ripped,” I was told. I’ve also shaved my pussy, as instructed.
I am at in a small room off to the side of the stage. I can hear soft music playing, the shuffling of footsteps as people come in, take their seats. I have been teetering at the edge of arousal all day, but I don’t finger myself. It feels wrong. I want my arousal to come entirely from the anticipation of pain. I want to orgasm as I’m being whipped.
I hear the applause begin. That’s my cue. I walk out under the spotlight.
I walk to the middle of the stage. My eyes are lowered. I don’t try to look at the audience. Not that I can, even if I want to. The lights are blinding me, making it difficult for me to see the audience at all.
“Gentlemen,” John’s voice booms, “We have something special today in store for you. Sara’s a pain virgin; she’s never been flogged or whipped before. Heck, she hasn’t even been spanked before.”
Wolf-whistles fill the room.
“Sara was trying to shoplift a dildo from the store the other day,” John lies with a wink, “the fist of steel. And I asked Sara – should I call the cops, or will she take her punishment like a good girl?”
John’s working the audience expertly. I hear men cheer, whoop, holler and laugh. They are excited by my imminent punishment.
“As you can see, gentlemen, Sara opted not to involve the police,” he laughs, menace in his voice. “Though, of course, she’s going to regret that choice soon.”
My body reacts to the menace; my muscles clench. In fear, I lie to myself. I am not aroused by this.
The words are a lie. My pussy is dripping.
“Turn around,” John now instructs me. His voice is transformed. It is cold, hard and commanding. I gulp a little and obey. My back is now facing the audience. I am still clothed in my sundress. Not for long, I suspect.
On the stage are placed assorted props for use in our scene. John gestures to one which looks like a sawhorse.
“Bend over.”
The sawhorse is at waist-level for me. I bend over, my head upside down, my hair hanging loose towards the floor. The way the sawhorse is built, I have to stick my butt out towards the audience, I suspect that is intentional.
John walks around, takes each of my arms, extends them, and buckles them into cuffs set in the sawhorse. Suddenly my arms are tied down; immobile. I can squirm around, but I can’t straighten. My pussy is wet now, rejoicing in my helplessness. I close my eyes, let the sensations run through me. I allow myself to just feel.
Now I can feel John bring his palm down on my still-covered ass. I feel the blow. He has not been gentle. I bite my lips to keep myself from crying out and feel the heat radiate through me. Every muscle of my body clenches in response.
“What do you think, gentlemen, I can spank her clothed, or I can spank her bare ass.” John asks the question, fully knowing the answer he’s going to get.
I hear laughter, voices voting to see my naked ass on display. John moves to oblige. I feel him lifting my skirt up, pulling it up to my waist. I am naked underneath. I hear whistles as my ass comes into view.
“Spread your legs.” A curt order. I comply instantly. Cuffs are buckled around my ankles, my legs stretched wider, wider, till I feel muscles screaming in pain, and I am buckled to rings on the floor. I wince, but my pussy is dripping now. This firm handling is exactly what I’ve been craving.
I feel John’s hands on my ass. He pries my ass cheeks apart, exposing my naked pussy and asshole to the audience. I can hear murmuring, a couple of wolf-whistles. I flush all over but I’m also wet. The impersonality of this experience is adding to the eroticism.
“I would like you to count out your spanks,” John orders, not waiting for an acknowledgement from me. I can feel him move, position himself at the side of the sawhorse. It isn’t the ideal bare-bottom spanking position for him, but this way, the audience gets the best view of my red ass. In show business, the audience is everything.
Whack. His hand comes down on the middle part of my right buttock, hard. Despite myself, I whimper as the pain radiates through me. The sound echoes around the room. Oh. There’s a microphone on the floor, near my head. Every sound I make will be amplified, every moan will be heard by the audience. There’s eroticism in this careful planning. My pussy drips, I can feel my juice dampen my spread-apart thighs. I flush in embarrassment, but there’s no place to hide under the spotlight.
John is waiting. “One,” I say quietly. I had almost forgotten.
Whack. Another spank, at exactly the same spot. I dance in my bindings, writhing from the pain. My hiss can be heard around the room. “Two,” I whisper.
