by Trent Evans
“Here we are,” Troy said, pulling the truck to the curb, outside the Selkirk Theater. It was still early so neither the theater nor the restaurants along Columbia were open yet, the only storefront that showed any life being the Starbucks way down at the northeastern corner of the park, where Columbia met Denali Ave.
“A theater?”
“Trust me, it’ll make sense.” Troy leaned an arm over the top of his seat toward his wife. “Ready?”
Lacey’s lovely throat worked, and she gave him a tense nod, the quirk of her lips rendered more a tic borne of nerves than any conscious expression.
The brief white tank — all Troy allowed her on Session days— revealed a scandalous amount of her generous endowments, the thin cotton not so much hiding as highlighting her hard nipples. No bra had been allowed her, of course, as was apparently customary on such outings, whether or not Lacey was slated to be an active participant or not.
Inside, the theater appeared no different from any other multiplex, the concession stand an explosion of sound, neon, and flashing video screens. There was something missing though — that mouth-watering smell of popcorn. Nobody had started the machine up yet, Hunter experiencing a momentary — and absurd — pang of regret at that.
Sure, that’ll go over real well, idiot. You stuffing your cakehole with popcorn while you watch the festivities.
They followed the long corridor that extended to either direction behind the concession area, passing the entrances that opened to several theaters on either side of them, the red painted doors a stark contrast to the dull black of the walls. A set of double-doors at the end of the corridor led them down a flight of carpeted stairs, then another flight down to the right, the dimmed recessed track lighting along the tops of each wall reminding him of a museum hallway. At the bottom of the stairs, another set of double doors faced them, two rather large men in black suits stood guard, flanking the entrance on either side.
“Kelly, Jason,” Troy said, his arm around Lacey’s shoulder. He tilted his head toward Hunter. “He’s just observing today. Von should’ve put the paperwork in already.”
One of the men, a hulking figure of easily 6’ 5” with a thick, dark brown goatee and shaved head extended a hand toward Hunter. “Just need to see your ID, sir.”
Hunter sheepishly fished his wallet from his pocket, dropping his license in a palm that looked about the size of a dinner plate.
“Looks good,” the man said, handing Hunter’s license back to him, nodding to his partner, who opened one of the doors, swinging it outward and stepping aside.
“Thanks, Jason. Say hi to Jenny for me.” Troy clapped him on the shoulder. “How is she, anyway? Fit to pop, I’ll bet.”
Jason’s grin shone bright against the dark of his goatee. “Eight months, now. Almost there.”
“Lucky bastard,” Troy said, giving the man a wave as he led the wide-eyed Lacey into the room beyond. Hunter followed, the door closing with a muffled thud behind them.
The space they found themselves in reminded Hunter of a cross between the new stadium-style movie theaters and an observation gallery like those one might see in a medical school for watching surgical procedures. The walls were a carpeted, inky black as were the sumptuous upholstered chairs. The seating wrapped in a gentle arc around a brightly lit, central stage, raised several feet above the first row of seats. Hunter, squinting, trying to get his eyes to adjust to the different light level, could make out several couples, seated here and there, but many of the seats were empty.
He tapped Troy on the arm, giving him a questioning look.
“Still waiting on a few.” Troy pointed off to their right. “Let’s sit over there. Great view from up here.”
They took their seats, Troy making a point of installing Lacey between the two of them.
The stage was smaller than those found in a theater or concert hall, more a platform of sorts, the floorboards a smooth varnished wood, like one would expect from the floor of a ballet studio. Several mirrors at different angles flanked the stage to either side, lending both an impression of a larger space and amplifying the sense that any occupants of the platform were indeed being watched. Intently.
Jesus, is this for real?
