Rooming With RoseAnn Pt. 15

How far does RoseAnn's newfound quirk go?

It was not long until I discovered that the incident with the wooden spoon had affected RoseAnn more than I knew. On the Tuesday, after I'd finished the supper dishes, she suddenly closed her book and said, "Put your clothes back on, Barry. We're going shopping." Normally, this meant a trip to the grocery store or theater, but I noticed the magenta flush of arousal on her eyelids and was mystified.

She drove in an unfamiliar direction on El Camino Real for several miles, and turned onto a brightly lit street full of art galleries, bookshops, and coffee bars. We parked in front of a store whose neon sign declared 'Jane Austen's Revenge'. The windows were decorated with mannequins wearing skimpy lingerie.

"Is this one of those sex shops?" I asked.

She said nothing as I followed her into the store. The smell of incense drifted among racks of lingerie, mesh nylons, massage oils, and erotic books.

A slender young man approached us. "Can I help you?"

RoseAnn said, "We're interested in a whip." Her voice remained steady, but she blushed furiously. I felt a cannonball materialize in my stomach.

The man blushed, too. "I'll get Miss Mary," he said. "She handles the domestic discipline equipment."

Domestic discipline equipment?

A slender woman came from the back. She was perhaps fifty, with graying hair and thick glasses, like a stereotypical librarian. But she wore a thigh-length leather skirt that displayed a pair of shapely, muscular legs.

"Good evening, and welcome to 'Revenge'," she said. "I understand you're interested in discipline gear?"

RoseAnn and I nodded. My face burned.

"We'll just go into the back room where we can talk in private," said Miss Mary, leading us through a curtain of heavy black leather strips. Around the room were showcases containing odd-looking clamps, handcuffs, spiked collars, leashes, and other objects whose purpose I could scarcely imagine. At the back was a large wooden cross with straps attached, apparently for immobilizing, or even crucifying, some unfortunate victim. In a corner stood a tall rack where dozens of whips hung.

"Just what sort of device were you thinking of?"

"Um..." RoseAnn seemed to choke up.

Miss Mary smiled disarmingly. "You're among friends here, Ma'am. You mustn't feel like perverts sneaking into the naughty book store. Everything here is completely confidential, and there's nothing two people can do together that we're not knowledgeable about. You might be surprised at the number of quite ordinary people that come back to this room--soccer moms, clergymen, retired couples, all sorts of folks."

She paused. "Am I right that you're quite new to this?"

RoseAnn still couldn't speak, and I stammered, "Yes, we are. I think my partner wants to buy a whip."

"Will it be used on her or on you?"

"She intends to use it on me." With great effort of will, I looked her in the eye.

She pursed her lips and nodded slowly. "Whips are serious business. You don't want to start out with something that's more than you can handle. You have to find limits that suit both of you, and work up to them gradually. Above all, you must take care to avoid injuring one another. We get some macho men who march in here and say, 'Sell me the biggest, meanest bullwhip you've got'. Apparently, they've never witnessed a real whipping.

"Someday, we'll get one of those new videotape machines, and I'll make a tape of someone being properly whipped. Then I'll make customers watch it before we'll sell them one of the really nasty instruments."

She chuckled to herself as she selected a black device less than three feet long. It had several thick leather strands, a handle woven from the strands, and a wrist strap. "This model is very good for couples trying to find their way. It has great balance and handles like a dream. Its bite is extremely painful, but the marks are superficial and disappear in a couple of days."

RoseAnn reached tentatively for the whip. Miss Mary put it in her hand and showed her how to hold it. But RoseAnn's hand shook so much, the storekeeper took it back from her. She led us over to a life-sized mannequin, held erect by a metal stand thrust into its perineum. Its cloth back was torn and shredded, presumably from long experience demonstrating sex toys.

"Watch me," she said, bringing her arm back. She launched the leather strands at the mannequin's ass with moderate force, producing a loud crack all out of proportion to the strength of the swing. The figure rattled back and forth on its stand. She swung twice more, with increasing force. At first, I was preoccupied with Miss Mary's technique, until I realized that these same strokes might soon be used on me! The glowing ball of fear re-ignited in my belly, but it was an excited kind of fear, like venturing into a strange and dangerous new land.

