Friday's Scream Queen
4 hours ago
"I'm a real fast learner," I said. I turned my head away from her. What the hell was I trying to do? It was bad enough. But I couldn't stand it, the sight of her, the tight vest and the plunging neck of her blouse.
"I hope so," she laughed softly. "I'm going to whip the hell out of you if you're not." And her lips touched me again, feeding on my neck. "What is this? All flustered already? You come against the bed while I'm whipping you and what do you think I'll do to you? Take a guess."
I didn't dare say anything.
"Now, while I'm punishing you," she said just as gently, smoothing the hair back from my forehead, "you're going to answer me properly and deferentially every time I address you, and you will control your powerful proud impulses, no matter what the provocation, you understand?"
"Yes, Madam," I said. I turned over and strained forward and kissed her before she could get away. She pulled in again, softening all over, and dropping down on her knees, kissed me, that same scorching current running through it, and the kiss almost touched off the bomb.
"Lisa," I whispered. I didn't even know why.
And she stayed still, very close, looking at me. And there was some instantaneous sense of why this was so horrific, that always before they'd been wearing masks in my imagination, the women and men who whipped me, or subjugated me... But she wasn't wearing a mask. The fantasy wasn't cloaking her. "I'm scared to death of you," I whispered. I could hear the amazement in my own voice. I was speaking so low I wondered if she could hear me. "I mean I... this is difficult, it's..."
"Good," she said. She drew back slowly. "Are you ready to be whipped?"
I made a little sigh and nodded.
"You have to do better than that."
She shook her head. She was studying me. I licked my lips a little, looking at her mouth. She was frowning slightly, her lashes a dark fringe as she looked down and then back at me. "I like the way you say Lisa," she said, thoughtfully, as if she was considering. "Let's change it to 'Yes, Lisa.'"
"Yes, Lisa." I was trembling.
She disappeared to the foot of the bed. And when she started, she swung the strap as hard as one of the male handlers. And there was an efficiency to the way she whipped, making every lash count.
She went to work. It was like an examination, the way she spread the blows, and the pain built slowly, luxuriously, just the way the pleasure had... and I could feel myself breaking down, a slow exhilaration building under the pain, all the defenses weakening that would have been solid against her, had she gone at it more brutally, swiftly, with more noise.
Then the thrashing started in earnest.
I tensed my muscles, rising off the sheet. I couldn't keep quiet. I tried holding out as I always do, unwilling to let go, but it was no good. My body was cooking all over and I couldn't stand it any longer, the dazzling sting of the strap seeking out all the little places it had neglected, the excitement surging even as I tried to hold back, the strap teasing the big welts again. There came that priceless moment--a moment that doesn't always come--when I knew I had no control anymore, and I felt everything, everything, at the same time.
"You know you belong to me," she said.
"Yes, Lisa," I answered naturally, spontaneously.
"And you are here to please me."
"And there will be no more impertinence."
"And there will be no repeat of the impertinence I heard from you this afternoon."
Finally I was moaning outright, and I couldn't pretend I wasn't. I kept my teeth shut even when I answered her... I had things to say to her that they hadn't made words for. But I didn't dare say anything except the proper answers, listening through the rain of blows to each question. I was ready for anything she would demand.
Finally she stopped. My skin was sizzling, every welt and mark steaming as she undid the cuffs with her maddening, delicate and quick little fingers and told me to get up.
I climbed off the bed drunkenly and I fell down on my knees in front of her, exhausted as if I'd been running for miles. My muscles hurt from the clenching and unclenching all through the whipping, and I wanted to take her in my arms so badly that I pressed my head to the floor. I was weakened with this feeling for her, drugged... I didn't care anymore about anything in the world, really, except her... The soreness and desire came in flashes.
"It was a good whipping, wasn't it?" She asked.
"Yes, Lisa," I nodded, letting out a little laugh in spite of myself. If you only knew--"Very good"--that I want to devour you. That I... what?
"Have you had better?" she asked. She nudged my cheek with the belt so that I looked up... "I would like to know."
"Longer and louder," I murmured. I knew I was smiling at her, almost ironically. "And harder, but not better."
When I woke up, it was dark in the room, and she was saying my name. The little danger alarm went off in my head. If she sent me off now, goddamn it, I'd go mad.
There was one distant lamp on the dresser, throwing a yellow light on the hard, angular features of the sculptures and masks, and gleaming on the brass of the bed. And I was lying flat on the smooth cotton sheets, the spreads and pillows gone, and the curtains had been tied back. It was the familiar feel of leather closing around my left wrist tjat brought me fully around. She had already tightened the buclke and now, bending over me, her knees against me, she buckled the cuff at the right.
