tagBDSMWednesday in Soho

Wednesday in Soho

byMad Lews©

I feel a little nudge; I am sleeping on my left side while Mark curls up against my back. His right arm is draped along my side, his hand cupping the curve of my bottom. He nudges me again. I can feel the hardness against my arse so I lift my right leg a bit and let him slip in between. Mark lets out a contented sigh as his little one slides along my pussy. I squeeze my legs together not wanting to lose him while I open my eyes and prop myself up on an elbow.

"It's 9:30," I groan, knowing that on Wednesday nothing breaks our routine. "All right luv, loosen up a bit and I'll put on the tea while you shower." I grudgingly release my grip on Mark and hop out of bed. The shower is piping hot, just the way I like it and in minutes my skin is bright pink and tingling. I soap up, rinse off and then do my hair with an herbal shampoo. It's a bit on the short side so I don't need a conditioner; I just rinse it clean. There is a tapping on the bathroom door. Reluctantly I turn off the water. By the time I step out of the shower Mark is waiting there, sitting on the loo with my cup of tea in his hand.

“So much to do Luv," he smiles as he hands me my tea. He kneels down and with a fluffy white towel he begins to dry me. This always makes me feel a bit awkward. I mean he's not exactly my master - we all work together here but in a way he is. He's in charge; he's something more and something less than the boss of our little group. Anyway I get a little fidgety when he kneels in front of me on Wednesdays, Fridays, and every third Sunday. I lift one foot for him to dry, then the next. He rubs me briskly as he works his way up my legs and my breath gets a bit ragged. When he reaches my puss my trembling hands set my tea down on the sink. I raise my arms grasping the shower curtain rod behind me. The towel briskly brushes along my back, softly caresses my belly and lingers over my breasts. Then he becomes all businesslike as he dries each of my arms finishing with my with my neck and face. He uses a smaller towel to dry my hair, and then applies a soft red lipstick to my lips.

Mark sets the towel aside and brings out the razor. My legs I wax so that's no problem but Mark insists that he trim and shave my pussy and shave my underarms. I spread my legs wide as he sets to work. He 's very gentle as he shaves me clean along my outer lips; when he gets to the mound he clears the stubble away from the little triangle of hair he allows me. It's almost an inch above my hooded clit and seems to me to be an arrow pointing the way. Mark calls it my yield sign! After the shave he wipes the area with witch hazel gel to prevent any irritation. Once my puss is presentable I turn around and once again grasp the shower curtain rod and stand with my arms and legs spread wide. Mark quickly cleans away the stubble from my underarms and I shudder as the towel brushes gently against them. I know what is coming.

By now Mark is quite excited - whether from all this intimate touching or the thought of what's to come He always uses me at this point. I never mistake this for lovemaking, though we have our share of that. I'm an actress and I know my role. This is pure and simple lust; I am here only for his use. The thought that I might object to or for that matter even consent to my own use is unimaginable. I'm simply a warm wet hole waiting anxiously to be filled.

He pulls my hips back a bit, so I'm slightly bent forward, and steadily pushes deep into my slick entrance. I whimper out my own need. I know my desire for this has no real consequence or power. The fact that I want him deep inside me is merely a happy coincidence. My hips rock back and forth as he frantically pumps into me. All too quickly I feel him squirting his seed inside my pussy. I groan in disappointment and squeeze with my muscles trying to cling to his warmth and strength; all I succeed in doing is wringing a final spurt from him as he pulls away.

My poor pussy is left grasping at the cool empty air. His cum starts to trickle down my inner thigh He pulls my hand away when I reach down to staunch the flow from my poor abandoned puss. I really wasn't going to touch my throbbing clit but he prevents it anyway. I sob with frustration.

With his need satisfied, at least for now, he is ready to have me dressed. I put on my leather sandals and then stand with my legs spread wide. A piece of linen two yards long that isn't much wider than an inch and a half is wrapped twice around my waist. The end is tucked over in back and drawn between my legs. My throbbing clit grinds against the cloth as it is pulled up and over in front. Mark gives the loincloth a quick tug to make sure it's snug and that pulls it up between my pussy lips. I can feel the remnants of Mark’s cum dripping out and moistening the cloth.

