Sadist's Fire Pt. 01: Begging

"You're welcome," I answered softly, heart thundering.

What had fallen out of his wallet was a membership card to an exclusive fetish club called Sulfur's. And I knew this easily.

Because I had one too. It was the same place Morgan and Trish had introduced me to.

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I hadn't gone to Sulfur's very often actually. When I had started going, it was with Morgan and Trish when I confessed that dating wasn't my thing, but I wished I had a kinky place to go to for release, or something along those lines. I didn't want a partner, but sometimes I had itches to scratch and that was the place that had been easiest to satisfy those. I calmed my more twisted desires with piercings and tattoos and things like body suspension and then sexually indulged in the lightest styles of play, keeping away from those fringe edges that enticed me too much.

After I saw his card, I went every night with a dangerous obsession and there was no pretense I could hide under. Most nights, I walked in and went around the place once, only to buy a water and go to the top balcony tables, watching some of the scenes while my real attention was on the door. Sometimes I wondered what the hell I was thinking or doing. What was I actually going to do when and if I even chanced along his path?

I was in the throes of one of these thoughts when I saw him a few days after I met him. He walked through the door and I sat straight up, eyes going wide. I swallowed nervously and watched while someone followed him in.

It was the guy who had modeled for him, the extremely pretty gay one with purple and blue in his bangs. But this time he acted a lot different than he had at the body suspension place. He glanced at Calloway with unmistakable fear in his stance. I couldn't see his expression from where I sat but I could tell the way he cowered.

Calloway grabbed him with a fist in his hair and I crossed my legs, shaking a little. When he spoke, there was no mistaking that he was the top of the two, even from where I sat. His friend quivered at whatever he said and when Calloway released him, they went to one of the sides where there was a whipping post in a sectioned off area. I threw away my water and went down the stairs, staying out of the way as one of the voyeurs, except there was a difference in me and the rest. The others were there to be seen watching because exhibitionism was only fueled hotter with the knowledge of being watched. But I didn't want him to see me, to notice that I witnessed his little scene.

I circled carefully instead, keeping behind beams and staying hidden, while he undressed his friend. When the other man was naked, Calloway gave him different things to wear instead and he started with a collar, a cruel one that made my sex clench with the thrill of dread. It wasn't cute or pretty, wasn't fake pleather or anything to fuck around with. It was high leather and restrictive, deliberately choking. His sub moaned and closed his eyes, seeming to know what else was coming, and Calloway didn't even react to the poor guy's fear. Most Doms I had played with and met would laugh or show some sign of sadistic playfulness at the obvious sounds of dread. Some would take the chance to taunt, but he didn't do any of those at all and his eyes were blank with dark intent. I tucked my hair behind my ear nervously, in a sense of protective excitement and I was hornier than I'd ever been because he was evil, so dark... My body thrummed all over just thinking of him noticing me, just seeing his harsh gear.

But he was intent on what he was doing for the moment. And I swallowed when he applied a cock cage, squeezing my legs together at the thought even if I didn't have those parts. I didn't pretend to understand what those cages felt like, but I knew the gist of how they worked and it seemed to suggest that his sub wasn't getting sexual relief from what was going to happen. It also seemed like this was meant to be an exceedingly cruel gesture on his part and next to it, the studded cuffs he used were tame.

Calloway chained his sub's wrists together and then tapped the post and it seemed clear that they had done this kind of thing before. For a start, neither of them spoke to the other one and his sub knew every step of this dance without the words. For another thing, he had an audience that seemed to know what was coming. I still stayed back, glancing at the owner of the bar where he stood to the side of the scene. Lavrov was his last name and, though I had never spoken to him in person, I recognized him from his picture behind the bar and where it was on his website for this place. He interested me insofar to the fact that he evidently had sought Calloway out for his scene.

