Miyu dragged herself off her bed and to the bathroom by noon. She hurt, inside and out.
Her pussy had swollen to the size of a Navel orange, courtesy of Beth's playing soccer
with it. Her innards all felt inflamed and out of place, courtesy of Cindy's assaults on
her ass with her collection of strap on dildos. And as for her ass, she wasn't sure she
could trust it outside of the house today. She whimpered to herself and crawled back to
bed, not to sleep; her pain, the light and the noise from outside precluded that, but to
have a good cry. Somehow, she felt better after she'd bawled out for a while.
After two mugs of coffee and a shower she felt human again. It also seemed like her
sphincter had resumed functioning after yesterday night's violations.
She could still hear her own screams.
She called up Bruce to reassure him. He did not sound too reassured. She declined
meeting him today. He would want to know every detail, and she knew she'd tell him,
eventually; just not today.
On the table there was a card. It was very plain, the size of a business card with the
words "ADMIT:" printed in capital letters and her name, in Cindy's girlish hand, written
behind.
That was her ticket into the Guiana club.
She did not even have to ask for it.
While she serviced Beth, in the morning, Cindy had placed the card in the pocket of her
coat along with a short note:
We are usually in the Guiana club most evenings after eight. Across from The Hornet. Come
play with us sometime.
She wondered how she would report her activities to Thornton. Was abused by two lesbians
while trying to gain access to the club. She chuckled at the thought.
Next day, much recovered, she met Bruce for breakfast at a quaint breakfast cafe on
Bleeker Street.
"Are you OK? I was worried about you." he said.
That he remained silent after asking the question, waiting for an answer showed how
worried he'd really been. His next question shocked Miyu.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
Miyu expected a Tell me every detail or something of the sort. That Bruce offered to
hear, without asking or demanding to be told showed a sensitive, unexpected side of his
personality.
"I'd rather not," she said, "not now. Maybe in the future."
"I understand."
They concentrated on their eggs Benedict for a while.
"I've made some inquiries," Bruce said.
"I know some people in the scene," Bruce continued. "There have been rumors, very vague,
dismissed by most as urban myth, about slave trafficking; unwilling subs brought over from
Southeast Asia. No one has ever seen one, but everyone has a friend who... yada yada
yada."
"There may be someone, who may know more,"
"Who is he?" Miyu asked.
"I don't know him. One of my friends mentioned him in passing. Apparently he knows just
about everything that has to do with BDSM. You could almost say he invented it."
"So, who is he?"
"I don't know, I'm trying to find out."
"The best bet is still the Guiana club then," Miyu said, "and I can get in now."
"Are you sure you want to do this? You don't know what you are getting into, and you
have no backup."
"There is no other alternative. I am going in tonight. I'll call you tomorrow."
"Good luck," Bruce said.
She wore thigh high red stockings, a red garter belt, with matching lace panties and
bra, and high heeled red shoes. Over it, the skimpiest red mini skirt she could find, with
a hemline that was so short that the top of the stockings showed if she wasn't careful. A
comparatively modest white blouse and her white wool coat completed the ensemble. She wore
no purse. In her coat pocket were her credit card, ID and fifty dollars.
She stood at the curb, wrapped in her coat, waiting to catch a cab; in Manhattan, on a
Friday evening, not an easy feat. At least it wasn't raining.
The yellow cab dropped her off in front of the club. She walked through the entrance and
found a solid door. A bouncer, neatly dressed in a black suit intercepted her. She showed
her invitation. He asked her for ID. Finally he let her through.
Miyu did not know what she expected to see inside. Instead she found herself in an
elegant foyer where a hostess took her coat and cell phone; she did not get a claim tag.
"No cell phones are allowed on the property for privacy reasons. You just give us your
name, when you are ready to leave and we'll get your clothes and phone for you," the
hostess said. "We’ll also get you a car if you need one."
Opening into the foyer were three small doors, changing rooms, she found out, for those
members who required changing either on the way in, or out. A larger door opened into the
club proper.
