Hurrying to get the picture off my screen, I notice the small writing at the bottom of the page. It’s about some auction that’s about to come up. Only after seeing that do I notice that the link I clicked on that took me to this sexual place belongs to BDSM club in Portland, Oregon, in the States.
Several clicks later, I find out this place is a haven for those types of people, and there are many clubs in that city. It’s the number one city in America to find things of this nature. And it seems like the perfect place to begin my search for people who might be helpful enough to be truthful with me and offer me more insight into the dark world that’s shrouded in mystery.
Another click sends me to a picture of a naughty young woman wearing leather clothing and holding her hand to her mouth as she looks surprised. I suppose she never saw the man coming who’s behind her. Hard to believe, as he has a whip in his hand, and it’s aimed for her round and firm ass. Somehow, he’s surprised her with what he’s about to do.
No fear is in her eyes. No tears from pain. Only a surprised look covers her pretty face. The man wears a firm expression on his ruggedly handsome facade. I can hear him now, in my mind, “Gertie, you have this coming to you. You forgot the salt in my soup again.”
I giggle to myself, as that was an actual line in one of the novels I read, recently. Even then I thought it was silly and dimwitted. If a man told me I was about to get whipped with an actual whip because of something so small and easily fixed with the jiggle of a salt shaker, I’d most likely laugh and walk away. He would obviously be an idiot and not worth my attention or time.
My mind is too strong, and so is my will, to ever be involved in any of that stuff. But it’s such a fantasy for many women that it bears investigating. My first novel in the erotic realm should have more than a grain of truth to it. I want some real grit mixing in with the fairy tale of a story I will create. None of that phony crap!
I wonder if I can find a real Dom or Master to ask questions to. I wonder if any of them would even want to take time away from whipping asses to talk to a lowly, vanilla virgin about things she knows little to nothing about.
Doubt clouds my vision as I sit back and gaze at the next thing that’s popped up on my screen. A couple of women, clad in nothing but black panties, stand with their backs to a whip-wielding man who wears a black mask and looks like he’s about to bring down the rain on them both.
“Run, you morons,” I say out loud, as I notice an open door to their right.
Is it humanly possible to stand still and take the pain of a whip when you’re steps away from escape?
Is it possible that, in some people, the need to feel pain is overwhelming, like a drug addict who hates the after effects of a certain drug but can’t stop taking it?
The sharp eyes of the women as they look over their shoulders while holding hands, waiting for the whip to meet one of their bodies, haunt me. How can they be so bright eyed with pain on the way?
If I see a hot burner on the stove, I don’t touch it. If I saw a man running wildly down the street with his belt in his hand, striking out at people, I’d hide. So why do some seek this out?
And what chance do I have of finding even one of the people who practice BDSM who would be willing to help me understand them? And why would they want to?
I’m offering no compensation for their time. I’m offering nothing. I merely want to satisfy my own curiosity, nothing more than that. I want to use what I’m given to make money, as a matter of fact.
No, it’s doubtful that I will be able to find anyone in the BDSM scene to answer my questions. Perhaps I should end this silliness. Maybe I should put this idea to rest and focus on romantic comedy, instead. That would be so much easier, wouldn’t it?
Pierce
Her ass sways as she leaves the room. Strands of leather cover it, and red marks cover the places the straps don’t. After an hour of cuddling my sub for the evening, Tasha, she feels safe enough to leave my company in the private room I rented at The Dungeon of Decorum. She wanted no sex, only punishment. And I gave her what she asked for, like any good Dom would.
Relaxing on the small bed in the room made for torturing the flesh of submissives, I can’t help but recall the first time I came here. It was a mere three years ago, yet it feels like a century.
Bogged down in business, I was burning out fast. Being the new CEO of Waterson Mutual, a business finance company in Portland, Oregon, I was trying to prove my worth to the board, busting my ass far more than I needed to. And it was catching up to me.
Grant Jamison became my friend and eventual hero. Older than me by five years, he took me under his wing and taught me that work is great, but one should always leave time for play.
Grant’s idea of play was very different from what my idea was. I thought he was suggesting playing racquetball with him and the friends he talked about. What he brought me into was far more serious than a ballgame.
In the matter of one month, I was inducted into the brotherhood of the Dominants at a local BDSM club, aptly named The Dungeon of Decorum, a place I now visit often.
Being a Dom comes naturally to me, as if I was born to lead, teach, and rule women. At thirty- five, I’ve been told I should be settling down and finding a woman to marry. I’ve been told I can keep my dark hobby a secret and lead a normal life in every other way, but that sounds boring to me.
Being a part of the club I belong to means I can’t divulge any information about myself or any other members. We’re an eclectic group of men, who happen to all be wealthy. With that in common, we all have to hide our secret lives. After all, who would want a mayor, a banker, or a statesman who’s into such dark things?
I was astonished by the faces I saw upon visiting the club for the first time. Men from all over the U.S. come to the club. Auctions are especially busy, as not only men come from everywhere, but so do the women who are auctioned off.
Personally, I’ve never bought a woman. I’ve never had an ongoing thing with any of the subs. I prefer one-time scenes. I follow up with the women I’ve played with for about a week’s time, then it’s on to other things. Things like other women with other needs, fetishes, and desires.