And then I only cared about the man who terrified me again. Much like the night I had first seen him, he drew my attention and I was helpless to withstand his allure. No, I watched in quivering desire while he chained his partner to the post, securing his wrists to a metal ring above his head so that the bottom wouldn't be able to move very far. He could twist and turn, but that was it, and when he was secured enough to satisfy, Calloway turned away and lifted two coiled bullwhips from his bag. "Oh." The word escaped me, a soft little gasp under my breath while he shook the whips out, but then he set them to the side and lifted a soft flogger first. Excitement spiked through me, hot flashes of it that were tethered with fear. I stayed in shadow and just watched, body pulsing with a terrible, damning desire, a slave to a man who didn't know he was chaining me.

He spun the flogger in careful circles, so that the tails fell in rhythmic slaps against his sub's body and he worked with a purpose too, in a way that said this was obviously a warmup for the whips. He started at the guy's ass and thighs, striking in a circuit. Left, right, left, middle, right... His very obvious experience had this way of making him all the more terrifying to me when it showed off in how swiftly he moved, how confidently he worked. I shivered when he went higher, gently priming his victim with a decidedly calculating look. My only regret was that I couldn't see his submissive's face, mostly because he was turned away from me, but he was also hiding, trembling in fear or excitement or both. I had perfect view of Calloway, though, of his movements, his dark coldness, his blatantly cruel facial expressions.

It felt like a relief when he finally finished with the flogger and picked up the whips. He stroked a hand down one of the coils in a gesture that was twistedly loving before he straightened and shook them out. My fear and desire both soared at the sight and how delicately he brushed his hand down the hard leather that was made for pain.

He looked like he was at home, even more so than when he had been sitting by the medical table. For one moment, it felt like I was granted a rare insight into the man that was Ezra Calloway. The whips seemed as an extension of his being, as if he should always have them and getting to see him with them felt like seeing a god. But not the good kind of god.

And then he struck with one and it was even worse. He moved as if it was a dance and for the first stripe, he twisted the whip with a deliberately theatrical flare. For the first time, a small taunting smile lifted one corner of his lips, as if this movement was an indulgence on his part when he knew he was being watched. It was beautiful, painfully so, and even more terrible when his sub cried out. His fists spread open with the shock of the first stripe and Calloway tilted his head while he watched the motion with those void like eyes. He lifted one eyebrow as if in mild interest and then spun the other whip in a harsh gesture that made me jump in shocked terror. It was so hard that it had to draw blood.

Except it didn't. Because he didn't strike his sub that time. The stripe landed perfectly right by the ring that held his friend's wrists, making a loud crack sound. His friend shouted in terror, shaking even while I was shaking with him, just from watching this because oh my fucking God and holy hell. Ezra was a monster, an evil demon of a man.

The next one did hit and the answering moan of pain was almost relieved. Calloway worked for what seemed like an age, leaving cruel weals all over his sub's back, down his ass, even on the tender flesh on the back of his thighs. He left horrible amounts of time in between each strike, enough for the full weight of pain to sink in and not enough for an ounce of relief for the guy he tortured. It was so perfectly gauged and done that it seemed like I was watching a form of satanic sex. The amount of attention he had to put into just something like the timing of stripes felt like a private intimacy.

It seemed even more like that when he finally finished because he didn't finish his scene like most people finished them in Sulfur's. Most people finished off a hard pain and sadism scene with sex and orgasms and cries of pleasure, like a hot as fuck grand finale to keep the interest alive, but it seemed like the whip was the cry of pleasure for Calloway. Because, when his victim was shaking and so weak he could barely stand up, when he had ceased to even cry out or shriek with fear, when he was beaten into pure submission, Calloway set the whips down and sauntered so casually to his side. Even then, his gaze was a void except for a mild curiosity and he crooked his fingers, lightly dragging his nails up the marks in his sub's back. The answer was a soft moan of need, but it wasn't Calloway who responded to that need. Instead, he deftly undid the cuffs, leaving them attached to the post, and unbuckled the collar to drop it to the ground before he finally unlocked the cock cage. And his sub had to lean against him for all of it. His eyes were glazed over with so much hard pain and his cock hardened as soon as it was free.

Calloway helped him stagger to another Dom, though, and that's who took him to a private room, presumably to fuck like animals after what had just happened. As for Calloway? The people he'd attracted to his display evidently already knew how this went. They had already left to other scenes, but I stayed in my shadowy place to the side, watching him coil his whips back up.