The central salon was a huge room, with subdued, but not dim lighting, mostly in a red
tone. There were small tables, each one surrounded by a small curved sofa that would sit
two or three people and two smaller plush chairs. This early in the evening, most seats
were unoccupied. There was a long bar, extending along one of the sides of the salon. Some
members sat at the bar, chatting and drinking. Though some people smoked, the air did not
reek of cigarettes or tobacco. It felt cool and crisp. Miyu walked between the chairs
towards the bar. Cindy and Beth were nowhere to be seen.
She sat at a stool on the bar and the attendant, a curly haired man in his mid twenties
approached her.
"A Cosmo," she requested.
"You are Ms Dillard's guest, I believe," he said handing her the drink.
"Is she here?"
"I haven't seen her. I'm Todd, when you need another."
There was nothing here, in this salon, that was any different to any other exclusive
club in the city, except that there was more light and, despite several patrons smoking
openly, the crisp, clean air. The music too, a mix of oldies and current favorites, was
not loud. It was obvious that the members did not come here for the music. Todd brought
over a bowl of chips and salsa.
She studied the other people carefully. Only a few people were attired as doms or subs.
Most either wore no signs of their status or those were so subtle as to pass unnoticed
anywhere else. A thin leather or diamond choker perhaps; the woman in the corner table had
a bracelet that was a fraction of an inch wider than it could be suggesting a bracelet.
She found she could tell the differences, after a while, just by the body language.
A tall man entered the room from the outside foyer. He wore dark pants and a deep blue
shirt with silver cuff links. He wore no tie. He stood at the entrance checking out the
salon before walking towards the bar. Towards Miyu.
He stood about six foot six. His hair was light brown, medium length and his chin
sported a thin goatee. He approached Miyu.
"Cindy told me about you," he said as way of introduction sitting down beside her.
Her belly full of butterflies, Miyu answered, "And what did she tell you?"
Todd left a drink on the counter.
The man picked it up, took a sip and sat back on his stool.
"What do you think about the club?" he asked instead.
Miyu hesitated, uncertain of her answer.
"Not what you expected?"
"Yes, I mean no, not what I expected. It looks like a regular club, only with more
light."
"No whips and chains and such, huh?"
Miyu smiled, "Yeah, that too."
"She said you are very submissive, but inexperienced," he answered her question, in his
own time.
Miyu eyes focused on the water ring on the counter, where his glass had been.
"I am Patrick by the way," he extended his hand and Miyu took it.
He pulled her towards him by the hand and kissed her lips. His lips lingered on hers for
a few seconds; enough to demonstrate that his kiss was no cursory greeting, but not so
long that it invited, or ordered, any additional display.
"Follow me," he said.
Miyu stood up and followed him through the salon. His hand held hers by the wrist, as
effective as a manacle and chain. He guided her through the chairs and tables and out a
door on the far end.
"Not too much happens here, in the front, not until eleven, at least."
They went through the door entering a long, corridor; carpets, walls and ceiling were
matte black absorbing the light from the few fixtures.
He took her past several closed doors, "Playrooms," he said.
The far door opened into a circular room with stadium seating around a raised dais. It
was in all aspects like a miniature arena. Miyu estimated the couches that surrounded the
stage could accommodate about forty couples.
"This is where we stage shows," Patrick said. "The scenario can turn on itself, so
everyone can see, from all angles."
They returned to the black corridor. Patrick opened a door on the right.
"This is the large social playroom," he said.
It was a well lit room, with a small open space in the center, and seats and couches
strewn haphazardly around.
Across the corridor was a similar though smaller playroom, "The small playroom," he
said.
The last door opened on a set of stairs going down.
"This leads to our dungeon," Patrick said.
He closed the door, "It is restricted to members and their slaves only. Since you are
guest, I cannot take you down there."
Miyu noticed her body reacting, to the place, or to Patrick’s overwhelming personality.
She felt the heat of her blood, flowing into her pelvis, and was about to ask what did she
need to do to go to the dungeon, but she did not. She noticed Patrick looking at her
closely. She thought he looked like a big cat, like the Siberian tiger they had at the
Bronx Zoo, large, dangerous, and extremely cunning. A chill of fear made the small hairs
at the back of her neck rise. She was walking on thin ice.
