Latitia Ch. 04

But this was not the night for that speculation. Instead, I wanted to see those bondage devices in use.

We started at the end with that odd accumulation of pipes and pulleys I had noticed earlier. And now its use was obvious. The woman in it was on the easy side of middle age, call it 40-something. Her dark hair was shot through with silver, and her makeup was reduced to raccoon-eyed streaks. In the device, pipes ran under her hips and her chest while a third was across the small of her back, forcing her to arch it in what was obviously a painful position. Tears and snot and drool ran from her mouth and nose and eyes.

And the thing is, in spite of all that, she looked happy.

I felt fingers entwine in mine and for a moment, as I looked at her, my wife was both Latitia and Daisy.

The horse wasn't being used but I thought I could picture what it was for.

At the stock, it was a man, an older man at that, with his head and hands through the holes. He was bent at the waist in an awkward position. I wondered how long it had been before the first cramps set in. And between his legs, a pair of thin boards, tightened by two bolts with wingnuts, held his cock, and balls stretched so they pointed straight behind him.

Latitia/Daisy squeezed my hand and, again, I felt that surprising rush between my legs.

I finally understood what that rod with a big dildo was. It was a doll stand and right then a mature, mom next door type, blonde hair done up nicely, face fully made up, was impaled on it. She looked proud to be on display, her heavy breasts sagging, her thick belly cellulite dimpled, and her thighs showing an interesting set of tan lines. I wondered who had mounted her on the stand, and how long she would be left there. But, well, she looked happy and proud.

Finally, at that X-shaped stand, a woman was bound. Long blonde hair hung down her back, and that back was crisscrossed with welts and some scars.

Daisy, and she was purely Daisy now, drew in her breath sharply and said, "Oh, Massah, what she done to get dat?"

I patted her head and said, "I don't know, but you just keep being a good girl."

My curiosity satisfied, we went back to the table where I had Daisy get to her knees beside me.

Monique, a redhead, I knew she was a real redhead by the bright orange pubic hair that peeked around the little leather triangle that was all she wore, took my order. I ordered the Surf and Turf combination and beer. Dinner turned out to be worth the fifty-dollar price, and I fed Daisy a bite for every two or three of mine as she knelt beside me.

I ordered dessert, Key Lime pie, and as it arrived the lights suddenly dimmed, brightened, dimmed, and brightened again.

"Well, well, well," a strong male voice came over the public address system, "it seems we have a naughty girl among us tonight, and we all know what that means, don't we?"

The other patrons started applauding so I joined in although I had no idea what was happening.

The lights dimmed and a spotlight picked out a fat man leading, no, dragging a skinny woman toward the wall where those devices were. From my vantage point I could see that she was, well, let's be gentle and say "mature," with the small fallen breasts, skinny body, and flaring hips some lucky women get after the blush of youth is past and, looking at her body, a few kids are now in school.

"Come on, folks," the voice was saying, "we need three volunteers to help, anddddddddd," he drew that last word out.

Suddenly Daisy and I were in a spotlight.

"Mr. Morgan and Daisy are here for their first time. Come on down and help," that anonymous voice said.

I looked around but couldn't see any way to avoid it so I stood and told Daisy to come with me. We went to the group gathered around the horse.

The woman who greeted us was an indeterminate age. I was reminded of Barbara Cortland who appears on Shark Tank regularly. I guessed her somewhere between 50 and 70, but couldn't narrow it down beyond that. She had obviously had work done on her face, but it was so good you couldn't see any evidence. Her smile was overbleached, her lips were scarlet, and her eyeshadow was black, giving her face an almost skeletal appearance.

"Here at The Dark Side," she started without preamble, and I liked her voice, almost raspy but also sexy, "we participate when asked. Now David," and she led me to the front of the horse, "you will hold Mildred's right hand. Daisy," and Daisy looked up at her, "you stand right here and tell Mildred that she should have known better and this is what happens to disobedient girls."

She stepped back and looked at each of us in turn.

"Do you understand?" she asked and in spite of her small stature she dominated us.

"Yes, ma'am," I said, remembering lessons from my days in the Air Force.

"Yas'm," Daisy said in that accent so thick.

Three others, one man, and two women, joined us, the man taking a position across from me at the head-side of the horse, and the women getting to their knees a bit away from the horse on the other side.

