Tangled Passions Pt. 02 Ch. 23-25

After a hastily whispered consultation, Lisa applied for membership for herself and Jenn – mainly just blood test results and contacts. The owners knew Lisa by reputation so references and sponsorship weren't necessary; so Lisa, and Jenn by association, were readily accepted and welcomed. Jenn paid the somewhat excessive initiation fees, designed to, besides provide capital, ensure exclusivity. Jenn also arranged for the monthly dues through pre-authorized debits.

Within days they were full privileged members, coming and going as they pleased. Although there were some new faces – new bodies – most were familiar from one event or another. The sweat and semen would be the same as always; just the venue had changed. Lisa's apartment slipped back into the domain of private, peaceful trysts, and, like Jenn and Matt's condo, became more a sanctuary than a playground. On the other hand, their new association provided activities and opportunities into which they virtually immersed themselves. Jenn was a puppet at the hands of her mentor and lover. She was given no say in decisions, no chance to protest, and no room to balk. It was that external direction of her life that she increasingly cherished. Once again, she exercised her strength and pride in her ability to completely comply – her total submission.

Although some members called the establishmentCircus, in reference toThe Retinal Circus, a club run in the same premises around nineteen seventy, and others favouredElegance, in reference toThe Elegant Parlour, a club operating there during the early sixties – a Vancouver celebrity, who went on to become something of a minor star in the American entertainment world, was rumoured to have been the proprietor all those years earlier – it became officially calledCelebration.

Up until that point, other than the odd playful slap, there had not been any corporal punishment administered in the group – at least not to Jenn's knowledge. And that was just fine with her. Lesley's thrashings, described so graphically in both the self-titled book and Gardens of the Night, as wall as, to a lesser degree, O's ordeals in the chateau at Roissy, seemed to Jenn to have gone far beyond the realm of eroticism – much too far into the world of pain and terror; sadistically cruel rather than stimulating. Consequently, Jenn felt her ardor cool slightly at the early introduction of discipline – a euphemism for thrashing – atCelebration. Still, if it came as a mandatory part of the package, she knew that she would be forced to embrace it; forced, she knew too, by her own desire, her own willingness, her own abandon; not by pressures outside of herself. And in that case, virtually anything would be tolerable.

Lisa and Jenn had been invited, among others, to witness, what Jenn considered, a rather severe whipping in the one of the back rooms. Two of the four back rooms were eclectically furnished old English parlours, with several heavy chairs – some upholstered, some bare; a few tables of various heights and sizes; a single leather divan; odd freestanding mirrors and lamps; and a collection of bureaus and cabinets. The other two rooms were dominated by large four-poster beds. Comfortable leather chairs were placed around the beds, and a dresser stocked with make-up and drink stood against the wall. The head of the bed was flanked by two three-drawer end tables. Both bedrooms were colourfully decorated with draped mirrors abounding. Their subdued lighting could be accented by the high intensity halogen lamps that stood in the corners.

It was into one of the parlours that Lisa and Jenn followed the group of perhaps ten others. Lisa sat in one of the chairs that had been arranged in rows, and directed Jenn to sit at her feet. The victim was a exceedingly submissive, effeminate guy of maybe thirty-five or forty – Jenn's age, more or less. He was strapped over the back of a chair, and gagged, then whipped mercilessly; first with a long thick single strand bullwhip, then with a cat-o'-nine-tails type of thing, then with a switch or riding crop and finally with a perforated paddle. The whipper was a large black American of about twenty-five. His southern baritone drawl growled slowly when he spoke. He proceeded under the direction of an older grey-haired woman who sat nearby and watched with studied interest. Midway through the black man had to strip to the waist as the sweat ran from him in streams. The victim’s buttocks and thighs changed from white to red striped to mottled mauve to deep purple over the course of the ordeal. Blood oozed up in dotted lines, as the beating stopped long enough to revive the victim before continuing. Interesting at first, maybe even very slightly arousing, Jenn soon found the scene disquieting. Her distaste changed to horror as the brutality seemed to go on interminably. She tried to look away when she thought she could stand it no more, but a sharp command from Lisa brought her reluctant eyes back to the savagery.