The stage was far from empty. A tall cross, shaped in a sloped X dominated the right side, angled slightly back. The cross faced toward the center of the gallery. Several stout leather-wrapped benches of various configurations were scattered about, one whose slope toward the back of the stage gave its purpose away as an obvious spanking bench. Straps were folded neatly atop each apparatus, the burnished nickel of the buckles and latches catching the light. Several sets of chains hung from the darkness of the rafters above, some with manacles and some without. A steel frame resembling a squat rack from a gym could be seen in one corner. Next to that was a bank of freestanding shelving containing folded white towels, numerous dark bottles and cases, and even what looked like plastic bottles of water. A broad pegboard stand was mounted off to one side of the cross, from which every implement of corporal punishment Hunter could think of hung on neat little hooks. Brilliant, intense lighting flooded the platform with illumination, ideal for the audience, but no doubt disconcerting for anyone caught under the glare. A tall lectern stood at the left edge of the stage, near a set of stairs that led down to the floor at the foot of the first row of seats.
An electric buzz could be felt in the darkened gallery, Troy’s boyish yet predatory grin showing he felt it too. Still looking down toward the stage, he leaned toward his wife, laying a hand on her bare thigh.
“Let’s go ahead and get that skirt out of the way then.”
Hunter felt more than heard Lacey’s soft gasp, and he tried to watch her without making it obvious that he was trying to do so.
Slowly, Lacey worked the tight skirt up, exposing more of her pale legs, her skin appearing almost a ghostly luminescent in the deep shadow of the gallery.
The smooth, shaven sex was revealed between milky thighs, Troy patting it as if it were a favored pet. Lacey took hold of each arm of her chair, gripping it tightly as if this were a much practiced — or brutally enforced — ritual.
“You don’t have to do that, you know.” Troy said.
“Do what?” Hunter scratched his chin self-consciously, still trying to take everything in, still trying to ignore the urge to stroke the lovely sex laid bare for him mere inches away.
“You don’t have to act like you shouldn’t look.” Troy leaned forward, turning to face both of them while still in his seat. His glance flicked to Lacey. “Spread them open.”
Her legs eased apart, and even in the darkness, Hunter could see her deep blush. Troy fixed his glittering gaze upon Hunter. “Right now, our Lacey is suitably frightened. And you know why? Because I haven’t told her for sure that she’s not going to be called to today’s Session. You see, she thinks that just because she’s sitting on sore and bruised thighs that that means she gets out of jail free today.”
Lacey stiffened, her breathing seemingly frozen on a sharp inhale.
“But she knows that it’s not always enough. Sometimes a woman’s husband will still want her up on that platform. Simply because he can.” Troy smiled at her. “Does that about sum it up for you, girl?”
“Yes… Sir.” The sound was more a trembling whisper than a voice.
“I think she’s had enough, don’t you?” Hunter swallowed, knowing this wasn’t really his place, but unable to help the surge of protectiveness he felt at the idea.
I think you mean possessiveness.
Hunter looked back toward the aisle as two more couples made their way down into the gallery, taking seats further along on their same side. One woman, obviously quite late into a pregnancy, was helped into her seat by her doting — and grinning — husband. A lock of her dark hair fell across her eyes, and he plucked it aside before sitting down next to her, his big arm wrapped around the back of her seat.
“How is Ron’s wife doing by the way?”
Troy asked Lacey in a quiet voice. “Sunny, right? You used to play doubles with her, didn’t you?”
“Misses tennis that’s for sure — but she loves being pregnant.”
“Seems a little odd to you?” Troy squeezed her leg, easing his hand up the inside of her thigh. “Loving pregnancy, that is?”
“I-I hated the last trimester”—Lacey stifled a moan as Troy’s hand delved between her legs—“I loved the rest though.”
Hunter recalled Lacey’s misery when she’d found herself confined to bed rest for the last two weeks before delivery. He still couldn’t believe how big her belly had become — nor how beautiful he thought she looked, even then.
A tall man in a dark off-green suit treaded up the stairs of the platform, then took his place behind the lectern. He looked up then, his intense gaze scanning the darkened gallery.
“No way,” Hunter murmured.