And for the first time, I had a chance to really look at Mildred who had been standing silent while orders were issued. I increased my estimate of her age to 50-something. She was attractive in that bottle-blonde, mom-next-door way. Her face was long, not quite horse-faced but not far from it, her nose aquiline and strong, her mouth generous but with very thin lips, her eyes close-set and pale blue. Her body showed her age with sagging breasts, and a bit of a pot belly that was odd on her generally skinny body. Her hips flared and there was a bit of a thigh gap where her labia dangled a bit.

Her eyes were red and swollen.

"Please, Stan, don't do this," she was pleading over and over.

And then I got a shock, something that struck me as particularly bizarre given the facility I was standing in, on stage, pretty obviously preparing to help a big fat man mete punishment on a relatively small woman.

"Sorry, Mom, but lessons must be taught," he said.

There was silence for a few seconds.

"Now assume the position," he said.

"Oh, God, please, no," Mildred said, but she stepped to the horse, and reached across so her breasts were laying across it. Stan, her SON for Christ's sake, operated a foot pedal and the horse lowered a bit until her back and legs formed a nearly perfect right angle.

"Take her now," the woman in black said, I still hadn't caught her name, "and remember to hold tightly. If she pulls free the count will start over."

She was already crying and shivering as I grabbed her wrist and pulled, holding her taut in that position. It seemed natural somehow.

Across from me, the other guy did the same thing and I watched as the two women, both smiling, grabbed Mildred's ankles and pulled her legs apart. I noticed that each held an ankle with both hands.

Daisy looked, if I'm being honest here, a little cray, okay, a lot crazy as she leaned close and said in Mildred's ear but loud enough for me to hear, "Dis wha' you'se desarvin', ain't it? I's guessin' you'll be bein' mo' careful in de futuah, won'cha?"

Stan reached under the horse and pulled out the paddle and it was a truly vicious-looking thing. It appeared that the handle had started as a baseball bat, and the business end was about six layers of leather stitched together with several holes drilled into it.

It whistled evilly when he swung it.

There were probably 200 people in that room and the only sound was Mildred's labored breathing.

He gave no warning and offered no warm-up. Suddenly the paddle whistled and landed with a loud clap.

Mildred's breath whistled as she drew in sharply, and her wrists turned. Her fingers extended and then clenched into fists and then extended again. Her legs squirmed and I could see the women working hard to hold them still.

And Daisy was talking to her.

"You sees, girl, dat's wha' happ'ns when you's bad. An' you knows you deserves it, do'n you."

"Stan, honey, please, baby," Mildred was kind of babbling.

"Count, Mom," Stan said.

"Oh, God, w-w-w-won," she managed.

Mildred's punishment went on through twenty-five. By that time she was reduced to bubbling whimpers. Tears and snot and drool were dripping onto the floor under her face. It took several seconds for her to manage, "T-t-t-t-t-twenty F-f-f-f-f-f-five."

And the air around us was thick with womanscent. The two women at Mildred's feet had shiny eyes and were having trouble with their breathing. And I could see that Daisy was so aroused, so excited, that her love honey, the product of mucus membranes in her vagina and the Bartholin's and Skene's glands that helped lubricate her, was wetting her thighs. Her breathing was a bit labored too.

"Thanks for the assist," Stan said, effectively releasing us.

We stopped at the table just long enough for me to hand Monique the credit card and then sign the bill.

In the Uber, on the way home, Daisy was quiet and I didn't try to break the silence.

Inside, though, she turned to me and dared to meet my eyes.

"Massah," she said, and her smile was captivating, "I'se yo' good girl, right?"

"You are," I said, curious about where this was going.

"Please, suh, let me pleasure you, show you what a good girl I is," she said.

I smiled and said, "Of course, you may."

She took my hand and led me to the bedroom where she undressed me, slowly, taking her time, kissing each square inch of skin she revealed.

When she had me in bed, on my back, she moved to straddle me in the classic cowgirl position, and slowly accepted me into her body.

"I's yo' good girl, raht?" she asked.

"You are my very good girl," I said.

Her hips were moving in a very slow rhythm. She was wet and slick and hot and I was liking it very much.

"Please, Massah, please, suh, fill me up. Put a baby in dere. I's yo' good girl," she was saying things like that over and over.

But her movements were so slow, and her control so good, that I was slow to cum. I don't know how long it lasted, but it was very VERY good sex. I was soaked with her love nectar before I came.

Her face looked like she had seen Heaven.

"I's your good girl," she said again, bending and kissing me.

I let her sleep in the bed that night.