Ecstasy in the White Room Read online

  What can they all see? How much is on show. My G-string is pretty, made from gorgeous black lace, but it’s skimpy, about as abbreviated as they get. Can the assembled watchers see my pussy, my anus? The heavy gleam of arousal on the hair peeking from beneath the lace.

  Are the men thinking, What a horny little bitch...I wish she was mine. And the women, God, I’d cream myself too if I was across his knee. He’s gorgeous!

  “So willful,” he purrs, leaning low over me, making this public act intimate, just for us. I know that’s why he’s chosen to take me over his knee rather than wait our turn so he can toss me across the trestle. It’s a fantasy fulfilled, but still he keeps me safe. “So lewd, aren’t you?” he curves right over, kisses the back of my neck. “I might have to keep your bottom perpetually red, at this rate. Keep you sore all the time, so you learn how to behave yourself...so that I know you’re always tingling beneath your clothes, to keep you mindful.”

  He wouldn’t do that, but just the concept of it makes me squirm, trying to stimulate myself against the hard muscle of his thigh, and perhaps the hard thrust of his cock if I can wriggle sufficiently in that direction. There have been times at work, and out with friends, when my bottom’s throbbed and glowed in secret, from his attentions. Even this morning, at the most solemn moments, I could feel heat down there.

  “Do you think you could bear that?” he demands, quite sternly. I can sense our audience is unexpectedly impressed by we pair of newcomers, even before Simon’s displayed his splendid technique.

  “If you will it...master.” It’s a bit melodramatic, but I know he likes that.

  “Be careful, minx.” He leans in close. “Don’t milk the role,” he whispers, his soft voice full of laughter.

  He rests his hand on the crown of my right buttock, and I feel every finger distinctly, quite cool against my heat. He gives me an affectionate stroke, then lands a crisp wallop on the very spot he’s just caressed.

  “Ow!”

  Even now, when we’re accustomed to playing this game, and I know what to expect, the first spank of a session always catches me by surprise. Every time it’s new. Sharp. Fierce. Exciting. He smacks me again, on the other cheek, starting to make the pattern, lighting the fire. I squirm, but his free hand is firm on the small of my back, keeping me steady despite the perilous way I’m balanced and the fact I can’t cling on because my hands are tied.

  “Quiet,” he reprimands, reinforcing his rigor with more stinging blows. Tipped as I am, they’re catching me on the underhang mostly, the most tender part. I want to scream and howl, but I know I won’t. Not unless he really lays it on in a way he’s never done thus far. I always try to obey him, if I can.

  Spank. Spank. Spank. It’s like a metronome. Hypnotic. Again and again, a blast of stinging, sizzling heat, roasting and ravaging me. Not being able to clasp my pulsating buttocks with my hands is killing me. Not being able to reach beneath my belly and touch myself is making me into a madwoman.

  And yet, within me somewhere is a cool, clearheaded observer. A watcher who’s able to rise up out of my body and hover somewhere near the smooth white ceiling and take in the proceedings, noting everything. These secret eyes of mine see the avid audience around us, the admiring attention of men and women; libertines all, but still impressed by the natural skills of this pair of new faces. The carefully aligned blows of the handsome disciplinarian. The lush bottom of his submissive and the way it marks so vividly. The way she fights her desire to cry, and moan and writhe about. Not always achieving a state of perfect decorum, but always striving for it.

  Perhaps these connoisseurs would like to see a sterner punishment? The submissive put across the bar, beaten with the crop, the lash, the cane? Maybe they’d like to see her shackled and tormented, fucked and played with, plagued with toys, with plugs and dildos?

  The submissive herself isn’t sure. Perhaps she does want those things, perhaps she doesn’t? It’s possible that she’d relish them, but only alone in the privacy of her own white room in the presence of the man she loves?

  Simon whacks me harder now. The pain knocks the breath out of me. A hand can do anything a device can, and the intimacy is stunning. I’m panting now. My head’s gone light, my bottom is all flames. I know there’s silky fluid oozing down my thighs, my brimming arousal plain for all to see.

  Suddenly, the blows cease. Simon leans down low, right over me.

