Tangled Passions Pt. 01 Ch. 13-16

A commotion outside the door broke the dim, hushed calm of the lounge as a struggling figure was escorted – dragged into the room writhing and complaining, a uniformed working member at each arm. The subject was a wiry, defiant girl apparently only eighteen or nineteen. Matt felt something tighten in his gut. Was this real? Was she really being forced against her will? Surely not; and yet it would certainly appear so. A shiver ran involuntarily through him. As if reading his thoughts, Roland spoke, calmly and quietly yet loud enough to be heard above the fuss.

"In this club, Matthew, as you know, all submission is voluntary," he stated simply. "Any appearance of force is, necessarily, dramatics – or, perhaps, in this case," he nodded toward the struggle, and gave a wry chuckle, "histrionics. Rest assured, there is no coercion or unreasonable pressure."

Whether this was said by coincidence, as a matter of course, or through some uncanny astuteness, Matt felt the release of a tension he hadn't actually been aware of. His body, as well as his mind, relaxed. He could now think of it as just a play, and watch it unfold.

The resisting young woman had a shock of red-orange hair, darker than strawberry blonde but lighter than a carrot top, cut in a mid-length shag. Her pale, vaguely freckled, sun-sensitive skin was of the type that bruises very easily, and, indeed, as she was brought into place on the spot lit rug traces of bruising became obvious. Her upper arms were discoloured about her biceps, beneath the firm grips of the attendants; furthermore, the backs of her thighs showed darkened patches and her bottom cheeks were patterned with black and blue. She was completely naked – unadorned except for the tattoo on her inner thigh. Although he couldn't be sure, it looked to Matt like a Rolling Stones style mouth with, instead of a tongue, a large, flaccid cock lolling out of it.

She continued to struggle, crying for mercy as she was positioned on the rug. Matt realized that the struggle was fueled more by symbolism than by any desire to actually escape. On either side, the restrainers held her arms outstretched like the victim of a crucifixion, their fingers digging tightly into the existing bruises on her arms. Quietly, from another door, Dara, of all people, entered and approached the writhing figure in the light. Matt had not spoken to Dara for some time. Although they were often in the same facility, their paths had diverged. Matt thought it strange that, as intense as their affair had been, he didn't miss her; in fact, he felt he hardly knew her. She paused for a moment, surveyed the room, glancing past him without a trace of recognition in her face – the blank look of a stranger. Then she looked the girl up and down before descending to her knees in front of the flailing body and grasping those squirming thighs – whose movements became, suddenly, much less violent. Her hands cupping the backs of the thighs, neatly covering the discolouration of old bruises, Dara firmly pulled the prisoner's pubis tight into her own face. The girl's cries became mews and her struggling more fluid – more of a dance.

Now it was Matt's turn. He lifted a leather tawse from the chair next to him and carefully stepped up to the tableau from behind. His casual approach belied the emotional tumult he felt. He was, in equal parts, excited and afraid. Positioning himself behind the redhead, whose struggling was now less urgent, he looked over into the shadows at Roland, who simply nodded. At that, Matt laid the strap lightly across the colourful backside for a moment before beginning the thrashing. He lashed her bottom as he had been instructed, with random strokes, deliberately breaking any rhythm that might evolve, and increasing in intensity – severity. As the girl writhed and squirmed under the repeated lashes, Dara held tightly onto the thighs and kept her own face planted deep in the reddish bush. The attendants clutching her arms had to struggle to control her convulsive thrusts, as Matt continued relentlessly. Bright red welts soon covered her entire bottom, crisscrossing in a close mesh over the blue, purple and yellow shades of old bruises; obviously from earlier sessions of similar activity.

It was not long before the victim – the recipient of all the attention began to climax. Her cries of woe became screams of lust and she shook uncontrollably, as her body was wracked with long and repeated orgasms.

Glancing at Roland periodically, waiting for a sign, Matt continued. Roland watched silently from the shadows, without any show of emotion. Although he felt his arm tiring, Matt was becoming increasingly excited by the strength of the orgasms his wild beating was eliciting. Consciously redoubling his efforts, he was invigorated by the renewed intensity of his victim's reactions. Suddenly his arousal was overwhelming. His throbbing erection strained against the silk briefs. His head whirled and the strap fell faster and harder, as he felt something in him about to explode.