That's when he looked straight at me, his gaze piercing. "You're shit at stalking, little coward."

————

I shivered and had to force myself to step forward. He said it with such disdain that it terrified me on top of all the fear I already felt after his display. "Y-yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir."

He snorted. "Why are you following me?"

I was pretty good at lying in life, if I thought people would rather hear a lie than the truth, but not with him. The truth rushed from me. "I saw the card that night and r-recognized it because I have one, too. And I wanted to see you again. Er, to see more a-after the needles."

He seemed satisfied by that explanation, probably because he knew it had to be true the way I stuttered through it like a terrified ferret. At least he didn't look at me with such condescension anymore. His eyes were back to emptiness, without even that trace of mild interest he had given his sub. "By all means, then, watch to your heart's content."

"Will you do it to me?" I shuddered at saying the words, but once they were said, it felt like a relief. I needed him to hurt me. I had to have him torture me until I screamed from it and it was an almost suicidal fixation after his scene.

Now he did have an expression, but it wasn't his sadistic interest. It was a flat darkness. "This? No. Go back to Morgan and Trish's cozy cage with your tattoos, girl."

He turned away and I felt wounded somehow, but I persisted. It had taken so much courage just to ask and I couldn't let it go just like that. "Please? I can do it. I can take it, I can."

"No, you can't. You're a thrill seeker and it's been my experience that most females aren't built for the things I'm into. It's not their thing and most males are harder and grapple harder, so why would I bother?"

But I knew a reason why he should bother. I had to squeak it out though. "B-because you're not gay." He stopped in putting his things up and turned to me, gaze stony. How did he do that? He was so mean without even trying. Just his eyes made me shake, made me feel lower than low. But I had his attention so I pressed on. "Putting on a cock cage didn't do anything for you a-and you don't get to finish."

He barked out a laugh, but not a nice one. His was a demon laugh that made me whimper. "I have to admire the boldness, if nothing else. Since you have a hard time saying the words plainly, I'll do it for you. You don't get the whip. I'm not going to let you embarrass me with a shitty whip scene when you can't take it and I'm for damn sure not soothing you afterwards when it's not what you wanted or expected. So unless you're offering to be my whore after I'm done, then go back to watching and stay with Morgan and Trish."

He kept saying that like there was something I was supposed to go back to and maybe I would have found that an interesting fact some other time, but I was too distracted for the moment. With him. "I'll be that." I said it breathlessly, so afraid, but his whips had been like pendulums and I was still under their spell. What was more, I was horrifyingly horny, riled into a strange excitement that was nothing like my usual thrill ride from the needles.

He finished and zipped up his bag, closing off my sight of the whips, and I felt a surreal sensation of being denied the sight of a deity's grail that I would do anything to have a glimpse of, anything. I couldn't even think straight enough to realize how crazy I was being. There was no thought, no rationalization, nothing but this desperate desire. "Strip and go to the post then. Grab the ring and hold it until I'm done with you."

"Here? Now?" I squeaked it, heart thundering, and some form of logic did manage to come back to me then, if only because I was standing in the middle of a sex club and there were people around to see us, so I was crossing the line from horny voyeur to horny exhibitionist.

He crossed his arms. "Let's get this straight right now. If we're doing this, then it's an exchange and on my part, it's to use you. So you don't question me, don't argue, don't talk back. The next time you do, that's it and I'm done. If you want it, then do what I say and when I say it."

Did I want that? I must have on one hell of an animal level because I was already lifting my shirt over my head in obedience. I stepped out of my jeans, moving quickly for fear of having him irritated with impatience, feeling a sense of humiliation at the actions and what this was, what I had stupidly begged for. I couldn't even look at him when I walked to the post and grabbed the ring, could only take deep breaths.

