The Story of I Ch. 04

Thwack. Thud. Thud. Slap.

Stephen's blows were making contact, but at irregular intervals and with uneven intensities. It really annoyed me. It was as if he couldn't feel the rhythm. Or he didn't have the right wrist motion. Or he couldn't accurately calculate where the strikes were going to land.

My wrists were fastened to the bases of two legs of the kitchen table, too tightly, I too lately realized. My hands were getting numb and my fingers swelling, but being the sub, I felt I couldn't complain. My legs were stretched to the opposite corners of the table and leather restraints were securely holding my ankles there. Fortunately, Stephen had put a slab of memory foam down, and covered it with a sheet, so my torso was cushioned.

The next stroke made my right shoulder blade smart, followed by one which connected partly with my waist, but mostly with the memory foam. A harder one followed, obviously mirroring Stephen's responsive frustration, and it landed on my left butt cheek, but also stung my anus.

"Owww!" I reacted.

We were new at this. Both married bi-guys. Or, at least, I was still married. Stephen was twice divorced. My wife was reluctantly supportive of me finding a man to become sexually involved with, but Stephen's motivation was his own, and without a need to negotiate with his spouse. Though different in so many ways, we were alike in our reaching out in midlife to try out a relationship with a man.

In our several conversations on the subject, I learned that he, like me, had had a man or two on a brief encounter, a quick blow and go. Now we were interested in a longer-term affair. Or again, at least I was, and he seemed to indicate, by his recurring contact with me, that he was too.

We had agreed on a sub/dom type of relationship, mostly because his wishes were for giving only, and I was flexible, though probably more of a sub anyway. In our previous meet-ups, numbering three so far, he had taken the lead, by suggesting the activities—or, more accurately, by dictating what we would be doing—and, although initially reluctant, I had acted the model sub and went along with things. As it turned out, we had had a pretty fucking-good time every time.

Last weekend, we did lunch with his longtime friends, Bevaun and Virginia. In his effort to spice up their lives together and spark a renewed sexual fire, he had me attired as Maid Martha in a skimpy red apron, attending to their every wish, no matter how inappropriate. Even though I was shocked by his ask, and dubious that Stephen's plan would ever succeed, judging by what all had happened, I was personally gratified by all the sex that was had over the entire afternoon.

Surprisingly though, his little improvisation had succeeded, Stephen told me today, that Bevaun and Virginia were madly in love again, and were "fucking their heads off." So, to reward me for the role I had played, and to laud himself for the originality of the idea, he insisted that we celebrate by having a "flogging good time" tonight.

I writhed on the table—at least within the limits of my restraints. I managed a well-timed groan to a well-directed blow, but the whole experience was tormenting me. I wanted to instruct him, remind him of our flogging lesson, but being tied to the submissive role, I countered any such impulse by urging myself to be patient, allowing him to learn by experience, and by uttering an emphatic "Yes!" when he happened to hit the mark. Unfortunately, there were too few times when there was reason to reinforce what he had just done.

But there was more to it than being physically restrained or even being constrained by my role. I was becoming disappointed in Stephen, doubting him. This man, who had been so adept at being a master in our three previous roleplays, was a failure in this one. And I saw no hope that it would change. I had tasted—and liked—the pleasure and pain of our flogging lesson, so on our way home, I was so looking forward to, from Stephen, what I had felt in Mr. Hom's masterful hands...

.

We had entered Leather Folks two hours earlier, and had approached the sales clerk, a feminine appearing person dressed in a tight black leather vest and pants, with black collar, facial piercings, and body art the entire length of her arms. Stephen had inquired about floggers. She had done a double take, eyeing the pair of us standing before her, a tall and lean man beside a shorter heavyset one, maybe wondering who would be the flogger and who, the floggee. But she replied, "I'll get Mr. Hom."

Mr. Hom was a bit inscrutable. He clearly was Asian, and shorter in stature than Stephen, who was two inches shorter than I. He was clean-shaven with jet black hair slicked back, but wasn't obviously muscular. Nevertheless, he had a mastery of us mere mortals by virtue of his command of the so-called "spaces in between." In other words, he could control the silence. He was master of the pause. He could make us wait, sometimes uncomfortably, until he was ready to respond. And so, after a full minute of quiet appraisal of us, two men standing together in a leather shop, he inquired in a soft voice, in English very tersely spoken,

"You like to see floggers?"

