Night Owl

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A night he won't forget.
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I ended up in the place that nobody wanted be at the worst point in time without an alternative.

There really is no other way to look at it.

Only the "most fortunate" people have the pleasure of being my company at this gorgeous venture. More like a complete waste of space and a poor excuse of a dive.

The people who sit next to me, drinking light beers and doing their "God, please help me" vodka shots all end up with the same story about how they got here.

Bad directions.

No, dear friends, but I'm sorry. That's not how you got here. You got here the same way I did. You played the hand you were dealt, lost, and cashed out with whatever dignity was left. And trust me, there wasn't any amount of dignity to be proud of when you walked into this joint.

And it gets even worse. When the doorman opens the door and treats you like a VIP, your ID isn't checked, and your drink is waiting, you know you have hit rock bottom. Unfortunately, this was the life I lived. Family left me because I couldn't even remember my wife's name, and I've had so many affairs that it's a bloody surprise I can fucking stand up. It's all water under the bridge now. And that is the pleasure of my world right now: The pleasure of the bottle, and the benefits of a self-confessed alcoholic. The bottle never talks back, never tells you what horrible things you have done, and never bothers to bitch slap you when you walk back into your East-end apartment at 3:00 a.m. in nothing but your boxers. On the flip side of the coin, the bottle is that elixir that makes you feel better, laugh louder, and sleep better without and repercussions in the morning (quite frankly, I have no idea what the fuck a hangover is, and all these stupid 18-year-olds keep on talking about like it's a show bar in Las Vegas). And for some odd reason, I take a certain bond to what I believe alcohol really is: just a fucking beautiful thing.

I was an ordinary man living a less-than-profitable life in a less-than-beautiful city with below-average people working bullshit jobs, so for the past five years I frequented a dive around the corner from my "beautiful" apartment. Hank dealt the drinks there, and only God knew how long the poor fucker had been doing so. By this time, his forehead looked worse than a cheap roadmap of Berlin and his hair made snow look black. Comes with the game, I guess. During the happy hour specials I have seen him serve a full bar and then some in under two and a half minutes. But he blended in with everybody: Just another day with no pride.

Like every good decision, my night started at the dive. The honey-whiskey and root beer beauty in front of me was more than a super model to my eyes. It was the sweet nectar of resurrection, or so I thought. Hank's people watching skills kept me entertained since he could read people better than a sucker at a poker table. On occasion, he would have one "Uh oh," moment, and those were bad nights. The most recent night that bore witness to the famed "Uh oh" line was the same night that three college undergraduates joined me at the bar. Two little rich white boys and a sorority girl, obviously swooned by the ignorance of ambition and "chivalry." They ended up on the morning news in a twisted heap of steel that looked like their car, or what "should have been" their car. It was impaled on a traffic lamp pole with the sorority girl about ten feet away in a puddle of blood, one of her arms shaking the hand of the fire hydrant another 20 feet away.

"Hear about our friends?" he asked me the following day.

"Yeah. Bummer. Fortunately I don't drive," I replied, an ironic sense of envy coming through the terrible joke I just told.

That was last month, and this evening seemed to take a turn for the worst when Hank sighed another, "Uh oh."

Every bad decision, in my opinion, starts with a woman, and tonight wasn't any different. The minute I turned around, I knew she was trouble: long black hair, black eyes, and black eye shadow to cast a spell over her white eyes that glimmered with a hope of soul, though it was all too obvious she didn't have one. Her black blouse draped over her body and unwillingly kissed her jeans, which of course clung to every inch of her lower body, and slowly nuzzled into her leather boots. Aside from her arsenal of feminine curves and her nonchalant attitude, everything about her screamed, "Leave. Now."

She grazed over to the bar, next to me, and sat down. Her nails, red with either vengeance or lust (hard to tell five drinks into the night), gently tapped the mahogany slab that held up the rest of her arm, and a good portion of my body. The more I got to steal glances at her, the more I realized that she didn't belong here, so I had to keep myself (body language included) completely uninterested: Glance at the TV, then the whiskey. TV. Whiskey. TV. Watch. Whiskey. HER! TV. Whiskey. TV. Watch.