Miss Mary handed the whip to RoseAnn, who made a couple of half-hearted swipes at the mannequin. Miss Mary shook her head, and said, "Put your whole arm into it and follow through. Don't be afraid to really wind up. The important thing is that it's got to hurt a lot. Pain has no erotic effect unless it's real." For several minutes, she coached RoseAnn on various techniques, and how to control the level of pain delivered. The mannequin spun and crashed back and forth as it absorbed the punishment of Miss Mary's demonstrations and RoseAnn's increasingly confident practice swings.

I looked at RoseAnn. Beads of sweat gathered on her forehead. Her eyes were dilated and bright, and the lids grew dark. She was becoming aroused.

Finally, Miss Mary asked, "What do you think?" RoseAnn looked at me, raising an eyebrow, and I nodded, casting my eyes to the floor.

"I'll take it," she said.

"It comes with instructions, a little travel bag, and a bottle of leather oil. It requires regular rubbing with a good quality oil to get the best performance." She spoke as though she were recommending a new type of flooring. "Maintenance of the whip would be best done by your partner, of course. Never underestimate the psychological effect of making him handle and care for the instrument of his own discipline."

The whip cost a hundred and twenty dollars, but I was too excited and fearful to complain. RoseAnn looked at me and said firmly, "Well? Pay the lady." There was fire in her eyes and her blood was up. I was in for trouble tonight.

Miss Mary laughed. "Making him pay for it, too? Wonderful! Ma'am, you are a natural dominatrix!"

I had concerns about running my credit card, but realized that my parents would no longer see my statements. Even if the statement read 'whips and sexual torture instruments', only RoseAnn and I would see it.

As Miss Mary bagged our purchases, she pulled an object from under the counter, a hollow red sphere a little larger than a golf ball, with large holes all over it. A thin leather strap hung from it. "With our complements," she said, and dropped it in the bag.

I fished it from the bag and held it up. "What is it?" I asked.

"That? It's a ball gag. It muffles your screams so the neighbors won't call the police. We recommend that beginners use it until they find the level of pain that's right for them." She smiled wickedly at me. "Some free advice for you--a good slave tries his best not to scream. He'll want to challenge his mistress to whip harder and test his limits."

I dropped the ball gag back in the bag as if it were on fire.

As we were leaving the room, I noticed a chair of peculiar construction, half-hidden behind a curtain. It was built and upholstered like a recliner, but on either side were swiveled platforms with metal braces. The platforms were locked in place so they looked like extensions of the padded arms. A fold-down cushion extended onto the floor in front of the chair.

"What's that?" I asked.

Miss Mary smiled. "Actually, seeing as you're clearly a female-dominant couple, you might be interested in this item. The makers call it the 'Altar of Yoni'. It's a very comfortable chair that's been modified specifically to facilitate cunnilingus."

RoseAnn and I exchanged glances, and Miss Mary noticed. "Ma'am, while don't you try sitting in it? See how it feels."

RoseAnn blushed again, but set down her purse and sat in the chair. She leaned back as it reclined. "Oh, my. Very comfortable. It's like floating on air." She wiggled her hips in order to settle in deeper.

"Kick off your shoes and put your feet on the hinged platforms. Notice the rubber brackets along the surface, so your heels won't slide. You can hold your legs any way that's comfortable. The platforms swivel to the most comfortable position and lock in place."

When RoseAnn bent her knees, her skirt slid up her thighs. Miss Mary quickly produced a towel from somewhere and threw it across RoseAnn's legs, as if to protect her virtue. "Oh, my," said RoseAnn again when her legs were spread and her heels rested on the extended platforms. "This feels good."

"Now, sir, kneel on the built-in pad between her legs."

In a daze, I obeyed.

"Near your right hand is a long wooden lever. That lever controls a motor that raises and lowers your partner to a height that's most comfortable for both of you. In your case, your partner is quite tall, so this will make a huge improvement over an ordinary chair or the side of the bed.

"Try it," she urged. "Lift the lever to raise her up, press down to lower her."

I found the handle and lifted it. The chair, and RoseAnn, rose slowly with a barely audible hum until I could see, even with the towel blocking my view, that I could press my face to her pussy without kinking my spine or bending my neck at an uncomfortable angle.

"With this," said Miss Mary, "you'll have the ride of a lifetime. My slave and I have used ours once or twice daily for three years."