"Yes sir," responded Stephen, with an excitement that I thought betrayed his inexperience, then adding, "and maybe some other things too."

Another lengthy silence followed. Mr. Hom, in his quiet way, replied, "You come with me to dungeon then." Though not completely sure, I thought I detected the trace of a smile.

He led us to the back of the store, switched on a light above the stairs, then took us down one flight to a wooden plank door that had a keypad entry. He punched in four numbers, a click sounded, he pulled the door open, and ushered us inside into the dark.

Immediately, four light switches were all flipped up, and although one would have assumed the room to have been intensely flooded in bright light, these switches activated yellow-orange lightbulbs spaced evenly around the dungeon's perimeter, each one in the shape of a flame, presumedly to resemble a torch.

We stood there in a bit of shock. Mr. Hom eventually interrupted our reverie. "Who do flogging?" he inquired, looking first at me, then at Stephen.

Stephen answered, "Me."

Mr. Hom waited another minute, at least. "You do before?"

"No."

A nod from Mr. Hom followed, another silent minute, after which he said, "Then I show you."

At a pace I inferred would allow us ample time to take in the space, we ambled slowly past a manikin trussed up in a rope, proceeded by a bizarrely shaped leather couch, with a rectangular bed of nails lying in front of it, walked past shackles hanging from the walls at varying heights, and finally stopped next to what oddly resembled a massage table. Across from it on the wall hung an assortment of wooden-handled floggers, each with a cluster of leather tendrils hanging down, measuring from a measly six inches to a mammoth three feet.

"So, you be flogged?" Mr. Hom inquired of me, in a hushed but soothing voice, with again the suggestion of a smile raising one corner of his mouth.

"Yes, sir." I answered, being careful to look downward, and not into his eyes.

Turning slowly to Stephen, Mr. Hom waited. Then with a calm but authoritative tone, he stated, "Let me show you proper way to flog."

He let the sentence permeate into Stephen's inexperienced mind. Mr. Hom was in no rush. "You know about Chinese yin-yang? It is important lesson in power/surrender relationship. One who is in power position ironically must always be able to defer to one in surrender position." He looked non-threateningly into Stephen's eyes as he spoke, but his message was clearly one coming from a master teacher.

I'm not sure if Stephen even understood this nuance of sub/dom roles, so the realization of something he never thought of may have been making him uncomfortable. Or, it might have been that here, in this "dungeon," he was obliged to submit to a real master in Mr. Hom. Whether it was both or neither and something else, whatever it was, Stephen uneasily shifted his stance and began fidgeting with his hands, as he answered in a muffled voice, "Yes, Sir."

Mr. Hom proceeded to demonstrate how to use the medium-length flogger, how to employ wrist motion like putting topspin on a ping-pong ball, how to measure where the impact would land, and what areas to avoid. He demonstrated this on the massage table, then gave the flogger to Stephen. Stephen took it, and tried his best, but was obviously having some difficulty with the finer points of the task. Apparently, he did master enough of the mechanics to make Mr. Hom seem satisfied.

He turned and surveyed me. Again, I kept my gaze cast downward, but felt, in his silence, that he was likely making many assessments of me—and ones that were all probably true. The silence was eventually broken by his interrogatory statement, "I show you what it feel like, so you may coach your master, yes?''

What was I to say? Me, coach my master? I had tried that once before and had received a punishment. So I resolved to do that again. Nevertheless, I answered him, "Yes, Sir."

He looked first at me, then turned toward Stephen, "Same yin-yang important here. Person in surrender position must be able to direct the one in power position. You understand?" he inquired of Stephen. Stephen readily nodded and replied, "Yes, Sir."

Mr. Hom smiled. Pivoting toward me, he politely requested, "Please take clothes off."

I looked at Stephen, and he nodded. I got undressed in front of Mr. Hom, who then draped a white sheet over the massage table and picked up some wrist and leg restraints.

Turning to Stephen, he stated, "You may have very obedient slave, but I suggest you use restraints in beginning until he learn not to move."