  “What do you want, love?” he whispers, for my ears only.

  “More. Everything.” My chest is heaving, and I can hardly form words. “But just with you...just with you. Back in our room.”

  His answer is to place his hand flat on one of my buttocks, like a strange benediction. It’s the conclusion to these proceedings, the very public show. When his hand retreats, I make an attempt to rise, tottering. Simon helps me, supporting my elbow as he stands too. A thoughtful onlooker retrieves my bag and hands it to him and, unconcerned, he carries it as we walk from the room, my hands still secured and my skirt still rucked up around my bottom.

  Part of me sighs with relief when, at the door, Simon puts my clothes to rights, unfastens my hands and returns my bag to me. But another insane, enraptured part of me thrills to the idea that he might not have done all that, and that he might have compelled me to cross the foyer with my red bottom on show and my hands still bound behind my back with his tie.

  We don’t speak. Not in the foyer. Not in the lift. He does draw me close to him though, hard up against his body, so I can feel his erection while he squeezes and massages my buttocks through my gown, stirring the soreness and making me squirm. In retribution, I massage him with my pelvis. His lips are against my neck, just brushing the skin below my ear, his breath hot.

  My own breathing is ragged. He clasps me hard and I groan, jerking my hips and parting my thighs, trying to get off on him. If I could just rock my clit against his hipbone...

  “No,” he says in a soft, calm voice. “No orgasms until I say so. Not until I grant you one.”

  But still I can’t pull away. I stand against him, contiguous but still. Fighting for breath as he pinches my tender bottom cheeks, again and again.

  Back in our white room, he permits me a moment to myself, but his eyes warn me about any funny business as I head for the bathroom. It’s difficult, but I obey him. Even so, as I return to the bedroom, my cheeks are pink with the effort of resisting the call of masturbation.

  Simon is lounging in a chair, watching the television. The lights are down low and he’s viewing what we’ve discovered is the channel privé, again accessed by the white card, which one sticks in a key slot on the console. The screen is filled with a high-definition feed from the private party downstairs. A young woman in heels and an eye-wateringly tight black vinyl corset is shackled to a chain that appears to have been let down from the ceiling. Two men in shirtsleeves are taking turns to slash at her bum with thin yellow canes. Simon has the sound turned off, but it’s clear she’s gasping and whimpering even though her eyes look bright more with excitement than with tears.

  “We should have stayed, and I could have tried that.” My desire hasn’t had a chance to ebb, but it surges again at the thought of being strung up like that, in front of an audience. Showing my nipples, my crotch and my crimson behind to the audience again.

  “Maybe another time.” Simon rises from the chair, all languid grace. “And who told you to speak?” He narrows his blue gaze at me, his eyes dancing. I don’t smile back, but I grin inside. I knew he’d say that. “Now come here.”

  I glide over to him and we stand face-to-face. His eyes rove over me, noting and marking each feature of my face, and of my body. It’s as if he’s cataloguing his possession. “Remove all your clothes...except the ribbon, leave that.” He reaches out, gives it a little tug, then releases me.

  As elegantly as I can, I disrobe, first kicking away my shoes, then reaching round to undo the long zip down the back of my dress. When I step out of it, Simon automatically extends a ha
nd to support my elbow. Bra and G-string next, then stockings, and again, he allows me to lean on him. Not sure what to do with my finery, I let it fall to the carpet, and taking me by the arm, he leads me away from it toward the bed, where I see he’s draped a towel from the cupboard over the counterpane and laid out a few items from our box of goodies. My gaze skitters over toys, vials of lubricant and our leather slapper. His favorite device.

  Illuminated by the concealed lighting around the bed head, I also notice that the restraints have been pulled out of their discreet hiding places and are laid out, in readiness.

  “Lie down, my love, make yourself comfortable.”

  I can’t contain a snort of amusement. Comfortable? Yeah, right.

  He doesn’t admonish me, but his old-fashioned look speaks volumes. Now I’m in for it.