By now it's almost 10:30 am so Mark sets off to the kitchen for a proper breakfast. The entire troupe is there, waiting. Brian is the best cook and almost always makes breakfast except on Mondays when he's the star of the afternoon show. Everyone is ignoring me. That's normal for whoever is going on stage - sort of a tradition. They all sit down to a proper English breakfast of sausage, bacon, eggs and tomatoes, with toast and tea. I sit alone on a stool in the corner with a cup of tea and nibble half-heartedly on a ginger biscuit. My left hand descends towards my lap. I just need to adjust my loincloth a bit but before my fingers can brush against the front…" Stop that!" Mark snaps and all eyes turn toward me. I snatch my hand away like a guilty child and feel the heat flushing my cheeks.

Mark sits at the head of the table. To his right sit Brian, Bruce, and Robert (the three B's we call them, though Robert hates to be called Bobby). Brian will be doing the evening show but he seems to be completely calm right now. On the left Alice and Jesse sit with my empty chair between them chatting about the weather and how the streets aren't very crowded for this late in May. It's almost 11.00 o’clock when they finish eating.

I squirm in uncomfortable silence trying to derive faint pleasure by rocking back and forth as I perch on the edge of my stool with my eyes closed and my imagination stuck back in the bathroom. "I said stop it!” A hand clamps down on my shoulder. Mark is behind me now and he lifts me up off the stool. I drop to my knees before him but he keeps pushing me forward until I am on my hands and knees. " Now be a good girl and stay there," he says. I am completely humiliated, and fighting back tears of frustration but I stay exactly as he has placed me.

Everyone else pitches in with the dishes. They carefully ignore me, working around me, as I remain stock-still. Once the kitchen is cleaned up they go off to get into costume. I wait on my hands and knees by the stool trying not to tremble.

They return one by one in their resplendent little costumes; Bruce and Bobby dressed as Roman soldiers with their plumed helmets, armored chest plates, pleated leather skirts and sandals. The lads at the gay bars always tag along for a bit when they see them march by.

Alice and Jesse are dressed in demure white linen robes and sandals. They will follow behind handing out brochures and explaining our little theater to those curious and bold enough to be interested.

Mark roughly pulls me to my feet and finishes dressing me. I hope he isn't really mad. He slips a short linen robe over my head. Its ragged hem ends three to four inches above my knees and barely hides my skimpy loincloth. My hands are tied behind my back with a wide strip of black cloth that will later be used as a blindfold. Finally a soft leather collar goes around my neck. It has two imbedded rings. Two rope leashes each about 6 feet long are clipped to the rings of my collar. Brian is off till six when he has to prepare for the evening show. Everyone else is ready. It's 11:20 am on Wednesday and my stomach is twisting in knots

"Good luck Luv," Mark says cheerfully, sending me off with a peck on the cheek and a good-natured swat on the fanny. He heads off to set up the theater. Bruce and Bobby grab the rope leads and with a gentle tug they head me toward the door. The girls each grab a stack of brochures and follow behind.

Despite what they had been saying at breakfast there is a good size crowd on the street. So much so that we need to walk down the middle of the road. The sidewalks are far too crowded. It seems a bit dreamlike; my belly tightens with each step. I am shivering though it is a hot sticky morning. We head down Meard Street then up Dean and across Soho Square. The boys set the pace and it's entirely too slow for my taste.

I'm an actor according to my union card and our license calls this performance art so the Bobbies don't hassle us anymore. When we were first starting out our daily victim would be carrying a crossbeam but there were complaints from some of the locals and tourists, which was too much for the local Arts Council. This is our compromise.

As I said I'm an Actress but it takes very little acting skill to keep my head bent down and to blush as onlookers crowd around. We always attract a crowd. The girls hand out the brochures with an eye for the serious customer who can afford the £35.00 that the show costs. "See the passion of St. Rachel,” (St Raymond on the printing when one of the lad's plays the lead) the leaflet proclaims. There is a brief description that leaves little to the imagination; pictures of the theater set up like a little chapel with pews enough for 90 paying customers. The final picture is of a life size cross in the sanctuary - no one hangs on it; no sense giving away the show you know. There are directions to the "Theater of the Church of Saint Marks London Martyrs" In bold letters at he bottom of the flyer it says "Interactive Performance Art".