Roland's soft tranquil voice somehow penetrated the melee. "That's enough, Matthew," and Matt stepped back, panting, shaking. "Dara," Roland commanded, quietly, "see to Matthew, please." With that, Dara released the prisoner's thighs and walked directly over to Matt. Her face glistening and dripping, her matted hair framing it, she still showed no trace of recognition, as, with chest heaving, she dropped to her knees in front of him and freed his pulsing member from its silk enclosure. Without hesitation, she engulfed him. The leather strap slid from his hand as he clasped his fingers over her ears while she bounced on his staff. His rampant pego pummeled the back of her throat briefly; it was only moments before he felt the detonation of a mammoth orgasm flash deep in his balls. His grunting groans changed to bellows as he rammed Dara's nose into his pubic bone, flushing gobs of semen down her throat – and up her nose; she gagged and fought against his battering invasion.

Then it was over. He let go of Dara's head; she got up with a little sputter and crossed the floor to stand just inside the door she had entered. The redhead had swooned and hung by her arms from the men at her sides, looking like Jesus on the cross. "Take Marissa to the baths, please," Roland gently directed. One of the attendants took her up into his arms like a baby and they quietly left the way they had come in. "Well done, Matthew. Thank you. You may go." Having dismissed Matt, Roland turned away. "Dara, come here." As he exited the lounge, Matt heard Roland say to Dara, "You seemed to have had some difficulty with Matthew, my dear. Perhaps you need..." The door swung quietly closed leaving Matt alone with himself as he plodded back to the change room on the lower floor.

His mind reeled with the stimulation of the scene, but there was a niggling feeling in the back of his head that suggested he didn't deserve such pleasure. He felt guilty about whipping the girl – Marissa – and getting carried away with the intensity of it, as much as she seemed to appreciate it at some base, bawdy sort of level. Still, he thought, perhaps it should have been the other way around – him being whipped by her – or someone. He would certainly be more deserving of, or perhaps, he thought, more suited to being the whippee than the whipper. But who was he to complain. He still couldn't figure out any of this.

Although he never gave the slightest protest, in fact he enjoyed those dominant roles very much, it soon became obvious to him and others that his personality was, indeed, much more suited to submission than dominance. Matt had realized early on that he wasn't really much good at giving orders – taking charge of a scenario. His orders were always placid and pallid, or awkward and unnatural. They were never very imaginative, usually mundane. And they were never very satisfying, least ways not to him.

He also realized that, if he'd only been able to recognize it, he had always shown a predisposition to submission – for being used. He suffered easily the loss of dignity; this fact had not gone without notice. Increasingly he was placed in situations where he was treated with a complete disregard for his dignity. In doing so, his partners had so undermined it that, for all intents and purposes, he was without dignity during any and all gatherings in which his submission was expected. At those functions, he simply no longer had any to get in the way.

A good slave is someone with just such a predisposition; someone for whom dignity no longer serves any purpose; someone for whom dignity is an unnecessary luxury; or, perhaps, simply unnecessary. After subconsciously meditating on it, he became aware that he could accept it as truth. Being a good slave – profound submission – that was where his aptitude lay; and, somehow, in that he would find genuine satisfaction. Thus, it was not long before the vast majority of his roles were as victim. His standard attire at The Club subtly changed from silk to leather – leather cuffs and anklets, waist strap and collar. He fell very naturally into the part.

XV.

Matt's incidental training in the arts of submissiveness progressed subtly, sometimes imperceptibly, sometimes in planned and choreographed scenarios. At various times he was subjected to concentrations – intensive sessions in specific aspects of stimulus and response.

"You must be able to separate your sensory stimulations so that you can concentrate on individual senses if necessary," Roland had said one afternoon, as Matt arrived for his shift. It was increasingly Roland who took charge of Matt. And there was a familiar security in Roland's demands that Matt took comfort in.

It was a nice touch, rather sensitive of him, Matt thought, that Roland still gave his orders in the form of proposals; subtly suggesting that the instructions were really only suggestions that needed to be agreed upon, as, in some basic way, they were. Inasmuch as all participation was, strictly speaking, voluntary, any activity was, in some respect, open to discussion; however, the proposals were, ipso facto, commands to be obeyed without question. Roland was never overbearing. He was never hard or insistent about anything – always calm and cool; he gave orders pleasantly. They were just directions – he was the director and one wouldn’t question the directions of the director any more than one would question divine commands from on high. Roland’s proposals were simply accepted and obeyed – carried out to the letter. Complete compliance was nothing less than expected. Matt, nonetheless, excelled in it – absolute submission – obeisance.