  I climb onto the bed and lie down, roughly in the middle, pulling a pillow beneath my head. Kicking off his shoes, but still fully clothed, Simon climbs on after me, and before I can move any more, he fastens first one of my arms, then the other, to the elegant white painted rail at the head of the bed. My nipples look very prominent as the stretch of my arms makes my breasts lift. Simon gives one a hard, quick pinch, but I manage not to utter a sound.

  Next, he pulls my hips into position, making me gasp. The toweling is soft, but it still chafes his handiwork, the sore red patches on my buttocks. Handling me firmly, he places me just so, but he doesn’t secure my ankles yet. He just pushes my thighs wide, then puts another towel, folded, beneath my bum, lifting me. More terry cloth to rub against my spanked flesh. My crotch is lifted, displayed. Like a clockwork doll whose mechanism springs to life of its own accord, I start to rock my hips, even though it costs my punished buttocks some discomfort.

  “Wicked...wicked, wicked, wicked,” he admonishes, punctuating each repetition with a slap across my thigh.

  I wiggle harder, anything to offset the new, sharp burn.

  “Behave yourself,” he continues, turning away to study his hoard of goodies. His blue gaze flicks from toy to toy and he selects a smooth, white egg-shaped confection with a long, attached cord. He holds it up between finger and thumb, then shows it to me, grinning a devilish little smirk as he does so. “Big enough for you?”

  “Plenty...bring it on.”

  I know I shouldn’t really be so feisty, but I can’t help myself. I’m not a good, well-schooled submissive like the women downstairs. I am wicked, and I’m willful and I’m just, well, I’m just me. But I doubt Simon would want things any other way.

  “Gladly.” He laughs softly, then placing the egg on my belly, he fishes around for vial of lubricant. I’m not sure he’ll need it...although it depends on his precise plans for the egg. But after a moment’s thought, he kneels beside me, draws my thigh across his, and opens me wider...then trickles the slick silky goo over my pussy, thumbing apart my sex lips so he can slather the stuff into my cleft. When he’s satisfied I’m wet enough—not that I wasn’t before—he presses the egg at the entrance to my vagina.

  Oh! Oh! It feels a lot bigger than it looks, and it seems heavier than I expected. I have to gasp hard as he exerts pressure and breaches me with it. My eyes feel as if they’re about to start from my head when he propels the naughty thing inside me so it lodges high, up against my womb.

  I daren’t move, yet I’m aching to, dying to. I feel as if I’m stuffed to the brim, as if the egg is ten times its actual size. I whine like a cat in heat when Simon flicks a finger over my clit and it trembles, right on the very point of paroxysm.

  “Oh no you don’t. Not yet.” Giving me one brisk, cruel little pinch there, he then abandons my pussy and sets about securing my legs, fastening me tight to the bed. I grit my teeth and test my bonds, assailed on all sides. Simon gives me a thoughtful look, the picks up a ball gag from the bedspread. Kissing me once on the lips, he then seals my mouth with the horrible thing. This too feels far bigger than it looks.

  Settling back on his heels, he gazes down at me, and his ghost of a grin tells me he’s pleased with his handiwork. He touches a nipple, my navel, the crease between my thigh and belly. Each contact is so light it feels like the kiss of a feather, and yet they trigger a chemical reaction of lust in my blood. Not caring about submission or decorum, I jerk about, taxing my bonds and trying to throw my body in the general direction of his fingers. The rock and jiggle of the egg inside me makes me struggle even more, protesting behind the gag, silently demanding something, anything...everything.

  “Be still and I’ll pleasure you. Misbehave and I’ll make your thighs roast.”

  Me being me, I struggle and flaunt my pelvis at him, and the gag stifles my blue curse and my moans and grunts when the egg knocks a hidden, sensitive spot.

  “Well, if that’s what you want...” He takes up the red leather slapper and lets fly, finding the exact place on my inner thigh where he’s already spanked me.

  Making a stifled sound the likes of which I’ve never heard before and really don’t want to hear again, I stand up on my heels to the limits of my bondage, hips slamming, tormenting egg notwithstanding. My thigh is on fire, and my clit feels as if it’s screaming, as if it has the voice I’m denied and it’s demanding to be touched. I try to part my thighs even more, even though the movement is limited, as if the sight of my glistening sex will lure Simon so powerfully that he just has to touch it.