Her slave? Miss Mary was another dominant woman? What was it about California?

When RoseAnn and I continued to look awkwardly at Miss Mary and at one another, the storekeeper said, with an innocent smile, "I have business in the front room for at least fifteen minutes. Why don't you two get the feel of it? I'll make certain no one disturbs you." Without waiting for a response, she whisked the curtain closed and her footsteps receded.

I was aroused to the point of breathlessness. RoseAnn lay panting and flushed, her forearm bent across her face. Her crotch was just inches away, and her potent sexual scent wafted from under the towel. I was too excited to delay another moment. I brushed the towel away. Her skirt had slid up her thighs nearly to her waist, revealing the soaked crotch of her panties. With two fingers, I pulled the gusset aside, revealing the most beautiful of God's artworks, framed in its setting of dark curls.

In a moment, my tongue was probing her while she breathed noisily into the crook of her elbow. I sucked and swallowed her juices, rejoicing in the new freedom of motion provided by the 'Altar of Yoni'. Without waiting for RoseAnn's go-ahead, I gently laid the flat of my tongue on her swollen clitoris and licked slowly and deliberately until she grunted and thrashed wildly against my face.

Tucking in my shirt, dazed and disheveled, face glazed with RoseAnn's secretions, I pushed through the leather curtain and blurted, "How much?"

It turned out that the 'Altar of Yoni' listed at nearly two thousand dollars. RoseAnn looked disappointed, and Miss Mary immediately said, "But you're people that I know will make the best use of it, so let's make that fifteen hundred dollars, and we'll throw in tax and delivery, too."

RoseAnn shook her head. "We still can't afford it."

"I can," I said. I had thousands of dollars in savings, and right now, I couldn't think of a more productive way of putting my carefully hoarded cash to work. I took out my checkbook.

* * *

After we left the store, RoseAnn was too enervated to drive. As I drove us home, she recovered enough to say, in a soft voice, "I hope you don't think that generous gesture is going to help you escape punishment. To start with, you bought that chair without asking my permission. That behavior has to be nipped in the bud."

I'd almost succeeded in forcing the whip to the back of my mind. Now my stomach quaked in fear and anticipation for the rest of the drive. But somewhere I found the courage to say, "That's just an excuse to try out the new toy. You must know that, as my owner, you don't need a reason."

"I'm trying to restrain myself," she said. "But the urge to try it out now is just too strong. If I followed my instincts, we'd pull over to the side of the road and do it right here. It feels like I've innocently taken a single dose of a drug and suddenly found myself fully addicted to it."

As the garage door closed on us, she followed me up the stairs to the apartment, swatting my ass and legs with the bag. "Hurry up and get your clothes off. You have to help me practice my swing." She emptied the contents of the bag onto the kitchen table, as I kicked my clothing onto the floor.

She picked up the whip's zippered travel case and took out a folded paper. "What's this? Instructions? For a whip?" She giggled. "That's so useless, like having a user manual for a fork or a hammer." She unfolded and smoothed the paper. "Oh, look at this!"

On the page of tiny print were two male and two female silhouettes, front and back, with certain areas cross-hatched: the head and neck, obviously; the small of the back, surprisingly; the backs of the knees, puzzlingly. All were marked 'Never Strike Here'. The crotch area of both male and female were marked, 'Cover and pad groin areas'. What chilled me was the number of areas not forbidden--the chest, the belly, the fronts and backs of the thighs. Jesus! Those could really hurt!

On the reverse side were little stick-figure diagrams of various whipping techniques and postures. One looked all too familiar--a stick-man bent over a chair, while a stick-woman whipped his ass. It also showed a rope tied between the stick-man's wrists and an ankle, passing under the chair to hold him in place. Another diagram showed a stick-woman face down on a low platform, much like the press bench, with her hands tied below the bench. A stick-man was whipping her. I felt my testicles withdrawing into my body with the cold chill of fear.

RoseAnn was reading over my shoulder. Her breath was coming fast. "We'll start with this one." She pointed to the man bent over the chair.

"I have to sit on hard seats through three hours of lectures tomorrow," I complained.