After it was over, back in Lisa's bed for the night, Jenn could hold back no longer. "That was horrible, Lisa. More than horrible, horrifying. How could they do that to him?"

Lisa pulled her close and whispered into her hair, "A chaque son gout – to each his own. He engaged them to do that, my dear."

Jenn could hardly believe it. "But they went so far. They killed all the eroticism. It was just plain sadism."

"Masochism," Lisa corrected.

"Please, don't…" Jenn wasn't sure exactly how to phrase it. She could see that there may be some merit to a little reasonable discipline, but surely what they had just seen went way, way too far. "I don't like the idea of that sort of ritualistic whipping, I mean, is it really necessary? It's sort of the antithesis of what we're really seeking, isn't it? I couldn't ever go that far over the line, you know what I mean?"

"I understand." Lisa nuzzled, before adding, quietly, "Don't worry, I can't see us ever going that far."

Shivering in her disturbing preoccupation, Jenn pondered. "It's weird. Still, I guess you never know until you try. Not," she added quickly, "that I'm anxious to try." Lisa apparently respected Jenn's apprehensions, for it was some time before anything remotely resembling corporal punishment insinuated itself into their scenes.

Initially it was just a slap to increase her sensitivity – to promote stimulation. Jenn had been taken quite by surprise by the first sharp smacks placed high on each inner thigh, but the sting was very brief and they set her thighs sparkling. The echoes made her upper legs quiver. Later, the isolated slaps progressed to bona fide spankings. Bare open hands quickly became wooden paddles colouring her cheeks bright red during the short but intense periods of stimulation. As much as she was always fastened or held down, and usually gagged she couldn't have protested or avoided the spankings, but what really surprised her was that she didn't really want to. She understood that it was a necessary experience. Even from her perspective as helpless victim, the ends justified the means; she was so highly stimulated afterwards. The paddle gave way to a leather strap – like a short, thick belt – and the stinging whacks across her rump, spread to include her thighs as well. Never actually arduous, the well-placed leather would lay a crisscrossed pattern of bright welts in only a few short, painfully intense minutes.

She was sometimes positioned over the back of a chair – hands reaching, holding the chair arms – and fastened; although more often she was arranged at a table – sometimes with her hands pulled to the far corners, her breasts flattened, standing with the edge of the table against the fold of her hips; or on the table, spread-eagle and flat out – sometimes with her knees up under her chest, sometimes with a pillow or bolster under her hips.

It was excruciating but invariably the pain keyed up her receptiveness to further stimulation. When a flogging stopped her tingling rear was electric with sensation, and her adrenaline, mixed with tears and sobs, served to hone her arousal to a knife edge. And after a thrashing she would invariably be fucked – sometimes vaginally, sometimes anally, sometimes once, sometimes innumerable times by a parade of anonymous cocks. Still, she didn't want a steady diet of it. There were so many other ways to enhance her response; and bruises on her thighs the second day were not arousing, only sore.

She hadn't, so far, been subjected to the interminably brutal beatings she had read of in Matt's books. They didn't bear thinking of. She could handle – could appreciate what she had. She would not look to the future but would accept that aspect of her lot one day at a time.

As it turned out, the whippings seemed to be just a phase that she was guided through, but which she never completely left. For a short while corporal punishment was almost her exclusive lot – heaped upon Jenn at every visit toCelebration, but slowly the frequency reduced until thrashing became just another of many strategies, occurring only sporadically.

Jenn wondered about what was happening to her. She didn't exactly worry about it but, when she was alone, she wondered and wondered. Was she still sane? Did any of what she did really make sense? Had she become a nymphomaniac? She could come at just about the slightest touch. Random passing thoughts could bring on an orgasm if she let them. It wasn't just that they could, either. Lately, she was often unable to resist the onset of a climax, regardless of when, where or how it was being caused. Her life really was becoming just a long series of orgasms. What then?