  He smiles like Lucifer, golden yet demonic, and simply lays on the leather, more and more, again and again.

  My thighs do roast. Within the space of a few minutes they’re ragged red, fierier by far than my bottom. In fact, my bottom is like a zone of pacific tranquility and comfort compared to my thighs. And my thighs feel far worse because I can see them, the gathering crimson so vivid I’d swear it’s glowing in the low light from the lamps.

  “Are you going to be still?” His voice is that of the sly devil, too, so soft and seductive and honeyed. “Are you going to be a good girl for me? Or shall I be forced to do something even more wicked to you?” He dips low, whispering in my ear, describing obscene and magnificent things that almost make me come, just from the disgusting words.

  Intrusions. Compressions. Suspension. Contortion. Extreme acts, and all performed before the discerning eyes of assembled perverts down in the white salon below. It’s all dark, dangerous, dirty...yet thrilling. Way beyond the reality of our games, but chokingly rousing to hear. I still squirm, knowing we’ll never do these things, never really want to, but excited all the same by his vivid threats.

  When he’s finished his litany, Simon kisses my lips at the edge of the gag, running his tongue along the boundary of my stretched mouth, while at the same time he draws the very tips of his fingernails over my blazing inner thighs. Tears ooze from the corners of my eyes and he laps those up too.

  He rests his face against mine, so gentle. The scent of his cologne fills my head, and the faint rasp of his just emerging stubble is a fugitive caress in itself. “Oh, I’m so cruel to you, my darling love, aren’t I?”

  I nod. He is cruel. Just as I want him to be during our experiments. But suddenly I want him to be kind, too, and attuned to me, he knows that. The reason our little tableaux work so well is that he’s possessed of an empathy so uncanny.

  He touches me now, running his fingers over my face, interpolating the stroke of his fingertips with kisses. With a quick, almost reverent deftness, he unbuckles the gag, frees my mouth, and kisses that too, pressing in with his tongue, but silkily, seductively, kindly. Not rough.

  “I’m going to make you come now, sweetheart...and I want to hear your cries of pleasure. No more pain.”

  Of course my thighs are still burning, and so is my bottom a little, but somehow it doesn’t feel like actual pain anymore. It’s more than heat, a new sensation that doesn’t seem to fit into any category or description it’s so intense.

  With one last kiss, Simon reaches behind him, fingering various items, then blindly selects a vibrator. A spin of the bezel produces a low, smo
oth hum, and he smiles, pleased with his choice, although not as pleased as I’ll soon be, any moment now.

  When he touches it to my clit, I fly up to the ceiling, though still in bondage. Blinded by ecstasy, I howl his name, soaring...loving.

  * * *

  Later, much later, we lie in bed together, all passion spent, and all games played out, for the moment. I feel comfortable, relaxed, blissfully happy. Yes, my thighs and buttocks do still glow, but somehow it’s a good feeling, a sweet nostalgic echo that reminds me of the blissful pleasure that perfectly matches all pain. From time to time, Simon rests a hand against the scene of his crime, the contact of his skin like a solemn communion, drawing out the very last of the hurt, healing and blessing.

  These are weird thoughts that drift through my mind, vaguely sacrilegious, but I love him so, and our relationship is sanctified. Even though it feels like months since we stood before that altar together, it’s actually less than a day.

  Our beautiful white room is no ordinary white room; it’s the honeymoon suite.

  “Happy, Mrs. Whittingtry?”

  “Ecstatic, Mr. Whittingtry.”

  He strokes my hair, and as his body shifts against mine, I discover that all passion isn’t quite spent after all. And exploring the evidence, I realize that mine isn’t spent either, far, far from it.

  “I don’t suppose you could possibly consider obliging me again, could you? Wifely duties and all that?” He presses his cock against one of my warm patches as if testing my heat.

  “It’ll cost you.” My voice is arch. I’m in the ascendant now. The tide has turned. I whisper some naughtiness in his ear, and I can tell by the way he gasps, he likes the idea.

  In fact, he loves it.

  “As you command, my queen.”

  And with that, he rolls onto his back, grasps the rails of the bed head, and allows me to bind him.