There was no one back here that she could see or hear.
"Isn't anyone back here playing?" she asked.
"All the rooms are soundproof," Patrick said.
It was as she feared. She was sure that, at the smallest suspicion, Patrick could
dispose of her, here, in the bowels of the club, and no one would notice, or care.
"Let's go back to the hall," Patrick said.
Miyu tried not to make too much noise as she exhaled.
"It is unusual," Patrick said once they were safely ensconced back in their bar stools,
"for an unattached sub to come to the club."
Miyu said nothing.
"From Cindy I know you are very submissive, very docile; she wasn't able to tell much
more. How did you come to be at The Hornet?"
"I'd heard about this club, I wanted to see what it looked like, so I passed in front of
it. I couldn't get in, of course."
Patrick nodded.
"I stopped at the bar with my friend Bruce, to have a drink. When Beth and Cindy came, I
took a look at them and..."
She paused for a long time, Patrick just watched her.
"There was a feeling of power radiating from both of them. I knew then that both were
dommes, and I felt almost a compulsion. I wanted; I needed to submit to them. I sent my
friend away, and the rest, you know."
Her heart was beating wildly inside her head. Her eyes took notice of every detail of
Patrick's face, the thin goatee, the little hair peeking from under his nose. His dark
eyes that watched her, and did not miss anything.
She was conscious of her breath, of every breath that she took; she noticed his breath,
the faint sound of air rushing into his powerful lungs, the hot breeze when he exhaled.
She did not say it; she dared not say it, she dared not feel it.
But it was there. She wanted to drop on her knees. She looked down, to the floor, to
where Patrick's feet, clad in shiny black leather loafers, perched on the cross bar of the
bar stool.
"What are you thinking?"
The pitch of his voice hit her like a club. His baritone had turned into a bass. His
voice exuded power. She felt weak, unable to even consider resisting. She had to tell him
the truth. There was no other way.
"I want," she paused for long seconds, "to submit to you."
Her face fell on her chest. She saw her breasts, under the blouse, tenting the white
fabric and the erect state of her nipples. She knew that Patrick could see them too, and
she did not care.
"Will you take me?"
Patrick did not answer, not at first. He looked at the Todd the bartender who brought
him a second drink and a small, fat cigar. Patrick took the cigar and cut the end off
neatly with a switchblade. Todd held a match for him.
Two aromatic puffs of smoke later, Patrick answered Miyu's question. She remained
silent, all this time, looking at the counter, her collarbones quivering with unrelieved
nervous tension.
"I'll try you."
Miyu exhaled; she had not realized she'd been holding her breath.
She followed him back into one of the playrooms. It was not what she expected.
She imagined a large room with rings on the walls, chains dangling from the ceiling,
whips and crops adorning the walls. She had imagined a dungeon, like she'd seen in movies,
smelling of leather and sweat. Instead, what she found was a quite ordinary, air
conditioned room, with a cream colored futon type bed in the center. The only revealing
thing was the four small, discrete rings on each corner of its black wooden base, which
could be used to restrain a slave.
The walls were paneled in oak wood; an ordinary lamp lit the room. Against a wall, a
wooden dresser with three drawers and a small cupboard. On one corner a side lamp, unlit
at this time, on the opposite one, a hat stand, and around the futon, two armchairs. That
was all.
Miyu stood in the center of the room, by the futon, uncertain about what to do. Should
she undress? Should she fall on her knees? She looked at Patrick for guidance but he just
looked at her, studying her intently. Never before had she felt herself the object of
such scrutiny. The tiny hairs, along her spine rose in waves of fear. Patrick's green eyes
regarded her with unwavering attention. The entire room blurred and went out of focus as
her own eyes were drawn, sucked in by the potent stare of Patrick's hypnotic gaze.
Her hands sought the neck of her blouse and she felt the buttons coming undone; she felt
the blouse falling off her shoulders and dropping on the futon.