Studying techniques extensively has earned me the reputation for being one of the best Doms if one is looking for an excellent experience in bondage. My kinks are bondage, suspension, cupping, impact play, and power exchange, all of which I am particularly good at.
More than once, I’ve been called driven— in business, in bed, and in my personal kinks. If it interests me, I dive into it head first and don’t come up until I’m saturated in knowledge.
I’ve had three serious relationships in my life. Two of them ended because of my incessant drive. Janet, in college, said I was too into my studies and not enough into her. So, she dumped me.
Leah, my second girl, lived with me when I first started working in the finance world. I had to devote most of my time to work. I wanted to move up quickly. After a year, she called it quits too, another woman who told me I didn’t spend enough time with her.
Tracy was a gold digger who lured me into what she thought might be a trap. It was the first year I broke the billion-dollar mark on my yearly income. The daughter of a grocery store janitor, Tracy wanted more out of life. I asked her to move into my spanking new mansion with me. I showered her with gifts and tried my best to make time for her.
Tracy was one beautiful woman. Long blonde hair with golden streaks hung to her tiny waist. Bright blue eyes spoke to my heart, telling me I’d found an angel. But she turned out to be a demon instead.
Not wanting to get into having a family at that time, I was an avid condom user. When she came to me with a pregnancy test stick that had a couple of lines in it, she told me she was pregnant. With my child!
I’m no idiot; I know condoms aren’t one hundred percent effective, but she had also told me she was taking a birth control shot. Anyone can imagine how I felt: shocked, as well as disbelieving.
Tracy was furious when I took her to a doctor and stayed with her as she took the pregnancy test at the physician’s office. It came back negative, and I knew then and there that the woman was trying to force me into marriage. I had no choice; I dumped her.
And after her, I’ve had no desire to deal with women for an extended period of time again. I’m not broken. I’m just too busy to want to deal with all that comes with a relationship.
At the club, I can find women who want whatever I do at the time, anything from letting out aggression to cuddling and fulfilling that need. And not one of the women I’ve been with since joining the club has asked anything more from me than I am willing to give. A relief is what it is.
No games are played. In our world, we communicate far more than in the normal world, the world with innuendos, cat and mouse shenanigans, and downright lies to get into relationships that are racked with turmoil.
Women have been taught things by society that go against nature. I never realized that until I found the BDSM world. Things like fighting hard to be above men, a thing that’s insane, have been shoved into their minds.
Women and men are different. We were put here to serve different purposes. There isn’t one of us who is better than the other. And one cannot exist without the other. Society has interfered with the natural order of things. And I, for one, am tired of dealing with women who fight nature.
A sense of calmness took me over soon after beginning this lifestyle. There’s no arguing, no manipulations, no flirting to get into a woman’s panties now. That shit is history. In the club, I can go up to any woman I’d like to, as long as she doesn’t belong to a man who prefers her to be with only him, and I can be frank with her. I can tell her what I’d like to do with and to her, and she’s free to accept it or not.
If she’s into it, then we discuss every last detail about what we want to exchange with one another and plan out our scene. The planning is like foreplay. One gets hot and horny while discussing the details. Keeping our hands to ourselves can be hard as we describe what we want. But I prefer to hold back any physical connection until we get into our scene. It builds anticipation and makes for a better session.
A rap on the darkly stained oak door to the private room takes me out of my thoughts. “Come in.”
Grant pushes the door open. He’s got his arm around a tall, lithe brunette with tons of makeup on. “Hey, Pierce, this one here wants someone to watch us. You game?”
I slide off the bed and pull on my black lounge pants. “Sure. Am I a loud member of the audience or a quiet creeper?”
“Loud,” she tells me as I make my way to them. She strokes my cheek as she peers into my eyes. “My, you are a looker. And that body. Mmmm.”
Taking her hand away from my face, as I don’t allow touch until we’re in the act, I let her know, “If you like what you see, we can talk sometime soon about what you need, baby.”
“I need you,” she whispers, making my groin thump.
“We’ll see how well you take what my friend dishes out before you and I talk about what it is you need.” I step to one side and allow Grant to lead the party to wherever he has planned.
Grant winks at me. “Perhaps you could show me your flogging technique on her if she’s all right with that. I’ve heard you’ve developed it so it’s better than most Doms’.”
The way the woman, wearing only a thin, white, silk robe, looks over her shoulder at me, tells me she’d like that.
“Sure, I can show you.”
“I cannot wait,” she purrs.
A growl fills my throat as I think about how she’s about to feel. “Baby, we’re about to take you to the Amber Zone.”
Jade
The night is long. I toss and turn most of it. Dreams of whips and chains fill the hours, along with men in dark shadows who call out for me to stop running.
Getting out of bed, I rub the sleep from my eyes and make my way to the shower. My flat is small, and I’m tired of looking at the same walls each day. Summer is nearly here, and I want to go on holiday somewhere, get out of my country for a couple of months and see some other place.
The water’s hot, making steam fill the tiny water closet. Steeping into the standup shower, my body jerks as the heated water hits it. “Ow!” I turn down the heat and make the water’s temperature more compatible with my skin.