Another spank, again at exactly the same spot. I yelp this time, as the waves of pain course through me. Is he ever going to spank me anywhere else? My fists clench in their bindings. “Three,” I moan through clenched teeth.
John is now running his hand over the anguished spot, testing my reaction. Then, suddenly, his hand rises and falls again, this time at the base of my ass. “Four,” I say, through clenched teeth.
The blows are now coming strong and hard. Each blow has me dancing in pain, muscles tightening, fists clenching. My body is covered in a sheen of sweat. In between the blows, I can feel John grab my ass, pulling the cheeks apart for the audience, kneading them under his cruel fingers. I am moaning now, but I am also floating in a world where I can only feel. I count the spanks out softly; I live to obey. I have never been more alive.
And then, I count thirty. I am done.
My ass is throbbing. It feels red, tender. At the same time, I feel the arousal course through my veins; I wish I could touch myself. But I am tied and in front of an audience. I cannot masturbate, though I desperately crave the release.
John unbuckles the cuffs holding my arms and legs in place and straightens me. My muscles are screaming in pain, begging for a pause.
“Hands and knees.” His voice is forbidding, his hand points to the side of the stage. “Let the audience see your red, spanked ass.” I do as I am told, crouch down, ass to the audience. I lift my dress up to my waist again. I hear applause and whistles. The audience appears to have enjoyed my spanking.
I can hear John move at the centre of the stage, moving equipment, wheeling stuff off and on stage. I wonder what’s coming next. My sushi menu only tells me what’s coming, not in what order.
“Get up.” Evidently, John’s done setting up. I’ve only had three minutes, maybe four to recover. I desperately hope my ass is spared for a while.
My hands are grabbed by John firmly. They are cuffed, and lifted above my head. I’m attached to a chain hanging from the ceiling. The chain is tightened; I am stretching, stretching, till John decides I’ve had enough.
I evaluate my position. I can either stand on tiptoe to ease the strain on my arm, or I can relax my feet and have my arms scream in pain. Ouch, and ouch.
Pain. Pain is on the menu tonight.
John positions me to face the audience as I stagger for balance. I’m still wearing my sundress, though not for long. John grabs a dangerous looking knife. The steel glows with a subtle sheen under the spotlight. I gulp. There is nothing about that knife that is the slightest bit reassuring.
A swift movement, and my dress is in shards. Another movement, and it is ripped off me. I am entirely naked. The rest of the stage is dim, but the spotlight shines down on me. I close my eyes, suddenly overwhelmed by what’s coming.
John is having none of this. “Keep your eyes open,” he snaps, his command punctuated by a swish of a flogger. Heat sears on my skin. The flogger has hit me on my midriff, with some tails catching the sensitive underside of my breasts. I wince in pain, dancing away, teetering for balance. The audience mutters appreciatively. They like seeing my reaction. They are enjoying watching me flee from the pain.
My pussy is soaked, a fact that hasn’t escaped John’s attention. He catches my eye and winks at me. I give him a faint smile. So far, this has been intense, but John is clearly an expert. He’s reading me well, giving me enough pain to have me teeter at the edge, but never fall.
“Gentlemen, I’m now going to flog Sara’s body,” John announces. He holds up the flogger, showing it to the audience. It is blood red in colour, the long tails made of suede.
“Sara.” John eyes me harshly. He has a piece of chalk in his hands now, and he draws a ring around me on the floor, perhaps four feet in diameter. “See the ring, Sara? You can move, but you must stay inside the ring. Understood?”
I nod quietly.
Slash. The flogger hits my breasts this time. I scream in pain, but at the same time, I can feel my body tingle with arousal. “You will verbally acknowledge my instructions.” John’s voice is cold.
“Yes Sir,” I say quietly. Tears have welled up in my eyes. I concentrate on my breathing. Breathe in. Breathe out. Relax. Let the pain flow through you.
“Gentlemen, what do you think? For each time she goes outside the circle, I think I’ll add two strokes of the flogger.”
Applause. Whistles. They agree with John.