"How's the whiskey?" she asked, obviously trying to be subtle, by succeeding in an epic failure to do so. I choked, nearly spitting all that I had taken in, then looked at her.

"Excuse me?"

"The whiskey. How is it?" she asked again.

"It does its job," I shot back, chuckling to myself. If Ms. Prim-and-Proper-Plastic over here is going to order a whiskey, put it on my tab. For all we know, Hank, this poor bitch shits hair clips and bottles of perfume. In fact, I don't hate to say this, but I will bet money that she does.

"Can a woman be so bold as to inquire what you are drinking?" she asked, politely, if that's what you want to call it.

"Regret," I snorted, "but most people call it 'whiskey and coke.'"

"I'll take a... 'Regret,'" she told Hank, "actually, can you make that...a round." She didn't miss her cue to flash a cheeky green and wink at me, and just as swiftly as the appeared, she slid her drink over to me. Timing was everything since I had no idea that I had even finished the previous drink. I gave her the casual head nod of thanks and went back to looking at the booze and the TV. Hank rolled his eyes.

"So what's your story?" she asked, obviously trying to start a useless conversation to get us both closer to the hell in which we were both doomed do go, but I wasn't having my salvation day anytime soon.

"Don't have one. I got here the same way everybody else did: Bad directions."

She laughed, taking a sip of her drink. I drank mine quicker than usual, trying not to waste the whiskey, but trying to leave.

"You drink too quickly. You're killing the taste of the whiskey."

Is this bitch seriously trying to tell me how to drink my whiskey?

"What gives you that idea?"

"You haven't put the drink down. You always stop midway, and then you take another sip, as if you don't know whether to let it sit or drink it as fast as possible. Let it breathe."

"Breathe?" I thought. "Let it breathe? Whiskey is the only thing that keeps you alive, so drink it like a fiend and stop looking like a crack-whore clucking for a fix."

"I think the whiskey is fine. It has all the oxygen it needs." I tried not to sound like an asshole, but I didn't have time to ponder over arguments about liquid gold. I'm not looking for a one-night stand. That was years ago. I'm about as active in this dump as I am active in bed, no thanks to my friend in the glass. "I don't remember getting your name, by the way."

"My name? Ugh, so dull... so dull... Labels are nothing. It's what somebody is that makes that person something. You know what I mean? Forgive the redundant aleatoric philosophy but I do believe that there is some merit to the statement."

"I disagree..." but that's when it hit. I knew something was wrong. My thoughts slowed to a standstill in my head. I looked down at the glass I was holding and noticed it fizzing. My vision started to blur and my tongue went numb. No crying for help. No trying to identify the assailant. I felt like I was about to grow wings and float to the heavens, if only they looked like rotting wood on the floor of a dive bar. I watched my head slam against the bar and my body soon crumbled to the floor. Fortunately I didn't feel a damn thing.

The "bad decision" that sat next to me knelt down and put her hand to my cheek, smiling, flashing her perfectly straight teeth, looking at me and sighing, "I told you to let it breathe."

"Waking up" would be the sugarcoated way of describing my situation.

When I came to, I soon realized that I really didn't want any speck of consciousness. The only light in this regretful basement, or dungeon, hung from a single cord in the ten-by-twenty-foot area. The light's sorrowful omnipotence ominously highlighted my situation: my legs were spread below me, restrained by some sort of a clasp, leaving very little room for mobility around my ankles. Twisting my head, I noticed that my hands were secured in a similar manner, my wrists begging for freedom. Judging from these sensations, the St. Andrew's cross that was to be my "bed" had me perfectly displayed for my "friend from the bar," who had clearly been dressed ever so modestly in comparison to now.

Her leather knee-high boots clung to her legs and massaged the black thigh highs underneath, which clung to the obvious straps of the garter belt. The tight leather dress that encased her body alluded to her dominance in the situation; the riding crop that crossed her face was her tool of use, obviously showing that she took pride in what she did. Black lipstick, eyeliner and eye-shadow all aided her façade: dominatrix.

I chuckled to myself until I realized how good this bitch was: she had me. Naked. And the devious grin on her face held nothing back.

"I'm impressed," she muttered, slyly. "I didn't expect this."

"Expect what?" I responded.

