A hot dungeon scene at a Paris club, as Carly watches her master play with another sexy submissive. First of two parts.
Part One From Carly On Her Knees
La Plus Sombre Terre—The Darker Earth—a sequestered club in the heart of the Paris nightlife, advanced on Carly like a dream, the smoke so thick, the music so rooted and seductive that she could sense without bothering to open her eyes what kind of club she entered on the arm of Byron Haverleigh.
“Don’t let it be said that I didn’t give you a good time,” he whispered in her ear as they crossed over the threshold into the teaming sexual environment. Her eyes and ears were assaulted by the sights and sounds; even the smells were pungent enough to lure her forward. She could almost taste the sex. Haverleigh was already wearing a mask, she was not. That this actually disguised his identity was not clear to her since the man’s distinguishing essence seemed written in every gesture, every movement of his body, even in the air that surrounded him. And Carly was on his arm like she belonged there.
“What is this place?” she innocently whispered, even though she needed no more clues than the sound of cracking whips and female cries screeching above the din of music and low conversation to know the purpose of the club. They moved through a thick crowd of people, some masked, some not, with Carly’s eyes darting from place to place.
“A dungeon, Carly,” he answered. “Whips. Chains. Pain. Screaming females. That sort of thing. Are you ready to run?”
“No, not yet. I haven’t really seen a thing.”
She saw his smile, his amusement. Far as she knew, he had no clue that she’d set him up—well, sort of set him up. But wasn’t that how it was supposed to be? She’d become his pet according to Dana’s instructions; from that point she’d follow his lead. The control was his.
In a room, far from the cadence of minor chords coming from the band’s guitars, a girl was tied to a wall of vertical bamboo poles, her breasts and pussy poking through the spaces between them, vulnerable to the attack from a whip-wielding master. He artfully cracked the leather against her exposed flesh, leaving her skin red and raw, the girl’s head thrown back in the ecstasy of extreme arousal.
Haverleigh let go of Carly’s arm and after exchanging glances with the master, he was handed the whip. With a nod to Carly he moved forward toward the writhing victim.
“Aw, Sashe,” his voice was low and gravelly. Reaching between the bamboo he had her by the neck. “Come back to me, girl.” He shook her hard and the girl woke up from the pain-induced stupor to rest her eyes on him.
“You have a problem with what’s been done to you?”
“But you’re trembling.”
“I’m scared, master.”
“Scared of me?”
Carly witnessed her tremor, the fear and lust contained in her heavily-lidded eyes.
“Then tell me you don’t want more and I’ll leave right now,” Haverleigh told the girl.
A moment of panic swept her face and she replied with a frantic, “No, no,” shaking her head as much as she could with her body tethered to the stakes. “Don’t leave me!”
Haverleigh reached low between the bars this time and grabbed her ass. “Simon has had your tits and cunt. But what about your nasty ass,” he said as he squeezed until she shrieked.
“Please, master, beat me!” Her cry whispered and needy.
Haverleigh walked around the bamboo wall to the opening at the far end, then moved to the space behind the bound girl where he began to lay the whip against her back and ass. The shrieks and screams came on again, while Carly watched in mesmerized wonder. She’d seen this scene before; she’d been victim to similar ones when tortured by her lover James, but this was not the same kind of rote demonstration she’d experienced.
The girl’s body and Haverleigh’s cadence of strikes needed no preliminary warm-ups to have them in the throes of a powerful back and forth between master and slave. In fact, the two seemed like one from the start; as if this was an old relationship and they were simply continuing what had already begun some time ago.
Already Carly could feel the pulse of desire take hold in her lower regions. With liquor flowing through her veins, her inhibitions loosened until she was unable to disguise the seductive movements of her groin as she pressed her ass against the wall behind her. Even without rope, she was as immobilized as the girl tied to the bamboo wall. Carly’s mind leapt forward, imagining that the forceful energy of Haverleigh’s immutable control held her in place. She could hear his commands inside her head, feel his breath on her neck, and that distinct whisper of air that shocked the skin just before the whip reached out to mark its target. Her flesh was not the flesh that suffered the callous blows, but she felt the impact just the same, every jolt from the girl registering in her own physical form. All cogent thought seemed to vanish into the well of her natural desire for such shocking pain. Maybe once or twice with James she’d gone this deep, but never in such an atmosphere, with a watching audience hanging on to every invigorating moment. That she was not the center of this spectacle, the one on whom all eyes were focused filled her with envy. If it were she suffering on that rigid bamboo, she would be flying in the same realm of sensation as the lucky girl.
Was it envy written in her reflexive movements? On her lips or in her eyes? Could her panting breaths be noticed, or the hunger in her body detected? Not once did she see Haverleigh’s attention waver from the bamboo girl. Did he even remember that she was there? His intent, his focus was solely on the savagely coming female writhing erotically against the bamboo poles. When he moved to her side and placed his hand against her ass, his whispering was unheard by the curious audience. But when he finally pulled back and returned the whip to its owner, there was a smile broadening on his face and a playful malevolence in his eyes.
With his task finished, he moved directly to Carly’s side and pulled her toward him, his arm going around her waist in a gesture of ownership, though he made no comment as they moved back through the club toward the entrance.
He doffed the mask at the door and tossed it in a garbage can, then led Carly to the street.
“That’s it?” she asked, when they were yards away from La Plus Sombre Terre, headed back from where they came.
“So, you wanted to stay?”
“No, no, I suppose not,” she replied, though she really would have loved to have stayed and taken the girl’s place on that wall of pain.
“I thought we’d find a place to fuck, if that’s all right with you,” he said.
An instant of unimagined pleasure raced down her spine; a physical reaction he was sure to have felt when he was holding her so closely. “That is what you had in mind, isn’t it?” They hadn’t missed a step as they walked in the misty Paris night. He hadn’t looked at her, nor she at him, but they seemed as joined at the hip as any couple in love.
Carly really didn’t know what to say in response to his direct question, but it was not conversation Byron Haverleigh wanted, just her body and its savage need.
Part two, Carly's turn next time!
Copyright (c) Lizbeth Dusseau, all rights reserved.
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