I bite my lips. I am not expecting this. The circle was not discussed, neither were additional strokes. I find that this turns me on even more. The potential for the unexpected serves as a powerful aphrodisiac.
“You will get thirty strokes of the flogger on your body, twenty on your breasts,” John tells me. I nod.
He raises his hand, flicks his wrist expertly. The flogger slashes across my belly. It feels like fire on my skin. I squeak, jump. The noise is amplified across the room by the microphone, now hanging above my face.
The flogger rises and falls again, this time catching the underside of my breasts. I dance away, losing my balance, fighting to stop myself from exiting the circle John’s drawn for me. I barely succeed.
John grins at me. My struggles to avoid stepping outside the circle amuse him. “I like that you are paying attention to that circle, Sara,” he says, laughing. The audience laughs too. I flush in embarrassment, but my body betrays my excitement – my nipples are hard, my pussy is creaming, and I’m holding still, yet again, for John to whip me.
The flogger rises, falls. The blows fall down, without cease or pause. Strokes hit my midriff, the underside of my breasts, my thighs, the top of my pussy. I writhe away from the strokes, or do I move towards them? I’ve lost the ability to tell. I’m in a special place, a soft place, where the pain is all I feel, and the pain feels like pleasure. I hear myself through a hazy distance, I’m whimpering. There are tears running down my cheeks, and red lashes are visible on my skin, where the flogger has etched its path.
I realize that I’ve craved this feeling for a long time.
John’s now rubbing his hands over me, the calluses in his hands feel like sandpaper against my sensitive skin. He’s touching my breasts, kneading them, bouncing them up and down, using his hands to smack them around. He’s pinching my nipples, rolling them between his fingers, stretching them out, causing me to lose my balance again. I feel complete, utter pleasure. I bite on my lips, mewling softly, marvelling at how good this feels.
“Ready for the breast flogging?” he asks.
“Yes Sir,” I say, longing etched in my voice. My assent is picked up by the microphone, the room hears my arousal. Wolf-whistles fill the room.
I vaguely note that the flogger is shorter this time, before the strokes start.
I wasn’t sure what to expect in a breast flogging, but I love this. The flames of arousal blaze into a fire, as I struggle to hold back my orgasm. The flogger rises and falls, and each stroke brings pain, but also, so much pleasure. I dimly find myself pushing my breasts outward towards the audience, silently imploring John to please, please continue. John notices my reaction, and laughs. He obliges, whipping me again and again, continuing that sensation that is torment, but also sweet lust.
The flames rise higher and higher in me. I struggle to hold back the orgasm. I’m suddenly keenly aware there are twenty pairs of lust-filled eyes fastened upon me. A sheen of sweat breaks out on my skin. I’m poised at the edge, and then the flogger curls around my breasts again, this time striking my nipples for the first time, and I come, screaming, writhing in my chains, unable to hold anything back any further, sobbing as the waves of pleasure course through me.
As I find awareness again, I can hear the applause in the room.
***
We are not done. I am unbuckled from the shackles, told to kneel at the side of the stage again while John gets the next set ready. I obey, this time facing the audience so they can drink in my flaming skin, see the welts the whip has raised. My head is bowed, my eyes are shut. I feel like I’ve run a marathon. I’m utterly drained.
“The final act, gentlemen.” John’s voice fills the room. I look up; I have not been paying attention. There’s a screen now at the back of the stage and a large desk in the middle of the room. John gestures to me, I get up and come towards the desk.
John pulls me on top of the desk, has me lie back with my legs spread wide. He buckles my legs and arms into a spreader bar, and has me raise my legs and arms in the air. The spreader bar is hung on a chain from the ceiling; the chain is tightened till there is no slack.
My arms are spread wide, my legs wider. My ass is open for the audience, my pussy on display. I try to visualize the sushi menu of pain, try to remember what’s left. Ah. My ass is now going to get flogged, and my pussy cropped. The dessert, if you will, in tonight’s menu.
There’s a camera hanging above me, along with the ever-present microphone. I stiffen. I don’t want to be recorded. “Relax,” John soothes, his voice low so only I can hear. “It’s a feed to the screen, so that the audience can see your face. Nothing is being recorded.”