"I’m proposing that you be subjected, today, to some 'in-service' training which, I believe, you will enjoy." Roland turned away for a moment, puttering about in a deliberate move designed to allow Matt time to chew on the idea, before continuing. "I have devised a session on tactile focus, just for you." His innocuous smile was unreadable. "You will be receiving special instruction through a tailor-made lesson. We'll begin shortly; please get changed smartly." Roland's smile was both benevolent and radiant. He turned once again, leaving Matt to prepare for yet another new experience; anxious – and just a little apprehensive.

After changing into his now de rigueur costume of leather straps, he was conducted to a small dimly lit room. It had thick carpet and was hung with heavy drapes on all walls. Told to stand in the middle of the room, Matt was at first blindfolded with a thick, fitted, black felt mask. Then he was gagged loosely with a leather ball gag and his nose was plugged. The only words spoken were Roland ensuring that he could still breathe freely. He nodded his reply. He was immediately fitted with ear buds, from which emanated a white noise that masked everything else in the already quiet room. "A Walkman of some sort," Matt surmised, studying the insignificant details in a effort to fight off the seeds of panic he felt swirling inside.

Outwardly, Matt remained completely docile – completely passive as he felt hands strap him into what seemed like a climbing harness or adult sized Jolly Jumper. His arms were lain in soft slings and raised to hang straight out to his sides from some kind of elastic supports; something was clipped to his ankle cuffs. After a slight pause, he felt himself being raised ever so slightly, until he was completely suspended from some sort of springy suspension. And that was it. He hung motionless, in the warm still air of the room, so that, when he relaxed, the balls of his feet just touched the floor. He realized that he was suddenly unaware of anything else. The elastic cables or cords from which he hung subdued all movement. He found that, although his feet could rise off the floor, they couldn't go anywhere due to short tethers that anchored him to one spot in the room.

For how long the state of sensory deprivation continued, Matt had no idea – time seemed to carry little meaning in the void. Minutes or hours later, Matt felt something – a warm breath perhaps, on the back of his neck, then it was gone. Maybe only seconds later – maybe longer – he felt another light breath on his face. Slowly, slowly, he felt more and more. A touch of a finger here; application of a warm oil there; a pinch; a stroke; a kiss; a lick. He started to understand then, just what Roland had meant by tactile focus. All he knew, all he could know at that time was conveyed to him through touch. The touches were not always recognizable – but they became more intense, nonetheless. He felt fingers on his cock; fingers in his ass; unidentifiable warmths stroked his balls and his shaft; what may have been labia stroked his legs; warmed, soft, vibrating plastic tickled his anus, slipping past his sphincter then out again. He endured the pressures of an elastic ball bag, sodomizing dildos, nipple clamps, cock rings, and discipline paddles against his buttocks, but everything was transitory – no one sensation lasted long. And through all of it, he bounced about slowly like a puppet or a wind charm, his feet just touching the carpeted floor now and again. The stimulation seemed never-ending and Matt coasted along, aroused, not nearly to climax, but enough to make his body weep with sweat.

Finally a mouth engaged his erection just as two hands abruptly pulled his hips back to impale him on an anonymous engorged prick. The oral/anal assault was quick and well timed. In a matter of moments, he began pumping his come into the servicing mouth just as the tool in his rear spasmodically jetted its load deep into his bowels. His sense of touch attuned, he could feel each jet as it scalded his innards, and that sensation intensified his own voluminous ejaculation. In one small, still lucid corner of his reeling mind, Matt observed objectively, "So this is what passion is – what it's about; or what it appears to be, anyway, in its tangled guise."