She got up slowly, the compression of her leather outfit echoing through the room. Walking slowly over to me, she stopped, and lowered the cold hard leather of the riding crop down to my cock, tracing it slowly as I twitched.

"This," she muttered again. "I wasn't expecting something so...fruitful."

"Well...ta-da." I understood the game. She was the queen. I was the pawn. At her will, begging for mercy, so the only logical thing was to piss her off.

Or so I thought.

"I'm sure you have figured out your situation," she stated, "and quite frankly, I don't expect you to resist. In fact, it would be in your best interest to comply willingly, and things would go much more smoothly."

I spat on the ground in front of her, and my aim was perfect. My saliva landed right on her boot, spreading over the front and partially along the side. Her devious grin turned to a frown awfully quickly, her eyes, black and tinted, seemed to pierce through me, making me second-guess (I know, "ever so slightly") what I had done.

"Bad decision," she remarked.

"Was it?" I replied.

The ensuing response was not a word, or phrase, or lecture. More like a symphony.

A symphony of sounds that echoed through the "dungeon": a riding crop lashing the body of a less-than-intelligent individual who just so happened to do the right thing at the wrong time. Or so he thought.

With every whip of the riding crop digging into my flesh, I then realized that this beating didn't hurt; it just was fucking annoying. The more she beat me, the more I got pissed. I wasn't expecting a night at the usual bar to continue on to Mistress "Bad Decision" and her sadomasochistic love affairs. Didn't matter now. It was a New York Times Best-Seller in the making, because it was fucking happening.

"For a slave, you are certainly more stupid than you look," she spat.

I couldn't help myself but chuckle. Are you serious? Did she just say, "slave?"

"Sorry, Mistress," I shot back, sarcastically. "I've been a bad boy and I need to be punished."

The symphony continued into its second movement, followed by grunts, screams, and moans. It wasn't too different from the previous episode, although as the marks became clearer it became obvious that this bitch was putting a little bit of some steel behind these lashings. When the beating stopped, I could feel the cold breeze kiss the rising welts, making me second-guess my attitude.

"That's Mistress Jade to you, slave," she stated, "And yes, you have been a bad boy. And yes, you will be punished...severely. Any other questions before we continue?"

The timing could not have been more perfect.

"Uh...yeah," I replied. "Why did you quite your day job?"

The comment was answered by another smack in the face from the riding crop. I think the point that she was trying to make was that this little charade that she was putting on wasn't a joke or a bum-fuck joke. She was taking this seriously. I would have been laughing, but quite frankly I was more annoyed than anything.

"Seriously, you fucking bitch, will you cut this shit out?" I thought it would get her attention, and she smiled. Her response was to turn around and begin to remove her dress, peeling the leather garment off excruciatingly slowly. I immediately shut up and watched as the person who so eloquently put me through the most annoyingly awful world of pain stripped. I felt myself get hard as she let the dress drop, revealing her black lace thong, clearly soaked from her own personal excitement, and her loving black matching bra, holding her glorious breasts at attention. She walked over to where I was, bound and vulnerable to her every wish.

When she got to me, she knelt down, taking the heat of me into her hands. After licking the tip in a teasing manner, she took it down like a porn star. Her tongue slid underneath my cock, making sure that it traced every inch of the underside. Her lips cushioned every detail of the rest of my cock, a feeling that could make velvet feel like sandpaper. I was in heaven: a dominatrix on her knees in front of me giving me the best fellatio I could ever ask for and more. Kings don't even live like this. In my world, at least.

That's when my world came to a sudden end.

She stopped and stood up. Looking into my eyes, she demanded, "Call me mistress."

"What?"

"I said: call me mistress."

Her words were more metered and declamatory the second time that phrase came around. Part of me was begging for more of her fellatio expertise, but the other part of me wasn't going to let myself budge into submissiveness without a fight.

It didn't take long for me to comply.

One of her blood red fingernails scraped across my cheek and trailed down my neck towards the back of my head. It ran over the sweet spot at the back of my neck, and I exhaled in more of a shudder and less of a breath.

"Hmm... I think I found your spot, slave..." she sighed coolly.

The trail left by her fingernail was slowly and carefully traced by her tongue, adding a new level of sensuality. The more it roamed closer to that spot, the more I felt myself losing grip on what I wanted.