I laid face down on the massage table, my arms over the edges, which Mr. Hom tethered to the legs on one side, and he stretched my legs out straight and restrained my ankles on the other. Then he looked at Stephen and, with a wink, predicted, "I think he be fun to flog." This time, there was no mistaking his beamingly wide smile.

"You like music?" Mr. Hom asked Stephen. He didn't wait for a reply, just adding, "It help with rhythm of beating."

Mr. Hom took out his mobile, punched it a couple times, and we heard a melody that was distinctly Chinese. Notably, though, it had a lot of rhythmic quality.

Mr. Hom began humming along, as he began with very gentle strokes, slightly smarting, mildly stinging, but nothing I couldn't tolerate. His pattern started with my back, alternating first left side then right side, then moved to my buttocks left and right, left and right, then he interspersed patterns of back and butt. Each thwack came in time with the music, and, in a matter of minutes with a succession of predictably unpredictable strikes, he had me responding with desire for more, begging for harder strokes. And Mr. Hom delivered. They stung, but just the right amount for me to respond, "Yes, Master. You are most kind to me, Master. Harder, Master, please. Harder, Master."

Sometimes I growled it, sometimes I just yelled out. Somehow, he knew, by my body language, the tone of my voice, even by my silence, when I was getting too close to the edge. Then he dangled the leather straps over my skin, tickling me, or lightly smoothed my heated hide with his cool finger tips.

It seemed so obvious. The perfect dom brings his sub to the very brink of endurance, by continually listening to him and then appropriately responding by substituting another sensation to quiet the rapidly firing neural pain fibers.

So why hadn't Stephen learned from this master's lesson how to flog me, I queried myself, as the blows came, unevenly scattered across my back and butt—and without a feeling for the rhythm of the music.

"You're not saying anything," Stephen barked, impatiently. "I'm doing this just like Mr. Hom showed me, so why aren't you begging me for more, like you did with him. Beg for more, you slave," he commanded.

"Yes, Sir Stephen," I replied. And sighed. I hated 'fake it 'til you make it' practices. Was that going to be my fate tonight, I wondered? How long could I endure his incompetence, the annoyance of it all, especially when Stephen expected me to behave as if he were competent, when he just wasn't.

"Yes, Sir Stephen, Yes," I uttered, trying my best to give him some confidence, though maybe there was another reason for my irritability.

After my flogging lesson, Mr. Hom had shown Stephen the proper ways to do a spanking. That was followed by Mr. Hom applying a simple rope truss to my torso to keep me motionless, and, in effect, making a hemp lattice with openings where he could attach clothes pins—to nipples, penis, scrotum, and abdominal skin. The initial pinching pain was intense, but not like the type of pain they produced when removed.

At the end of our shopping experience, Stephen gathered up wrist and ankle restraints, two floggers, a package of clothes pins, and a rope, which he handed to me to carry upstairs. When we got to the cash register and was told the price of $240, Stephen looked at me.

"He's paying," he stated.

"Sir?" I inquired, incredulously.

Stephen knew why I was confused, and so supplied me with the answer, although, he may have had other motives.

"The dress I bought a couple weeks ago was for my pleasure- to look at you in. The torture elements are for your pleasure."

Mr. Hom may have seen his opportunity to be a diplomat, because, after a pause during which our tensions were quietly growing, he calmly made us the following offer, "I give you 20% off if you give him to me to play with for an evening."

To my surprise, Stephen readily agreed. "But I want to watch!" he added licking his lower lip.

Laying there on Stephen's kitchen table, a thin piece of memory foam beneath me, tied to the table legs, and receiving a mediocre flogging, I became enraged. Upset by that agreement they just made, and with Stephen giving me away yet again, I couldn't contain myself any longer. With another one of his inept strikes, I lost it.

"Come on you fuckless fatso. What are you using back there, Lo mein noodles? All you got is limp baloney between your legs, deli-boy. Where's the hard salami?

The insults rushed out of me. I was in such a fit of anger, I couldn't stop them, nor did I care to.

"Stephen is a sissy Sally," I sang in a sing-song voice. "Sissy Sally, Sissy Sally. Hike up your dress, Sally, and hit me like a man!"

Those abuses were effecting a change. Initially the blows became more forceful, but still erratic, though with my continuingly feisty remarks, I sensed a fury growing inside Stephen that maybe even he was unaware of. His focus and concentration changed. He began delivering blows exactly where they were meant to be. He alternated from right to left, from back to buttock. He was becoming a master in a matter of minutes.