“Keenan loves this shit. Just wait,” Troy said, with a low chuckle.
“Welcome to another Session, everyone,” Keenan said, his voice deep and clear. Hunter couldn’t tell if it was amplified by a microphone or not. If it was, that was some kinda sound system.
The crowd stirred with a murmur of anticipation, then quieted, Keenan looking upon them patiently.
“You all know why we’re here, of course, so let’s get right to it.” Keenan flipped over a page on the lectern. “We have four wives with us today. Four wives for a Session, who need an extra reminder or two of their duty to love and obey. Let’s have them come on up and we’ll get started.”
One by one, each woman stood from where she sat — two down close to the stage, and one on the opposite side of the upper gallery where Troy, Lacey and Hunter sat. The remainder of the crowd looked on, turning to watch, whispering as each woman made her way through the seats and down to the platform.
It wasn’t until three of the women had lined up along the front right of the stage, just forward of the cross, that Hunter noted their common dress. They each wore a long-sleeved white blouse, buttoned quite far up under the chin. A long, loose black skirt completed the bizarrely austere outfits, the fabric just reaching the tops of the straps of their plain heels. Their shoes were mid-height — definitely not something you’d normally see at the office, but not quite stripper slutty either.
Too bad.
Hunter smiled, despite himself, shifting his legs to try to find more room for his hard cock. Loose slacks would’ve been a better choice than jeans today.
Their bright eyes were wide as they peered up into the gallery. One, a dark-haired beauty of perhaps twenty, was so pale, Hunter wondered if she was about to pass out. The blouse and skirt hid her figure to a great extent, but Hunter could tell that though her breasts weren’t large, her hips were quite generous indeed. The woman in the middle was a blonde in her thirties, trim and athletic of build with shoulders maybe a tiny bit large for her frame. Her hands clasped together tightly in front of her thighs. She refused to look up at the gallery, her head bowed, shame rolling off her in waves.
Hunter tried not to think about how much her shame turned him on.
The woman at the end was a curvy, luscious female easily into her later forties, the broadness of her hips and the slightly lower, though still round and generous breasts belying her age. She glanced from where she’d come — she’d been one of the two sitting down near the stage — then looked over at Keenan. Her auburn hair, a thick, rich weight of locks, was caught up in a rather haphazard bun at the back of her head, one long strand of it hanging fetchingly at her temple. She looked upon the throng with firm lips, nostrils flaring, her expression one of fear or pique.
“Quite the group,” Hunter found himself saying, wincing at the way the words carried, muted chuckling erupting several rows down from them.
Keenan leaned an elbow on the lectern, a bemused expression on his face as he scanned the gallery.
“Seems we’re missing one,” he murmured wryly, soft laughter rippling through the spectators.
Then a fourth woman made her way to the stairs, pausing at the bottom to glare up at Keenan. He lifted his chin toward the other women already waiting on the stage, and the woman reluctantly climbed the stairs, joining them. The light caught the bright track of a tear on one fair cheek as she took her place in line.
“So he wasn’t kidding then?”
“Nope — he’s a man of his word. Unfortunately for Amy.”
The fourth woman was Keenan’s wife, Amy. He remembered well Keenan noting that it was his wife’s turn for a Session, but not really understanding at the time what the man had been referring to.
“So… he’s the master of ceremonies for this crazy shit — and his wife is going to be punished in front of all these people?”
“Sometimes it’s good to be Keenan.”
Hunter covered up his smile with a hand, Lacey stirring again between them. Then something happened that he’d never have expected.
Lacey took his hand.
Squeezing tight, she laid it on her other thigh, and she glanced over at him, her eyes twin glittering pools in the shadows of the gallery. Her smile was fleeting — more a quirk of lips — but it spoke volumes. Humiliated, embarrassed, or mortified, Lacey was still with them. She was still present, still part of this.
And she wanted Hunter to be part of this too.
“Now that we’re all present, Christie Matthias, come forward.”
