I loved the image for this week’s ‘Night World’ Wicked Wednesday prompt. I could just imagine walking down this street to meet a Mistress, all fear and anticipation. That was what I started to write but I found my imagination wandering into very different, and much darker, territory….
The sound of his footsteps cut through the balmy late evening, sharp against the burr of distant traffic. A cat shot past moving fast. It squeezed through a gate and disappeared up a stone stairway, looking for home comforts after the evening’s hunt.
Peter had sought this appointment, yet had almost no idea what was going to happen. As someone who regularly paid submissive sex workers to let him spank or cane them, the promise of a ‘Unique, Multi-Girl Experience’ had seemed enticing. The tortuous way the contact had been made and the exceptionally high price of the session had bothered him. However the prospect of a heavier-than-normal BDSM experience had spurred him to make the booking and he had been impressed by the detailed on-line questionnaire about his fantasies. He had included some of his darkest, most sadistic thoughts.
He had only been given a time and an address, which should, if he had counted correctly, be the second doorway on the left. He paused briefly, looking up and down the street. He had been told the door was red but in the late evening light it was just a darker grey than the others.
He found himself in what could have been a dentist’s reception room. A pretty receptionist stood behind the desk.
“Good evening, Peter. The security protocol was explained when you booked I believe. Please strip and put your clothes on the chair to your left.”
Nervously, he removed his clothes. The woman approached and fitted what appeared to be a heavy chastity belt with a built in battery pack round his waist, fixing it with a padlock. She wrapped a wire round the base of his cock and his balls and plugged it into the battery pack. Finally the chastity cage itself was fitted over his penis and locked to the belt. Had he not been warned of this ritual it would have terrified him,
“Everyone who participates is here by consent. Each room has close circuit television that is monitored at all times.”
“If you fail to correctly carry out any activity you will receive a warning. Prepare yourself for a demonstration of the warning .”
He tensed, pulse racing. The tight wire throbbed with electricity, making him jump involuntarily.
“If you exceed the limits set for an activity, or if you attempt to stop an activity before the set limits, you will be punished. Prepare yourself for a demonstration of the punishment.”
This time the wire sent a strong pulse through him, causing him to yell and leap backwards.
“Good. You will enter the first room. When you complete the activity in that room you will leave by the far door to the next room.”
With that she was gone. He felt dislocated and unsure what he was doing here, though he was also excited and turned on by the strange rituals.
A green light flashed twice on the door facing him. He pushed it open and walked through.
He found himself in a compact but perfect realisation of a fifties American diner: all mirrors, steel and red leather banquettes. A Juke Box played Buddy Holly in the background. A pretty waitress was leant over the back of a banquette, the short dress of her waitress uniform pulled over her back, revealing pink cotton panties and a slim, firm bottom. A menu on the table in front of the banquette showed no food items, just the picture of a hand with the number 25 printed where the price would have been.
He moved towards the girl, laid his left hand on her back and tapped her bottom with his right. “Is this what I do?” he whispered, receiving a barely perceptible nod as answer. He smacked her, producing a gratifying yelp. He looked round at the scene; a 50’s style diner; a pretty young waitress waiting for him to spank her for some un-specified misdemeanour. It was an old fantasy, perfectly realised. He started to spank her firmly, her yelps becoming gasps as he reached double figures. Turned on, he smacked her harder; smacked her till she was wriggling and crying. He pushed her firmly down over the leather banquette for the last five blows then stood back, admiring the deep red of her bottom; enjoying the little sobs and sniffs that he had induced.
His reverie was broken by a flashing green light on the far door. This was going to be quite an evening!
The second room took him by surprise, such was the contrast with the first. A private study from a Victorian house; hunting prints; books ; a heavy desk. Over a brown leather Chesterfield chair was a girl with long hair, naked apart from vintage bloomers, split to reveal her bottom. He almost laughed aloud at this perfect realisation of one of his oldest punishment fantasies. On the desk, next to a writing pad on which was written the number ten in elaborate script, was a bunch of long birch twigs tied with a ribbon. He swished them backward and forwards a few times producing sharp intakes of breath from the girl. His first blow caused her to squeal. “Please, Sir. No Sir”, she begged. He hit her again, producing a web of red lines where the springy twigs bit into her bottom. Another blow, more lines. After five strokes the girl was crying hard. He paused, uncomfortable at her obvious distress. A faint buzz from the cock ring reminded him of the rules. He hit her once more, producing a sharp cry. Again he stopped, immediately yelling loudly as electricity coursed through his cock. He reminded himself the girl was a volunteer. The receptionist had told him so. He reminded himself he was paying for this session. He gave her the last four blows fast and hard, relishing her yells, inflamed by the specks of blood that were transferred from the mass of small cuts on her skin to her white bloomers. Yet, unusually, he felt guilty at his enjoyment, dirtied by it. His smile turned to a frown.
In the third room, a perfect school scene of around 1930’s vintage, his victim was a young man bent over a school desk, uniform trousers at his ankles, backside bare. A cane rested on the desk. The number 18 was written on a chalk blackboard. The cock belt shocked him after the first blow, demanding greater vigour. Again and again it shocked him until he was reaching the cane high in the air and bringing it down with his full force, causing loud yells as deep tracks appeared across the young man’s bottom. Dizzy with pain from the electric shocks and certain this would be the last room, Peter continued to the end of the vicious punishment, leaving his victim’s backside covered in black and purple bruises.
Peter wanted no more. His mood had moved from erotic stimulation to deepening unease. He felt guilty at the realisation of what his age old fantasies became when transformed into such vivid life. Peter had spanked many submissive sex workers and caned a few but this had started to feel like something else. He wondered if the young people were really volunteers or were perhaps victims of sex trafficking. What if, he asked himself, he hadn’t really been the customer here at all? Supposing he had also been a victim, providing sick entertainment for unseen people beyond the cameras, waiting to see what he might do to avoid the terrible electric shocks.
He was glad it was over and left the room and the badly beaten young man with relief, expecting to find himself back at the reception.
He gasped with horror as, instead of the reception, he found himself in another punishment room and heard the door lock behind him. A prison cell; undefined period; damp stone walls, straw on the floor. A naked woman tied to the ceiling with rope through thick iron rings. She looked vulnerable and terrified. Hanging from a hook on the wall was a long single tailed bull-whip, the number 40 painted crudely next to it. He knew what such a whip could do, even if he did manage to avoid breaking her skin. Peter was horrified at the recognition of his own darkest fantasy, laid out in front of him, waiting for him to enact it.
The electricity throbbing through his cock told him he had only a few seconds to decide what to do.
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