Jenn would be arranged on a table or divan for an evening's entertainment – sometimes on her back with her knees up and spread, in what they called 'ready position' bondage – that is, with her arms straight out to the sides, attached at the wrist cuffs and her ankle cuffs clipped to rings at the sides of her belted waist so that her knees were up against her biceps. It required substantial flexibility – at least the flexibility of youth – to lie still, opened up wide, with her thighs tight against her body and her calves tight against her thighs – as an isometric exercise it increased her suppleness, and became increasingly easy to bear. Sometimes she was placed on her knees with her head on her arms. At times she was strapped into position but other times she was just ordered to stay like a well-trained dog. And she did: continuing to forge the invisible shackles of her essential bondage, she would endure hours of casual, anonymous poking and fondling.

Jenn had always savoured being brought to the boiling emotional frenzy of sexual release and she realized very early that she relished the 'being brought' almost as much as the 'boil'. During marathon sessions – ordeals so long that even she became so enervated she could no longer reach orgasm – she still derived extreme pleasure from the salacious acts performed on her body. Although Jenn had never actually chosen to join the bizarre scenes in which she found herself a willing participant over and over again, she realized that somewhere along the way she had effectively granted authority to Lisa – and the others – to do with her what they would. Her fate was not always – not usually – her own any more; it was increasingly plotted and executed to satisfy the whims of people around her. She couldn't understand why she had let that happen, but she knew that, for now, at least, she would continue to do so. Despite the impersonality of it all, it left her warm and satisfied. She would stay her course for the time being; she could see no pressing reason to change. For had she not discovered a kind of liberty in subjugation? Whatever truths lay in that conundrum were far too baffling to be unraveled as yet, and any investigation into the logic of such a revelation must need be tabled until a more rational time – a future time when she wouldn't be seeing everything through such an miasmic, orgasmic hazy.

Her wrists and ankles fastened securely once again to its corners, Jenn lay gagged and exposed face up on the low table atCelebration. A burly young Jamaican, his chocolate brown skin contrasting artistically with Jenn's paleness, lowered himself to his knees in the vee of Jenn's scissored legs. Her eyes, characteristically wide yet calm, observed him closely. The single stroke of his fingers up the confluence of her creamy thighs was enough to make her huff around the ball that firmly filled her mouth and puff like a train through her nose. She could see the subtle appreciation of her abundantly moist vagina flicker across his eyes. He reached toward her with his left hand and, taking the nipple between his fingers, he energetically massaged her right breast. She felt the slap on her pubis, as he flopped his massive tool against her. Grabbing her other breast with his right hand, he remained motionless for a moment, except for the kneading of her boobs.

His cock lay semi-erect, like a sausage, in the groove of her labia. He watched her eyes intently while his hands worked her chest silently. Jenn looked for clues in his face; clues or what, she wasn't sure, but she looked for clues as she always did for as long as she remained lucid. The weight of his penis – its weight and warmth – caused a maddening suspense to bubble through her genitals. Like an itch, just out of reach, the more she thought about it – how big would it have to be to have such mass – the more she anticipated the inevitable. Becoming impatient to a fault, Jenn tried to provoke some action by pulling a pelvic-tilt to run her vulva along the immobile shaft. A trace of reprimand narrowed the deep brown eyes for the briefest moment, and twin, sharp, painful twists of her nipples warned Jenn to behave herself – to wait appropriately. Then, almost imperceptibly, his hips began to move. Slowly sawing the still growing pole between Jenn's puffy lips, he began to actively irritate her clitoris. His impressive cock continued to engorge, gradually and steadily, increasing in length and girth, plowing deeper among the folds of her genitalia.

Jenn found the exterior stimulation terribly, wonderfully bothersome and she bucked and squirmed in an effort to move him. Every time she bounced and twisted, within the limits of her bonds he tweaked her nipples. A sly trace of a grin tickled the corners of his eyes, his set jaw and pursed lips quivered for an instant. Sweat began to glisten on his forehead, and form droplets above his lip. Tiny high-pitched whimpers escaped the corners of Jenn’s mouth while her breath, puffing hard through her nose, became laboured and rough. The wild fires of excitement raged through her nerves, and she wanted to scream out, "Fuck me, now!" She wanted the now solid shaft in her, not on her. As a sensual fireball swept up her spine, she executed a series of complex pelvic rolls, but not until the third attempt was she finally able, with a last quick flip of her hips, to catch the swollen spearhead in her labial opening and pull him in. Her vaginal sheath grasped and squeezed the steely rod as it accelerated into a pounding frenzied rhythm. The last thing she saw, before her vision was overwhelmed by orgasm, was his eyes close as his mouth opened and his head was thrown back. Barely audible above her own sensual storm, she thought she heard him roar like a wild beast.