The young brunette woman’s eyes went wide, her head snapping toward Keenan. He gave her a subtle nod, and she took a small step.
“Christie is here for only the second time, but where her inaugural Session was simply to introduce her to our ways, today’s visit has a more… specific purpose. Christie, you’ve been charged with neglect of wifely duties and endangering yourself. How do you plead?”
“I… I don’t understand. I”—she looked in the direction of where she’d been sitting as she held up her hands—“I’m sorry — it was just a ticket…”
“A citation for thirty miles an hour over the speed limit. Sheriff Mathis was quite forgiving in not arresting you for reckless driving. Now, I say again: how do you plead, Christie?” Keenan tapped the lectern with a knuckle, slowly, pointedly. “Looking to your husband will not save you today, and you know it.”
Christie looked down a moment. “Guilty, Sir. But I went to court and paid the fine. Isn’t that enough?”
“If it were, you wouldn’t be here today,” Keenan said, crossing his arms over his chest. He nodded toward the crowd. “Since she admits her guilt, we can dispense with a poll. William Matthias, come on up.”
A man in a charcoal-colored suit strode along the base of the platform, Christie’s wide-eyed gaze following him. He took the stairs two at a time, pausing a moment to whisper something to Keenan. Then turning toward his wife, he ran a hand through black hair just beginning to turn gray. Something passed between husband and wife then, and Christie walked slowly toward one of the frames, stopping before the spanking bench. A quick glance back over her shoulder and a nod from her husband had her bending over the apparatus.
It was then that Hunter understood the long skirts, his cock throbbing anew at the sight.
As Christie bent, the fabric of her skirt parted to either side, revealing long, slender legs, the dark slot of her naked sex unmistakable between pale thighs. The position even revealed the tight whorl of the anus, huddling between the rounded peaks of the buttocks. Even from up in the gallery, Hunter could make out the faded marks that still adorned the woman’s bottom cheeks, faint pink lines here and there, especially upon the right hip.
Ho.Ly.Shit.
“William is rather uh, free with their strap,” Troy murmured from the corner of his mouth, as if commenting on a sporting event rather than the corporal discipline of a grown woman. “I’ve seen his technique a time or two. Knows how to put Christie through her paces, that’s for sure.”
Lacey made a small sound, Troy’s murmured response a soft admonishment, his fi
ngers still busy between her legs. Hunter could smell her arousal now, the spicy note making his mouth water, his cock throbbing even harder.
“What shall it be, William?” Keenan walked over to the implements, a long finger easing through the falls of a red leather flogger.
Laying his suit coat on one of the empty frames, William was already rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt. He looked like he’d just stepped out of the boardroom… and into a spanko’s wet dream.
“I think the cane for her today. That junior one should work, if you don’t mind, Keenan.”
Christie’s strained voice could be heard, but it was too muffled to make out the words, her hips wiggling nervously.
Pressing the rattan into William’s outstretched hand, Keenan moved back to his lectern. “At your ease, William.”
The man made short work of the straps on the bench, within less than a minute lashing Christie so tightly to the apparatus that she could barely move. He’d reduced her to nothing much more than a pair of pale, trembling buttocks, her milky complexion setting off the trim legs, the heels — which he’d left on her — lending even more tension to the firm muscles.
“Dude should rope calves,” Hunter said, for some reason needing a little levity right at that moment. Anything to get him thinking about something other than his own aching need.
Troy chuckled, but didn’t take his eyes from the spectacle before them. “I think we both need some practice.” He withdrew his fingers for a moment, patting Lacey’s thigh, the sound wet. “What do you say? Think you might want to help us with that, girl?”
“Yes, Sir,” Lacey said, her breath coming faster now.
She sighed as Troy’s fingers went to work once more.
The cane tapped across the twin mounds of Christie’s ass, and Hunter found himself holding his breath, even as he wished he were the one wielding the rattan. Christie’s bottom stilled, and he could almost see the tension pouring off her body.