What was initially pain without a pattern, senseless suffering, became transformed into an agony for the ages. Each blow really hurt, but each one in a different place, moving the throbbing around my back and backside; stinging me on the right, then the left; tormenting such a varying area that the smarting receded in one spot before another flog strike stung me there again.

"Shit! Fuck! Give me more," I begged him, now in earnest. I was entering a state that i had never been in before. Like a delightful drug experience maybe, although i had never done more than smoke weed. But I was definitely feeling high. The pain was increasing rhythmically with the music he had selected. Stephen was timing his blows and accelerating them with the drums, the bass. I began to scream in ecstatic shrieks.

Stephen kept at it, but soon it became too much. I got tense, and as I braced for the next blow with a tightened grip on my restraints, miraculously Stephen must have recalled the yin-yang lesson of Mr. Hom. He stopped his punishing strokes, and lightly brushed me with the tendrils of the flogger. His hand gently walked over my back, to my buttocks and into my crease, fingering my anus, sliding his hand down to my scrotum and back up again through my anus, up my back to my neck, and around the hairs on the back of my head. It was the reprieve i required to continue on, as it was all that mattered right now.

"Tell me how much you love me whipping you, Martha," he cooed. "Tell me how much you want more."

"Please flog me more, Sir Stephen. Please beat me until it pleases you."

Once he sensed that I had softened again, he went back to beating me, bringing me to that point of near unbearability, before again backing off, letting me recover, allowing my endorphins to slowly build up commensurate with the pain, before resuming his flogging.

Somehow perfectly at the end of his playlist, I reached a delightful Nirvana-like state. I was weeping, joyfully. "Thank you, Sir Stephen. I am yours. Totally yours. Use me however you wish," gushed out of me.

I was inexplicitly willing to let him do anything to me. He sensed that, as well, and unshackled me, helped me off the table, to stretch my legs, before guiding me back to assume a supine position, on my back with my bottom at the edge and my knees bent and locked together. He was wearing only his black thong, saturated with sweat from the work out, and stretched to almost tearing from his robust arousal. He stepped out of the soggy garment, took his bottle of Astroglide in one hand, and lubed up his bare cock with the other. "I got my tests back from the doctor. I'm clean, just like you are," he said. "So now I can fuck you bareback."

We hadn't exchanged fluids before. Not in this way. But I trusted him. Also, in my altered state, I was in no position to argue. I was so high, that all I wanted to be was a toy for him to play with, his tool to use, his sub to abuse in any way he should decide to do so.

I gently let my legs relax as he slid me a little closer toward the end of the table, putting his hard, hard cock against my asshole. Then something came over him, like seeing a breathtaking sunset, or spotting a brilliantly-colored bird, singing on a branch. He waxed poetic.

"You are so beautiful, Martha, with the dew of morning in little drops on you like an unfurling flower. My flower. My own special flower which I have cultivated so perfectly tonight in my garden of anguish.

He had succeeded in that. I had had my doubts. But he had scaled his steep learning curve. And now he deserved his reward.

He eased himself into me. Painlessly now. Slowly. Gently. All the way to the hilt, then nearly out. He repeated the motion, in again, then almost out. It tortured me as the joy of stretch, was interrupted by the fear of him about to completely withdraw. But he never fully did, only tormented me again and again by bringing me to yet another edge. Graciously, he slowly ramped up the tempo, added more force, then more ferocity. With every thrust, I beared down to welcome him. With every withdrawal, I tightened my sphincter telling him to never leave. Gradually, each of us began sighing, soon in harmonious grunts that accelerated, giving way to even more vigor and force.

Because he was in a prime position, he put one of his hands—the one with residual lube—on my cock, encircled me, and rubbed it rhythmically as he was fucking me, matching our exhaled affirmations. I only remember that delicious feeling of him sliding in and out of me with my cock being slid in and out of his hand. The delirium heightened just before the explosion, with both of us coming and shouting, cursing and blaspheming, exclaiming and exulting. My rigid rod was erupting with gism all over my abdomen, and Stephen was filling me full of his spunk, until we were spent, sweaty, and satisfied.