What He Doesn't Know
Sometimes you're not the guest, you're the favor. Femdom Erotica. Episode X18.
There are hands touching him.
At least six.
The exact number, he doesn't know.
He was brought here blindfolded. He was told it was going to be a vanilla dinner with some of her coworkers. She made a big show of being pissed off about having to go. Later, he realized that was an act meant to sell the cover story. They dressed for cocktail hour and began to drive. As they cruised down the familiar freeway, a malevolent grin began to consume her face. Suddenly, she pulled off an exit and stopped the car. She turned to him, her eyes confident and hungry. He instantly knew that whatever was about to happen, it wasn’t going to be vanilla.
“For the rest of the night, you aren’t allowed to talk, slave. Nod if you understand.”
He did.
Then she took out a blindfold. After darkness overtook him, he felt her put sunglasses over his eyes, probably to camouflage his bondage. She turned around and drove in the opposite direction.
Now, he is on his back, tied to a bed, somewhere up a flight of stairs.
He is naked.
The hands are touching him. Teasing, stroking, exploring.
His cock receives a lot of attention, but it's just a tease. He gets that part of the game right away. Whenever he starts to feel the pleasure building between his legs, the hands retreat and leave him craving.
No one says a word.
He keeps asking himself, who are these people? He simply doesn't know.
When she finally stopped the car, she made him undress and put on his collar. By then, he had no idea where they had driven. As she led him on a leash to what he assumed was a house, he heard only crickets and distant cars. They passed through a door, and he heard a quick, excited gasp and knew there were other people there. He was reasonably certain they weren't her coworkers, but that was hardly comforting. If anything, it was exactly the opposite; her friends were far more skilled at dispensing pain.
Since then, he has heard nothing except for a few low murmurs, which sounded like submissives attending to dominants. Whispering in their ears and receiving terse commands. Some of the voices, both submissive and dominant, are men. Are men touching him? He doesn't know.
Three of the hands, oiled and supple, trace up his inner thighs.
He loses himself to a greedy moan of pleasure.
It’s answered by a titter of laughter, a haughty whisper.
Several of the hands withdraw.
He hears the familiar, hollow sound of a blueprint tube being opened.
His heart skips a beat, not in the good way.
The pain starts.
They begin with clamps at strategic zones. He seizes with each new bite, dreading the next. Clamps are always difficult for him. But the clamps stop after only a few. And while he is debating the reason for that, he is struck by a riding crop.
The blow lands across his chest. It hurts, but more than that it’s surprising, a surprise that seems to carry an extra jolt of electricity.
A few more swift, slashing strikes follow, and then from the other side, from different crops. Several people are beating him.
But the hands continue to stroke, always parting before a blow lands.
The hits intensify. They fall faster and sharper. He begins to buck and moan.
He pulls against his bonds.
It's too much for him.
"Mistress, please... Please!"
The blows stop.
He sucks in a breath.
A hand slaps him in the face, and he spits the air back out.
But he knows it was her hand, and that means a lot.
"I told you to be quiet, slave!"
The crops begin again.
He can't tell if they are going easier on him, or if he is taking it better.
It's a terrifying feeling, never able to prepare for the pain.
He wants to beg for mercy, but he dare not.
His whimpers become more frantic, more animalistic as the crops move to his inner thigh.
Her voice is in his ear.
"Don't embarrass me, boy. You reflect on me. Your weakness is my weakness."
Another voice interjects. "Oh, don't, I like it when he mewls." A woman's voice, cold and unfamiliar.
A third person reflexively shushes her.
Then the whole room laughs. He can see the scene, it’s as vivid as a movie screen: A strict, uncomfortable silence protocol enforced on party guests. A long buildup to ensure the slave is fully mind-fucked. A room packed with observers hoping the scene comes off. A moment where people question if it’s working, only to realize the moment couldn’t have happened under any other condition. A breathless instant of shared recognition as the whole room arrives at the same conclusion. Catharsis. He can see the complete narrative in this pause before his next ordeal, he just can’t see their faces.
Who are they? Who is watching him, touching him? Does he know them? Will they forever see him now as this helpless, manipulated thing? Will he see that reflected in the eyes of everyone he meets? Do they judge him? Does he?
As the laughter fades, Mistress licks his ear and whispers, "Good boy."
He swells with pride.
They resume hitting him. The pain quickly grows beyond what he can easily tolerate.
He tries and tries to hold it back.
He can feel it overwhelming him.
He breathes into it.
He wants to feel this proud forever.
There's something about here, something powerful. He can't really even hold it in his mind. But for just a moment or two, he can glimpse it. That all strikes to his flesh are a mystery before they land. That all hands on his body represent an unknown. A contact with a force of will that exists outside of his own, about which he can only guess. Perhaps all that we desire is borne of a dance between what we know and what we don't.
He disassociates near the end of the torture. He loses what little grasp of time he had.
Then he feels the blows stop.
And he is left with his pain.
The full number of hands return. Seven now, maybe eight. Rubbing him gently, calming him down, feeling the heat radiate off his reddened flesh.
The clamps come off, and agony floods from the tender nerves beneath them.
He shudders. The hands hold him.
He breathes through it as the post trauma endorphins flood over his body.
"Good, boy."
It's in a full voice for the whole room to hear.
He flushes red, and the room says "awww."
He's whatever the feeling is that lives at the corner of broken and fixed. He's gone, and he's happy.
She cuddles him for a few moments as he hears the people leave the room.
She begins to unlock him.
"Do you need a bathroom?"
He slowly shakes his head.
"You’ve been such a good boy tonight."
She places his hand on a bottle of water resting on a nightstand to show him where it is. She spreads a blanket over him before whispering in his ear a final time, "Rest a bit, we'll be back in a while for round two. Blindfold stays on." Her voice on the last part is as stern as she gets, and he knows that the punishment for removal will be indescribable.
She retreats down the stairs. Her promise to return, either for more pleasure or more pain or both, sets his anxiety to a slow boil, but he’s too tired and euphoric to really feel it. He knows more is coming, but at least in this moment, the soft bed muffles his fears. The memory of the woman praising the sounds he made, asking Mistress to let him make them, fills him with a deep sense of peace. He did his job, he made Mistress look good. He pleased. Whatever comes next, it will be an opportunity to please again.
He promises himself that he will.
His senses return to him over time.
The blanket is warm against his burning flesh, the pressure of it makes him feel somehow safe. The air in the room is cool, and a slight draft flows in a way that makes him sure the walls and floors are wood. His mouth is dry, and he reaches for the water bottle. Still cool, though not fresh from the refrigerator. It was sweating on a table for at least an hour. And in the distance, he begins to hear voices. Several. Conversations. Laughter, shouting. A party.
Amid this distant cacophony, her voice rings out. Her voice becomes his polar star leading him home from far away lands. At one point, he hears her demurely accepting compliments and graciously enduring applause. Or maybe he imagines that; the sounds are so distant, hearing them is more an act of creativity than anything else.
He wishes he was kneeling beside her. Her triumphs are his triumphs too.
The other voices are an enigma. There are too many, and they're too far removed for him to count or describe. There is one extremely loud man, and one high pitched woman with a grating laugh, but the rest are fully anonymous to him.
As to what transpired in the room he still occupies, as to who touched him, and what they did, he has both certainty and confusion. He knows with pure certainty that all of this was the doing of his Mistress, and he should consider all of the hands and all of the blows to have been hers. He knows that everything he experienced tonight came from her, and that is all that matters.
But regarding the identities of the people and the specific events of that upstairs room and, most importantly, what is yet to come, he simply doesn’t know.