Memories of the dreams which plagued me bounce around in my head. In them I was different. I was unafraid, yet not allowing myself to be drawn in by the husky, deep voices of the men.
The plum shampoo smells great and helps to wake me up. After a shot of something with caffeine in it, I should be good to go. It’s the weekend, and I have nothing to do but study for my finals. One more week of school, then I’ll be free.
I’m not one of those creatures who freaks out over finals. I know my stuff, as I pay attention in class and have an honest interest in the subject matter. That always helps.
Turning off the water, I step out and towel off. Throwing on a fluffy pink robe, I wrap the towel around my hair in a turban-like fashion and make my way back into my bedroom. A set of sweats will do for my day of studying and chilling out.
After getting dressed, I stroll out to the kitchen to make some coffee and pop a bagel into the toaster. Taking the cream cheese out of the fridge, I notice my laptop sitting on the kitchen counter where I left it last night.
Before I went to bed, I told myself that I’d forget about trying to find anyone to answer my BDSM questions. The realization that no one would waste his time with me settled into my head.
The dreams have sparked my insatiable curiosity once again and I find myself drawn to the silver laptop. I open it and turn it on. It buzzes and whirrs as it comes to life.
My attention is taken away from the device as the toaster pops up my bagel and I set about pouring a cup of coffee and getting my little breakfast ready to eat. Sitting at the table, I take my first bite and look at my laptop again.
“Oh, what the hell.” I get up and grab it, placing it on the tabletop and typing in the search engine I like to use when doing research.
Tapping in a simple ‘BDSM society,’ I sit back and let the engine find something for me to read while I eat half of my bagel and sip the stout black coffee. A directory of sites comes up on the screen, and I tap the first one. A list appears at the top of the page. The title explains they’re things used to play with. The first item is a spreader bar. The picture looks innocuous enough. But the description says the bar can be made of metal or wood, and it’s used to keep the submissive spread open. It can be utilized on either the wrists or the ankles, and it can even be hung from the ceiling.
“Oh, my!”
Why on Earth would anyone willingly be held in that position?
Oh, well. On to the next thing: medical restraints. A set of four small leather belts is used to hold a person to the bed. I have to ask myself: if it’s all so great, why does one have to be bound to the bed?
Next, I see something called a monoglove. The poor girl has her arms behind her back and is wrapped with a leather glove-like thing. She’s helpless to move her arms. Again, I must ask myself, why?
Not only does it look constricting and uncomfortable, it seems silly to me. Does the Dom need to keep his sub’s hands away from him or something?
Moving on, I find a muzzle gag, a penis gag, and a ring gag; they all look more than a bit uncomfortable. I’m left wondering if I would actually choke if the penis gag was put into my mouth and strapped there. I definitely think I would!
A medieval-looking device is next. It’s used to hold a person’s nose, pulling it backward so their head is pulled back and their mouth opens. It’s called a nose hook, and I really have no idea why it would be considered a sexual device. It looks like a thing one would use to get a child to accept medicine when they fight about taking it.
“Oh! I get it now!” A blush heats my cheeks as I think about being forced to open my mouth and having a man’s cock placed into i
t.
If I were a man, though, I still wouldn’t trust the object to stop my submissive from clamping down on my dick. And if she has to be forced to accept it, then why’s she there in the first place?
I just keep finding more questions to ask!
Plastic wrap is next on the list, and I see that it’s used to wrap up the sub like a mummy. How inexpensive that is, and how odd that anyone thought of that. I can hear the odd couple now: “Honey, can you get the plastic wrap from the kitchen? I think I’ll wrap it around you tonight so I can have my way with you.”
And the daft woman would run off to fetch the item without a thought in her empty head. No, I just don’t get it at all!
Something called a posture collar is next on this insane list. It’s just like the white collars one wears when they have a neck injury. Perhaps it’s used to aid in the protection of the neck when being beaten like an animal. The woman who has it on looks equally as uncomfortable as any person I’ve seen wearing one because they had to.
So, I am left with more questions than I previously had, and my curiosity is banging on my brain to get the answers it requires. But I close the laptop and try to focus on what I really need to be doing, studying for my finals.
The chair I’m sitting in is made of wood and not comfortable in the least, with its rigid back. Studying goes out the window as I close my eyes and imagine being strapped to the chair with leather medical restraints. A wide posture collar wrapped around my neck makes me sit up straight. A spreader bar holds my legs open and a monoglove pins my arms behind my back. Even the fantasy is constricting and awkward. I open my eyes and laugh as I think about letting anyone do such things to me.
And those things aren’t anywhere nearly as horrible as the whips and chains. My mind is right back where it’s been for the past several months: bondage, brutality, and why anyone would allow that to happen to them. What type of beasts want to do that to someone?
In the romance novels, women easily fall in love with their tormentors. Why?
If a man did even half of the things to me that I’ve read about, I think I’d kill him in his sleep and not have an ounce of guilt over it. To fall in love with such a beastly person is a thing I cannot imagine.
Filthy Commitments: A Submissives’ Secrets Novel Page 57