I jumped with a shuddering inhalation when he touched me, one hand snaking in an almost hug-like motion to stroke my abdomen. To my shock, his touch was warm, so warm. His other hand stroked up to my breast and I gasped when he tugged the nipple, pinching. It started easy, a light sensation that was arousing, but he added slow amounts of pressure until it amped to exciting pain and then to torment and then, so slowly, to something that felt like more than I could take. I whimpered, my back curving as if to defend myself from him in some way. His voice was low when he spoke, cruelly at ease and conversational while I was losing my mind with foul desire and humiliation. "Don't let go of that ring. Whatever I do and whatever you feel, I don't care. Don't let go of it. And don't fight me."

"Yes, sir," I choked out, cringing. He let go and I breathed in a sense of shock, accepting the fact that this was happening. I'd gone to this, begged him, and he was actually taking me up on it. But then his next touch stopped my thoughts altogether.

He didn't indulge me with foreplay. He didn't give any other touches or warnings, didn't say another word. He just stroked his hand down to spread my pussy and I moaned a loud, broken sound, not caring who saw or heard. He didn't even touch my clit, making it clear beyond words that he didn't fucking care about my own arousal. But there was a lot of that arousal and he had to notice. I was hotter than hot by his callousness, by how needy he made me feel. His fingers slicked with mess as soon as he touched me and I spread my legs wide, staring up at the ring where I held it in a death grip. I cried out when I felt his cock, hard and huge against my slit, and the condom he'd donned made me choke. It felt like sexual icy hot being stroked over me but he didn't give me time to process that before he surged inside of me and, wet as I was, he slid so easily that it made tears of more humiliation come to my eyes.

But the pleasure was terribly addictive. My head fell back against his shoulder and I moaned again, a soft pleading sound that he ignored. And that was even worse. He didn't bother to pet my pussy, to even give the pretense that he cared about what I felt at all. Instead, he grasped my breasts with two rough palms and fucked me with possessive prerogative, as if it was his right to have me, and it didn't matter that he didn't help me. I came anyway, almost immediately, squeezing his cock with my orgasm. I didn't look back, didn't say a word, and he didn't break the atmosphere. His hands worked me while his cock pumped in a fierce rhythm, as if I was nothing more than an interesting toy he used for release. Every touch was gracefully rough, purposeful in intent. Every breath he took was calm, as if he was at ease and not fucking me into my own form of Valhalla. In sharp contrasts, my own breaths were punctuated with gasps and whimpers of desire, and I shouted loudly when he drove me to another orgasm, shaking around him. I clung to the post's ring and milked him for all I could get out of his selfish abuse.

I could get a lot, so much that it was pathetic. Even worse, he fucked me for what felt like forever after that and after two orgasms, that was apparently it for my body. I climbed the ladder of pleasure again but not nearly as far and he refused to help me or care about me so I moaned instead, little sounds of desperate need, internally begging him for harder. Even more pain would be better than the terrible way he callously took what he wanted, all he wanted from me. I felt like a body to him and it was wonderful in the worst way. Some form of coldness numbed over my emotions, any of them that remained, some form of terrible emptiness that made me feel hollow while I was so full of him.

I closed my eyes, rolling them with the brutal pleasure, taking it, falling in sickest love, and it seemed like he could go forever. He never once broke his silence during his fucking either, didn't touch me beyond using my breasts for his leverage and that was a painful touch. I shook when he finally came, a soft, savage growl escaping him with his pleasure.

It was the worst thing I'd ever done to myself and the best thing that had ever happened to me. I felt worthless when he was done, felt less than even the whore he'd called me. Whores got paid. I was just a toy, a filthily used one that he didn't even care about. I held the ring in a death grip above me, staring up at my hands and acknowledging that I couldn't let go until he told me to. Angering him would feel like too much of a blow on top of so much preexisting devastation and I didn't think I could handle it, was too scared to find out.

"Get dressed, leave, and come back ‪Thursday night at 9‬."

I finally dared to release the ring to turn around and glance at him. But he was already facing away from me, had already taken off the condom and fixed his jeans while I was out of it, and he picked up his bag and walked off without so much as a glance backward, leaving me naked and shivering at how cold I suddenly felt. His turned back made it clearer than any words that he was done with his new toy. I moaned when his words sank in. Thursday at nine. So he could use me again. Dread shuddered down my spine, a sense of self horror at what I had just done and what it meant.