She's going to whip me,I thought. She's not through with me. Quick simmer of excitement. And I really asked for it, didn't I, saying those things, so it's going to be hard. And she'd do it if I didn't ask for it. Did I think that fucking her would stop her? Scared. Slow boil.
I gave a tug to the traps just to test the strength, and realized I couldn't possibly pull loose. My left foot was quickly manacled to the bedpost. And then the right. All this had happened before, it wasn't the worst. In fact, it was the most comfortable kind of whipping. So why the panic inside? Because it was she? Because never before had I had one of them who tormented me, not the way I'd had her. Beautiful! And all I could think about, in spite of this, was a line out of a bad Romans and Christians movie, where some slave says to the decadent patrician master, "Whip me but don't send me away."
I twisted, pulled at the straps, but I didn't even strain the heavy brass frame.
And she was watching me, standing on my right.
Her back was to the lamp. Her skin looked almost incandescent in the shadows, as if the heat in her had alchemized into light.
I thought of her under me again, her toughness and her softness, and that she was going to whip me, and the boil was rolling. I wanted to say something to her suddenly, pierce the tension. But I didn't dare. She had a black leather strap in her hand and this was going to be bad. And why Would she care if I did say something to her? What did I want to say?
She was dressed all in black now the way all the trainers dress, except for the lace blouse. Piquant, she looked, chic, a tight little leather vest and skirt snug around her body, her high-heeled boots laced to her knees. If I'd seen her sitting in a sidewalk cafe looking like that I would have come in my pants.
She moved towards me, holding the strap at her right side.
Now I pay for it, not just for the smart cracks, but having her. That's it, isn't it? I almost cringed. After all, the whipping never feels good. No matter how much you want it or love it, it hurts. And she'd know how to do it; she was the boss.
She came closer. She bent over, the frills of her blouse brushing against my shoulder, and she kissed my cheek. Perfume and silken hair. I shifted against the sheet, thinking I can't come like a school kid from her kissing me, that's nuts.
"You're a smart aleck, aren't you?" She said in a low, almost loving voice. "You've got a real smart mouth. And you're not under my command or under your own."
I almost said, Yes, I am, really, I am. I'll kiss your feet if you let me go, but I didn't say anything at all.
She kissed me again, bringing the tiny hairs up all over my body because it was so maddeningly light. Just a taste of her mouth. Whiff of her perfume again. "We're going to learn a few lessons," she said, "in how a slave talks and answers at The Club."
"Pleasure begins in the brain and... [talking dirty] operates within the realm of fantasy, and fantasy is the match to the fire."
Part of talking dirty can involve theatrically using the language of degradation. Men raised by feminists may have a problem with this, but there shouldn't be one "if it's what a woman wants to hear." A conversation about pornography may turn to "the idea of a woman being tied up or spoken to in a humiliating fashion should not be arousing, and yet there are women who are turned on by that... It's sometimes the woman who wants to be playfully humiliated who takes the risk in asking."
"The key word in role play is play...And what if you try to play and your girlfriend tells you you're bad at it? Well, then, maybe you have the wrong playmate. Or you could ask her if she needs to be punished for that."
"Now what can I do for you, sir?"
"You are Juliet Haize, the director?" He said. "Edwina Cheshunt bade me attend you."
He pronounced "director" with sufficient reverence to thaw her initial irritation. The woman nodded her assent. She was a handsome female, full-figured in a sombre grey shirt and grey woollen skirt which did not quite cover her knees; sensible shoes and dark blue stockings. Her hair was knotted in a white kerchief.
"Oh," she said, "you must be the young man Edwina spoke of -- I take it you have acted before?"
"Not exactly," said Peake.
"Meaning no," said Juliet Haze. "Why can men never speak directly? Well, Edwina is a flibbertigibbet, and not quite serious -- she knows nothing of the plays of Ibsen or Shaw -- but she is a good judge of character."
Peake said that Edwina had explained very little.
"I am directing the lost play of Aristophanes, The Drudges," she explained.
Peake said he was unfamiliar with the work.
"That is because it is lost", she said, clutching her brow. "I discovered it myself, in the Bodleian Library... The play concerns a slave uprising in Sparta. The men are away at war, leaving their womenfolk as mistresses of the city. The female slaves, tired of constant punishment for their misdemeanours, revolt, and subject their erstwhile mistresses to the same humiliations as they themselves endured. But the trick is, when the men come back and liberate the women, they find that they do not want to be liberated. They like being freed of responsibility having the noble toil of the drudge, and it must be said, frequent spankings and, sort of, whippings."