They follow only a few feet behind me. I can hear most of what is said.

" Will they use a real whip on her?"

" Yes, of course, it's real and made of leather."

"Will she be naked?"

"Absolutely."

"Do they use nails?"

" Get real, it's theater."

The chitchat goes on as if I weren't there. It is loud enough to be heard by all those within a dozen feet. I blush and keep my eyes averted studying the pavement as the procession plods onward.

After crossing Soho Square we turn west on D'Arblay St, past the "adult" toy stores, then south on Poland where the pubs are filling with some early lunch customers. We head west on Broadwick and down a bit of Marshall to Golden Square. By then we have collected quite a following, so we head toward the theater. We're walking faster now; it's nearly noon. I've done this a hundred times, quite literally, but still I'm a nervous wreck every time.

Once we reach the theater the girls go right inside to make final preparations and then act as ushers. Mark has been manning the ticket booth in the lobby and the line stretches out the door. There seems to be about twice as many men as women and most of the women are accompanied by a man. I am guided through the lobby to the doorway leading into the theater.

Bobby turns me so I face the wall. He unties my hands and allows me a moment to rub my wrists. After a few moments he pulls my right arm back and straps a leather cuff on my wrist. He repeats the process on my left wrist. He then raises both my wrists only to draw them together behind my neck. The collar on my neck is rotated until one ring is in front and one sticks out behind me. The metal clip that attaches the leash is clipped onto the two wrist cuffs. The end of the leash is tucked up over my bound wrists. I am turned once more to face our customers.

With my hands bound behind my neck my elbows stick out to the sides. This causes my breasts to rise and jut out more prominently. The short robe I wear rises even higher on my thighs. I am made to kneel beside the door. Bruce uses his foot to nudge my knees further apart. I lean back resting my bottom on my heels and take one final look at the line of customers who have come to see me suffer.

A man entering the theater stares at my skimpy loincloth, which is now revealed by the kneeling position, I am forced into. Bobby takes the black strip of cloth that was used to bind my wrists and wraps it twice around my head before knotting it behind. I am blindfolded. I tense waiting for what will come next. The boys tell me they do it to make sure I can't see. I think they just enjoy making me flinch. I yelp when the front leash lashes cruelly across my upper thighs. Sometimes they strike a breast or across my belly, there's no telling where they'll strike. "No I guess she didn't see that one coming," Bobby chuckles.

I'm the only one who uses a blindfold. I have it left on through the scourging and then for the first half-hour or so on the cross. Mark says I use it because I'm really a shy little girl who wants to hide from her inner slut. Maybe he's on to something there. By the time it comes off I'm sweating and panting like the proverbial bitch in heat. It helps me get into my role and the patrons seem to like it. It provides a little variety for the regular customers.

Now I'm on my knees while the customers pass by on their way into the theater. I straighten my back, pushing out my breasts. I grasp my left wrist with my right hand and try to cradle my bound wrists against the back of my neck. My elbows extend outward like stubby little wings.

I can only imagine the thoughts passing through their minds as they await the show. I wonder how many of those sixty odd cocks are already stiffening in anticipation. Someone passing by lifts my chin and tousles my hair. It seems to be a gentle gesture but for some reason I resent it. "Bitch!" I hiss under my breath, though I don't really know if it was a man or a woman. The church bell (the real church two blocks away) is ringing noon and it's time to go in.

When I'm blindfolded my hearing seems to improve and I can hear Mark engaged in an animated conversation at the ticket booth. I pick up bits and pieces of the conversation. Mark saying, "Have to change." A male voice, a Yank from the accent saying " £100.00 is almost $200!" and a female saying " …Only one 10th anniversary.” I smiled to myself; whatever they were discussing, I know Mark will probably agree because he's such a hopeless romantic. I just didn't realize at the time that it would involve me so intimately. Mark and the American couple finally reached some sort of agreement and head into the theater.

Someone behind me grabs me under the shoulders and pulls me to my feet. I'm a little disoriented with the blindfold but the hands turn me in the right direction then sweep down the curve of my body and give my bottom a friendly little swat.

It's beginning and I take a deep breath. I try to swallow but my mouth has gone dry. The leash gently tugs me forward. My knees are weak and my legs wobble as I'm lead slowly down the aisle. I strain to make out the anticipatory whispers that rise from the audience on either side but I can barely hear them over the pounding of my heart.