Her tongue hit the spot and my body jolted as a moan escaped my mouth, much to my surprise. She stopped and looked back at me as if to embark on some snarky comment.

"Slave likes?"

There is a feeling that some people get when they don't know what to do or they lose grip on reality, and for me, that feeling was happening now. Your body tenses up, you feel like you are not breathing, you stare straight ahead of you as if a train is coming your direction, and you accept defeat. I have felt this feeling hundreds of times in hundreds of different situations. But this feeling right now was certainly a first. She had hit the one spot on my neck that could make me comply with virtually anything, and I had just given the fact away. I'd lost the game.

"...Yes..."

"Yes...what?"

"Yes...mistress."

"I couldn't hear you, slave."

I took a shaky breath as the last bit of what I remembered myself to be disappeared. I looked up at her and stated, helplessly, "Yes, mistress."

The series of events that follow can not really be considered "ideal" in the sense that, once again, I didn't "wake up." It must have been the poison kiss of my dear Mistress that knocked me out for a short while, but my restraints revealed themselves to be even more elaborate than when I had passed out earlier. Still naked, still on the St. Andrew's cross, still at the will of my Mistress, yet now I couldn't talk. Nor could I scream when that bitch of a Mistress though it useful to wake me by use of a studded paddle to the face. This was all thanks to the new device she'd put into play: the beloved ball-gag.

It's all in good fun, I guess.

"Morning, slave," she stated sarcastically. I thought I had only been out for a matter of minutes, but the added ball-gag made me wonder how much time had really gone by.

She ran a fingernail down my chest. "You must be in dire need of 'release.' Well, if you are good, and do as you are told, you'll be thanking me and begging for more. All you have to remember is that if you shake your head, you obviously mean 'no,' and if you nod your head, you mean 'yes.' Understand?"

I nodded.

"Good boy."

She had removed most of her clothing, and thankfully the gloves as well; the rest of her leather lingerie left very little to the imagination. She sauntered closer, her eyes not leaving mine, engulfing me in a trance. I felt her hand close on my manhood and slowly begin to stroke it. I could tell that this was a tease, but I exhaled deeply through my nose, closing my eyes, and let my idle body succumb to the pleasure.

"Enjoying this, slave?" she asked coyly, a wicked smirk upon her face.

I nodded.

That was shortly greeted with the sound of a crack. And a sting. On my manhood.

I screamed through the gag in terror as she drew the riding crop back again. I looked up at her and shook my head furiously begging her to stop. She grinned again, and the crack sounded. What had been pleasure had descended into a pain that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy, and I couldn't do anything to free myself.

"I find that you are not accustomed to this, are you?" she inquired.

I grudgingly shook my head.

"Pity. You seem to be taking it well."

I rolled my eyes.

Once again, that was another gesture that was greeted by a crack and a sting.

I screamed again, obviously muffled by the ball-gag, which provoked an innocent giggle from my Mistress. I didn't know how to interpret that response until I saw her put the riding crop down. That was when I knew that it could only get better from here, as long as I obeyed.

"You have endured a lot, slave. And for that, I am rather astonished. I think you should be rewarded, don't you?"

I nodded cautiously.

That's when Mistress got down on her knees. I was a bit weary on this specific gesture, but was instantly less weary at the feel of her warm mouth around the tip of my cock. I slowly closed my eyes again and moaned, as she slowly took every inch of me, her hand accompanying the fellatio. She released me from her mouth only to catch her breath, but that was only for a short while. When she went down on me again, everything from her full lips to her tongue felt perfect: the way they slid against my cock with perfect pressure and support, being careful not to miss any sweet-spots. All this triggered a bit of a sigh. I was in heaven, and my Mistress was treating me like a king. And with this type of treatment, I was silently begging for more every second. I was begging harder than any addict would, because this fix was the best drug I had ever encountered: my Mistress herself.

The heavenly feeling of her mouth was cut short when she licked her lips and rose to her feet, relieving my mouth of the ball-gag. I moved my mouth around a bit, making sure I could still move it like a normal human being, and once again, I heard a crack. And it was followed by a sting. From her hand. To my face.

"Trust me, slave: Your mouth is the least of your worries."

I shook my head.

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