Still Patrick looked at her, standing, unmoving, by the entrance. She felt the miniskirt
drop on the floor, her brassiere follow it down in a flutter of red lace. Her panties
dropped next. She noticed a new, animal smell in the formerly sterile air of the room; her
own musk.
Finally, his eyes released hers and she could again see his face. Miyu watched it, as if
she'd never seen it before. She saw the pores on his cheeks, the faint wrinkles under his
eyes. The stiff brown hairs of his goatee, the few, white ones that, scattered among its
length made it appear lighter than it really was. She was conscious of his breath, his
nares, opening and closing in synchrony with the expansion of his chest, under his blue
shirt. She noticed the fabric of the shirt straining under the powerful muscles
underneath.
Her arms fell to her sides, brushing her flanks. Something made her cross her hands
behind her back, and her right hand grasp her left wrist. Her right knee bent, almost
unnoticed and most of her weight moved to her left leg. The right foot, still encased in
its high heeled red shoe moved backwards, to rest the tip on the ground.
Patrick's lips opened in a smile that exposed his large white teeth. He took a step
towards her, she gasped; he took a second step.
Her legs could not hold her up anymore. She slid down, on her knees. Her head bowed down
and she noticed her thighs, closed in front of her. Her head bowed further, her chin
falling on her chest. She saw her thighs open, releasing a second, stronger waft of musk.
She felt the cool air against the moisture peeking between her folds. Her back bowed
forming a precious arch. The tips of her long hair caressed the skin on her thighs. She
closed her eyes and exhaled.
She felt something, a puff of air, a touch of warmth, she did not know. She opened her
eyes. His black loafers were in front of her, between her knees. She dared not look up.
Between the twin curtains of her hair, she studied his shiny leather shoes, between her
thighs, in front of her exposed cooch. She'd never felt so naked, so exposed, so
defenseless. Her whole body quivered with fear, or need, or desire, she could not tell.
The walls of the room closed upon her. Tears formed on her eyes, she knew not why. A heavy
ball formed on her belly, throbbing, filling her guts. Tremors shook her body; tiny
whimpers came, unbidden, out of her throat, her need, almost a physical pain.
His fingers touched her neck.
She squealed and could resist no more. Her arms launched themselves around his legs; her
head bowed to the floor, her face sought his legs, her cheek rubbing against the fabric of
his pants. Her lips kissed his ankles. Speechless, she whined and whimpered, on her knees,
curled into a quivering ball, she held on to his calves.
"Miyu," he said with a soft voice, "Miyu."
She whimpered against his leg until he bent over and, grasping her chin with his
fingers, he brought her up to her knees again. Only then did she dare look up at him.
He extended his hand and she placed hers in it. She rose at his silent command and lay
on her back on the cream sheets of the futon. Her legs fell wide open. The aroma of her
need spilled from her furry snatch filling the room with its odor. Somewhere, between the
floor and the couch, he’d lost his trousers and slip. His cock rose, proud, from the curls
at his crotch, but she did not see it. Her eyes, open, were blind to everything but his
face.
He stood between her welcoming thighs.
"Please, please, please," she found her voice.
Then he entered her and she said no more.
After, Miyu lay on the bed, spent, her thighs open, her lips swollen, spilling his white
ichor and her clear juice on the wrinkled sheets, her body still vibrating with the echoes
of her last climax. At her side lay Patrick, looking at her, watching the uneven rise and
fall of her breasts and the quivering of her tight belly. Her open lips, still gasping for
air, and her eyes, staring at the ceiling were tacit witnesses to the magnitude of her
release.
She recovered her voice, "Oh my God."
His hand sought her breast, feeling its firm, smooth surface. She turned into him, her
lips seeking his chest, her nose digging into the hollow of his shoulder. She felt his
arms around her and her body shivered again with an unexpected aftershock. She felt so
right, in his strong arms, her reasons forgotten and only the present, the tingling of her
skin and the quickening of her blood bubbling in her conscience. The words escaped her
mouth seconds before her mind had formed them.
"Master."
His fingers grasped her hair, pulling her head so he could look in her eyes.