"Don't whine. You'll just make me more eager to thrash you." She skimmed further, running a fingertip across the page, and stopped at another diagram. The stick-man man lay on his back on the press bench. His hands were stretched over his head and tied to the bench support. His feet were tied to the other bench support. The stick-woman was whipping his belly and thighs.

Omigod! I thought.

"This looks promising." She picked up the whip. "Get in your room and on the press bench. Quick!"

She chased me to the room, waving the folded whip at at my ass, but not striking, as I half-ran, half-walked, and lay supine on on the press bench. I raised my hands above my head and grasped the bench. She went to the dresser and found the silken curtain rope in the bottom drawer. She drew out a short length and stooped to tie my hands to the bench.

While engaged in that, she whispered, "You'll be courageous, won't you? You'll try not to yell, right? But I'm going to put the gag on you just in case." She looped it around my head and pushed the ball between my teeth. Too late, I realized that I was wearing nothing to protect my genitals. Since my hands and mouth were now disabled, I could only shout into the gag and try to gesture with my head and eyes.

"Your penis? Don't worry. I'll be careful. It's as precious to me as it is to you. Same with your testicles. If I smash those, your hormones will go away, and you'll lose interest in having sex with me. That's not good. But I need to be able to watch your penis while I'm punishing you. Will you stay hard or wilt like a lily? I want to give you just enough pain to make you aroused and frustrated."

This did not make me feel better.

She picked up the whip again. "You look scared," she said, "but not half as scared as I am. I feel all tingly and excited inside. We're setting out on a new adventure together, and I don't know how it will all work out. Maybe it will be too much for you. Or for me."

Though I couldn't speak, I tried to say with my eyes, 'I'll take anything you want to give me, so long as it excites you.'

"All I know is that I really need to do this," she said softly.

I resolved to be brave for her, even as she dragged the heavy leather strands across my belly, back and forth. Her eyes were wet and unfocussed, the lids dark, her lips puffy.

Suddenly, she drew her arm back and struck. The whip descended like lightning, and my belly was instantly ablaze. I'd never felt anything so painful. I thrashed from side to side, trying to escape from the terrible burning. As I kicked my feet, I slid off the bench, pulling it over on myself. I lay in a tangle on the floor, and realized that I'd shrieked holy terror into the ball gag. I watched angry welts rise across my belly, darkening from pink to blood-red as I watched.

Grunting through the gag, I looked to RoseAnn for help. She was staring alternately at me and at the whip in her hand. She shook herself and seemed to notice my predicament at last. She got down on her knees and untied my hands so I could scramble free of the bench.

"I... I..." She tried to speak.

I pulled the ball gag to one side, and asked, "Are you all right?" My belly burned so it hurt to move. What if this sudden reality shock had changed her mind about the whip?

But I was wrong. She breathed, "That was about the most exciting thing I've ever done." She shook her head and frowned at my belly. "But I've hurt you."

I steeled myself. "Yes, but if it's something you need, I can stand it. Remember, Miss Mary said the marks would only last a couple of days. But I guess you should tie my feet before you go on. I wasn't restrained enough."

I wished I felt as brave as I sounded. I let her tie my hands to the bench again, but this time she bound my feet to the lower bench support with a new length of rope. She pushed the gag in place, and I held my belly muscles rigid, vowing not to scream or move.

Her eyes glazed over as she stroked the leather strands softly across my belly again, directly over the marks she'd just made. Without warning, she swung the whip in an overhand circle to smack loudly onto my lower belly. White blinding light shot across my vision. The pain was far more intense than before, but I could do little more than scream and grunt into the gag. My eyes flew wide open with pain and fear. I twisted my legs against the rope, and threw my head from side to side as the unspeakable agony flared through my belly.

"Ooh, that was exciting," she said, in a low, sultry voice. "I wonder what's wrong with me? I think I could actually have an orgasm this way." She draped the strands of the whip over my cock. "And you're still hard. What's with that? You must be just as twisted as I am." The whip whistled over her shoulder again, and I screamed into the gag.

The next minutes were a nightmare of searing agony and fruitless attempts to fight the ropes and avoid the pain. Before launching each stroke, she waited until I gazed into her eyes. I don't know what she saw there, but in her eyes gleamed an unfamiliar mix of fury and lust. At the instant the whip struck, my body writhed and twisted with the pain, and I screamed into the gag. A few seconds passed before I could seek out her eyes again.