"You can't really have sort of whippings, Juliet," said Peake. "Either they are whippings or they are not."
"Well yes, whippings then. That is where you come in, as Phryne the slave mistress. You see, you don't have many lines, but in a way you are the lynchpin of the whole thing; you administer punishments impartially. Only mimed, of course, for the stage, but mimed realistically. The modern theatre must be realistic above all things."
At the deserted hall, she carefully closed the door. Peake asked for a script, assuming he would have to read some lines.
"The script is not important at this stage. Your lines are mostly simple commands, to strip or bend over for punishment. I must audition you for what happens afterwards."
"You mean miming a spanking?"
"Not strictly mime. The spanking must be just hard enough to make a convincing and realistic noise. I am to play a token role, as a female slave, therefore you will attend to my bottom, please, Mr. Peake. Are you shocked?"
Peake gravely shook his head, and said that realism was essential to art.
"Perhaps you are not as bourgeois as I thought," said Juliet with approval. "You had better take me over your knee, I suppose. There are twenty-three females to be spanked in this play, Mr. Peake, and you shall have the lion's share of the spanking. I wish to be sure of your stamina."
The stage set represented Phryne's drawing room, where much of the action took place. There was a sofa and armchair, a table and various fans and tropical accoutrements. Juliet ordered Peake to sit on the sofa.
"Right!" said Juliet. "I shall bend over your knee -- you must hold me down, for I shall pretend to wriggle a lot -- and you must give me a spanking. Not hard enough to hurt, of course, but hard enough to make a good cracking noise. Lucinda should be here, to stand at the back and judge -- oh, where is she? Bother, we shall just start without her, to get me -- to get you accustomed to things."
She lay down rather gingerly across Peake's thigh, then allowed the weight of her body to press fully on him, totally relaxing her muscles in a position of complete helplessness. She lifted her skirts, revealing a pair of very high white panties and a garter belt of lace which was surprisingly frilly. Peake lifted his arm.
"Haven't you forgotten something?" she said. "Spankings are given on the bare, aren't they? I'm rather new to this."
Her voice dropped to a murmur as she said this, and had the resonance of untruth. Peake pulled her panties down in a swift motion, to reveal two full round fesses, taut and already clenched in expectation of his blows. The panties had become wedged at her stocking tops, and she said he should undo her straps and roll the panties down to her ankes, for realism. He did so, and she murmured that he should unroll her stockings too, as it would look more humiliating. He took his time at this task, rolling the sheer silk over long, smooth legs whose tender, pale skin was just as silky.
He began to spank her bare bottom, laying quite delicate strokes on the skin, and at each slap she trembled energetically. After a while, she said he was not doing it hard enough. For realism, he must hurt her a little bit, must feel angry at her, and then she would feel angry too, and her squirms and cries would be most realistic.
"Imagine that I've delivered some terrible insult," she said. "That I've said -- what is it you say to men? -- that you've got a tiny dangler. Yes! You've got a little tiny dangler, Mr. Peake."
Peake laughed and said this would scarcely be applicable to the character he was playing, the female Mistress Phryne.
"Oh, you confuse me. Well, your master has a tiny dangler! So there!"
Peake began to spank her bare fesses with force. Now her wriggles came in earnest, and a delicate pink suffused her bum-flesh, her cries of "Oh!" And "Ouch!" And "Steady on!" While not particularly theatrical, did not seem feigned either. Peake asked mildly if he was hurting her, but as he did so began to spank even harder.
"You know you are! I don't like it one bit! Edwina was right, you are a brute. But it is important to -- Oh! Oh! Oh! -- to have realism. God that smarts, sir. You are cruel, do you know? I bet you have spanked many girls before. Ouch! Oh! My bare bum! You horrid man!"
She was gasping for breath now, her bare bottom a squirming mass of mottled crimson, and Peake had to hold her firmly to keep her on his knee. His hand began to spank her below her buttocks, on the tender skin of her thighs, and her legs thrashed. Now she greeted each spank with a shrill yelp, interspersed with sobs, and her whole body was trembling as his blows rained on her buttocks.
"Don't stop," she panted. "Ah! Aaah! God, my bum is on fire! I've never had such pain. I feel this is my finest performance. There will be headlines in the Daily Herald. Such realism!"
"Yes, yes," she whispered through her tears. "You have got the part."