His fingers dug into her breast as he tried to tear them from her chest. Slipping for an instant, he released her mammaries, letting them bounce back onto her torso, only to grab her nipples and stretch them far above her, taking them to the limits of their elasticity. Jenn's eyes opened wide as the pain became momentarily excruciating before fading back into sensual overload, as he let them too snap back into place. He, meanwhile, reached forward to pull against her shoulders, as if he were trying to climb bodily into her. She felt a spray of sweat shake from his face, tasting the delicate salt on her lips. Then the multiple sensations of his hot seed spilling as he shoved her tight against her ankle straps with the power of his thrusts, bruising her womb, set off in her a cataclysmic release of erotic energy. Jenn felt disintegrated – crushed by her own orgasm as it hit her like a fast train.

Although Jenn had quit working completely and basically supported Lisa and herself with her own private income, Lisa continued to teach a couple aerobics classes a week. For a while Jenn still attended those classes but she and Lisa were much too mutually distracting, and they found it necessary for Jenn to get her exercise elsewhere. Nevertheless, Jenn worked out at a gym several times a week to keep herself in top physical condition. If Lisa was able, as she claimed, to totally forget Jenn and Celebration, and her raunchy avocation while teaching a class, Jenn found it impossible to escape the constant imagery that wafted amongst her senses. Recollections of past scenes or anticipations of impending parties were forever warming and moistening her during her exercises. Sitting up at the butterfly arms of the Nautilus machine – elbows out, arms up, chest thrust forward – an unbidden vision of herself being speared by a thick dildo as a faceless body bounced atop her would cause a sudden letdown of vaginal lubricant – the soaked crotch of her leotard smearing onto the vinyl of the bench as she fought to complete the routine. Sometimes, despite her resistance, she would need to pause midway through the training circuit, while the sensation blossomed into a short, mild orgasm.

Arranging herself supine on a lounge table atCelebration, Jenn waited, as always, for direction. There were enough possibilities that, whatever the orders, she was always a little surprised at what was expected of her, yet it was with a private feeling of pride that she believed she rarely betrayed that surprise. While Jenn waited – exposed and patient, her hands resting on her flexed knees, keeping them wide, keeping her open sex visible – Lisa spoke earnestly with a fellow patron on topics seeming not to include Jenn. Jenn began to drift away from the buzzing conversations of the lounge, drift into her distant past, her erotic past with Matt. Stylized visions of the conceptions of their children melded and mutated with scenes from movies and stories, until her reverie was abruptly interrupted. "...masturbate," came the deep voice of Lisa’s male companion, "I'd like to watch her come."

Her eyes suddenly open, her pulse slightly elevated, Jenn saw, between her knees, Lisa nod subtly, almost imperceptibly in at her. Slowly, without a second thought, Jenn moved her hands off her knees. Her right hand gently dipped into her bush while her left hand cupped her breast, catching her nipple between her thumb and forefinger. It seemed to her such a natural move, such a natural position, as the fingers of her right hand began to swirl slowly over her moist flesh, and around her waking clitoris. Once her hands were in motion, she began to drift again, but this time the visions were more focused. She reminisced about the first time she had ever done that – the first time she had ever masturbated to orgasm and she marveled at what a slow start she had been.

It had been with Lisa; early in the game. And Lisa had been very blunt. "Let's see you masturbate," she had said.

"What?" Jenn remembered replying, dumfounded.

"I want to see you bring yourself to climax for me." Jenn had blushed and protested, but Lisa had kept at her. "There's no one here but us. Come on." So she had – slowly and self-consciously. Lisa had sat watching her silently until she had finally come. She remembered the terrible, onerously building tension. She remembered how approaching release would be stymied by the sudden realization of her position. She had got to the very edge several times, and become afraid she had lost it for good. She had worried irrationally that she might have to lie there fondling herself forever.