I nearly stumble on the first step up into the sanctuary but Bruce steadies me. I'm turned about to face the audience. Bruce is on my left but I can't hear Bobby on my right. It seems that Bruce is working alone now. One by one my sandals are removed, then the wrists are unclipped from the collar. I want to stretch my arms but I'm given no time as the robe is pulled over my head. The audience murmurs in admiration as my bare breasts are revealed. I shiver. I'm standing before these strangers in my blindfold and a skimpy loincloth. Bruce's hand closes on the front of my loincloth and with a rough tug it too is pulled free. The last vestige of modesty has been removed. After a pause of a few seconds the spectators break into applause.

I am made to stand before them a few moments longer. I hear footsteps approach from my right. Bobby is back. Two pairs of hands turn me around. My back is now to the crowd. My leather wrist cuffs are attached to the two ropes dangling from the ornate columns on either side of the sanctuary entrance. I feel my arms are being pulled up over my head, spread wide between the two high posts. The ropes tighten and I'm straining, nearly up on my tiptoes.

The sanctuary is kept warm year round by two electric heaters. It's almost 27º C - a little warmer than comfortable even for a girl who's naked. Still I'm shivering even as the sweat begins to form on my brow. My breath is coming in ragged gasps. The scourging is about to begin; we use two leather cat-of-nine tails with half-inch wide suede lashes.

"Ever done this to a woman before? Bruce asked.

" Never. My wife thinks she might want to try but…"

It's not Bobby but a slow thick American accent, off to my left...

"Right, well we're not trying to draw blood here or rip up her flesh," Bruce says calmly.

I'm really starting to get frantic now. What was Mark thinking?

"We just want to turn her back and bottom a bright rosy pink. Timings important now, so just follow my lead and strike when I give you the nod."

Without further ado a cat slashes across my upper back. I gasp and twist to my left trying to escape the sting. I begin to count to thirty but it takes almost thirty-five seconds before I feel a tentative lash on the right shoulder.

"A little harder next time," Bruce advises.

Thirty seconds on the dot and Bruce gives me another smart whack with the cat. The Yank follows right on time and this time I can feel it.

"Harder yet," Bruce orders and he waits his thirty seconds to demonstrate with a swat across my bottom. I hop and yip in pain. The Yank delivers his blow on time and across my arse with enough strength to set me dancing on one foot.

"Good one," Bruce observes.

They lapse into silence working like a well-practiced team. I can count the lashes or I can count the time between them - I've never been able to do both. I choose to count the time. What I do doesn't alter a thing for I'll be scourged for twenty minutes receiving forty lashes spaced thirty seconds apart. They work their way up and down my back as I twist and hop from foot to foot for the spectators’ amusement. By the time it is half over I've given up counting and just screech as the blows fall and sob as I wait for the next one. It isn't the most severe whipping you're likely to see but by the time it's over my back and arse are on fire and I'm dripping with sweat.

The cats are set aside. The ropes slacken a bit, and my arms are lowered enough to let me stand with my legs spread apart. I walk my feet backward a step and bend slightly at the waist, leaning forward and grabbing hold of the ropes, letting them take some of my weight. I'm in the same position I was in this morning when Mark used me; my puss feels exposed and needy. The two "Roman guards" take up their position beside me. I can hear the squeaks and rustling from the pews as the girls usher the assembly up the right hand aisle. As they pass through the archway on the right there is a sign. " Use Gloves! Hands Only." Set along the altar railing are three boxes of disposable latex gloves (small, medium and large). I can hear the snap of latex as the first person slips on a pair and then they reach me; hands, dozens of them, one after another, sometimes two, three, or four at once. A procession of hands too many to count. They wander freely over my body. I can't see or do a thing; all I can do is feel. Some want to feel the heat of my whipped flesh through a thin layer of latex while others feel a need to give my throbbing arse just one more swat. I can feel cool breath on my burning back as someone leans over me to fondle my dangling breast and nipple. Other hands trace the strands of the whip marks across my bottom. Everyone feels the need to brush a lingering hand across my pussy's lips.

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byMad Lews© 3 comments/ 34614 views/ 2 favorites

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