Suddenly his cock was naked to the room air. With a final plop, his rear visitor withdrew and he was alone. He waited in his suspended state, his skin warm and tingling in places, cool and wet in others. He waited, craving stimulation, but none was forthcoming. He waited for his wait to end. Maybe he went to sleep, maybe he fell into a trance, but eventually he realized he was standing and a flurry of unseen activity had removed him from the harness. His ear buds were pulled, his nose unplugged, his gag taken off, and finally his blindfold was removed. He looked furtively around. There was no one there but Roland, who gently took him by the arm and silently led him from the chamber. Taking him to a sleeping room he said softly, "You sleep now. We'll talk later." Matt found that he was unable to consider anything else. He felt hypnotized – perhaps he was. He entered the room, lay down on the bed, and fell into a deep dreamless sleep. It was four fifteen in the morning when he awoke. Groggily donning his civvies, he slipped out. He could still get home before Jenn woke.

Days later, exiting his car into the silent sunshine of the parking lot, Matt was approached by a vaguely familiar figure. "Matt, isn't it?" the fellow asked. Extending his hand, and not actually waiting for a reply, he introduced himself, "Sam." Matt took the proffered hand, surprised at the firm grip and energetic shake. "Howareya?" They seemed, for all the world, like a couple of acquaintances meeting in the parking lot of a racquetball club or something.

"I think they've got something lined up for the two of us today," Sam observed as they turned from their cars. "You up for it?"

"Dunno. What is it?"

"I don't really know. Just overheard someone speaking in the lounge yesterday. Heard our names."

Suddenly, Matt placed him. He had seen him perform several weeks earlier in one of the parlours. It had been Sam, a Chinese-Canadian without a trace of accent, who had been between the legs of a naked woman – a beauty of Indian or Pakistani extraction. She had been seated in a big chair at the head of the table, her heels perched on the tabletop with her crooked knees spread wide. She had been holding the arms of the chair tightly as if she didn't want to fall off and her head had been shaking from side to side, waving her long tresses back and forth. There had been some sort of betting going on, as to how long she could hold off her climax. A small group had gathered around the scene and were cheering for Sam as he mercilessly licked and rubbed and poked, and for his partner as she squealed and squirmed in a doomed effort to forestall climaxing. Matt had been accompanying Roland, when they slipped into the parlour to check out the commotion. They had only watched for a few moments before proceeding on to their destination.

"Yeah, now I remember. I saw you for a bit a few weeks ago. Yeah."

"Well," Sam put a hand on Matt's shoulder in a sort of sporting bonhomie, "I've just got this feeling that we're going to get to know one another quite well today. Know what I mean?"

"I think maybe I do," Matt replied, his curiosity building steadily. He felt a comfortable camaraderie growing between them. They became lost in their own thoughts as they crossed the lot together and entered the building. Entering the change room silently, they went about their ablutions.

Sam left with a quiet, "Good luck." Matt nodded his response.

They were indeed slated to perform together. In one of the parlours, a large wrestling mat had been placed in the middle of the floor. Seats were placed around it and were rapidly being occupied by various well-dressed members of both sexes. They were sipping drinks and chatting when Matt was shown naked into the room. He had already been told to remove his usual leather attire. Moments later Sam appeared, equally nude, through the opposite door. Both Matt and Sam were led to the mat where, once the gathered crowd had settled, they were presented. They were the same age and basically the same size. Although Sam was a little shorter than Matt, he weighted a bit more. Only then were they officially informed of their wrestling match. They would be loosely held to Olympic/Greco-Roman rules except that the object was a prone pin – the opponent’s hips, face down. It would an even bout, and, they were sternly warned, a clean fight. Bets were placed and chits deposited in a circulating box, and the wrestlers were told that the winner would "have the loser's ass – literally."

Matt began to draw deep from his high-school memories, determined to win. He was sure that Sam was doing the same as they took their positions and waited for the signal.

Sam was a tough opponent. Puffing with exertion, grabbing slick sweaty limbs and scrambling out of his foe's clutches, Matt was too involved in the physical aspect of the match to give any thought to the sensual regards. The match went on and on. Repeatedly they were returned to their corners by the referee before lunging at one another again. It was a different kind of stimulation. The cheering shouts of the onlookers formed a soft encouraging bed of white noise in the back of Matt's mind. He was completely focused on his task. Finally, however, as they became increasingly exhausted, Matt managed to flip his opponent – this foe whom he had met earlier but who, for now, had completely lost any identity – flip him onto his stomach. With lightning speed that surprised even himself, Matt threw his bulk against the buttocks of his rival, pressing with his hands his full weight over Sam's hips.