"Slave," he said.
She was in.
She hung her clothes on the hat stand, leaving on only her garter belt and hose. He took
a leather collar and a chain from one of the drawers.
Miyu said nothing. She knelt in front of him, leaning her body forward, in a perfect
arch and, with her hands she collected her long black hair, to the side, offering him her
long slender neck.
His hand caressed the delicate nape offered him. He held it, between his two strong
arms, squeezing it. She did not move, unprotesting. Her hands continued to hold her hair
to the side. He could feel the air, rushing, vibrating down her windpipe and her pulse,
along the sides of her airway, fluttering, like a bird in his mighty hands.
He placed the leather collar on her neck and clipped the leash on it.
"Stand," he said.
She followed him, naked but for her hose, into the main room. The members looked at them
as they passed, master and slave, on their way to the bar. She kept her eyes down,
watching the heels of his shoes, following him, meekly, until he sat at a bar stool.
Unbidden, she knelt at his side, her face against his knee, his fingers caressing her
cheek. He ordered a drink for her, a Cosmopolitan, and let her drink it from a straw,
while he held it for her. She kept her hands on her open thighs, palms upward. She
remained silent, her eyes downcast, and her heart fluttering in her chest. Alone with him
in the crowded room.
When he offered her the glass, she sipped from the straw; whenever his hand passed in
front of her face, her lips sought his fingers. He grasped her chin and turned her face
towards him.
"What are your limits, little one?" he asked, although he suspected the answer he would
get.
"Only yours master."
"What is your safe word?"
"I don't need one sir."
He nodded, his face grave.
After a while, he stood up and pulled lightly on her chain. She stood up too. He kissed
her lips. Her mouth opened to receive him.
"I want to fuck your ass now," the crude words failed to humiliate her, she was beyond
that by now.
"There is some lubricant in one of the dresser drawers," he continued. "Prepare
yourself."
"Yes, my master,"
"After I've buggered you, I shall want to beat you. Choose a crop from the dresser and
leave it on a chair."
"Yes, my master," she answered.
She turned and with the chain dangling down behind her, proudly strode to the door in the
back, through the men and women who ogled her with envy; of her, or of her master. She did
not know, nor did she care.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Cindy approaching her master.
She did not care. She had her orders.
In the room she opened the cupboard. Inside, several floggers hanged from hooks, a dog
whip, and three crops, one with a rectangular flapper, one with a triangular flapper, and
one with no flapper at all, no more than a thin, leather wrapped cane.
She chose the last one and placed it on one of the chairs. Her actions were determined,
unemotional, as if the cruel crop would soon cut into somebody else's flesh, not hers. The
first drawer she opened held restraints, wrist straps, shackles, lengths of chain, and
such. She closed that one and opened the next. Here were dildos, large and small, butt
plugs, and strap ons. She closed this one too. The bottom drawer contained lubricants,
Vaseline, KY jelly, Astroglide, and others. She wondered which one to use; she chose a
small tube of KY and opened it. She inserted the open end into her puckered hole and gave
the tube a good squeeze feeling the cold jelly fill her bum. The rest she smeared around
her rear entrance until it was all gone. She knelt and waited in silence.
He came into the room, his cock already erect under his trousers.
She stood up and positioned herself on all fours on the bed. Her hands separated her ass
cheeks offering him her most intimate entrance. She sunk her face in the pillow and, when
his cock sought to breach her entrance, she bit into the pillow to stifle her screams.
When, after spilling his load deep inside her rectum, he withdrew, he saw red pearls
mixing with his white jism.
"Was it your first time, this way?" he asked, amazed.
"Yes sir," she answered.
It was the truth; she'd never done anal with George. They'd reserved that for their
honeymoon.
Tears came to her eyes. She swallowed them.
He said nothing.
She stood up, picked up the crop and handed it to him. She bent over, holding the back
of the chair to steady herself and offered him her buttocks. A drop of semen mixed with
her blood still peeked from her swollen anus. Turning her head back, she asked:
"Would you rather cane my tits?"
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