He swapped his crop for a multi-strand whip, which he flicked in increasingly harder slaps against the naked shoulders, buttocks and thighs of the restrained submissive. The exposed skin, peppered with the leather strands, was slowly darkening to an even, rosy glow, and it didn’t escape Tristan’s attention that the sub was intensely aroused.
For that matter, so was Tristan.
The Dominant paused his whip and stalked around the cross again, speaking with the sub through the arms of the cross. The Dominant reached down while he was speaking and caressed the sub’s cock and balls, making the man pant and strain for more.
The whip was put away, and once again the Dominant approached his partner, this time letting him see as he slowly unbuckled his belt and pulled it through the loops of his dark jeans. He folded the belt in half, and held it to his sub’s lips to kiss the leather before taking in his place again.
The first crack of the belt across the submissive’s buttocks crackled through Tristan’s body like electricity and Tristan gasped at the pleasure of it. The anticipation. The envy. Another crack, and Tristan’s cock joined in, twitching in his jeans.
He. Wanted. That. Belt.
“Tristan?” He tore his gaze away from the scene to see the worried expression on his wife’s face. “Are you alright? You’re tense.”
He glanced at the scene again, the sub taking another lash. “Yeah,” he turned away from the scene. “Can we go home? I think I’ve had enough for one night.”
“But what about Ariel?” Judith frowned. “She’ll be looking for us.”
“I just want to go home,” he said. Before everyone can see how much it aroused me to see one man hurt another.
~*~
Chapter 5
“Tristan?” Judith asked tentatively from the doorway. It was after ten on Sunday night, and the only light in the living room was the flickering blue light from the TV. Tristan didn’t move, lying on the couch, and she approached to see if he’d fallen asleep. When she got closer, she saw that his eyes were open and fixed on the TV. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
She perched on the edge of the couch beside his hip, her hands clasped in her lap, and glanced at the TV; on the screen, actors were arguing in Xhosa. “Tristan? You don’t even speak Xhosa.”
Turning onto his back, he rubbed his eyes and took in a deep, troubled breath, then stared at the ceiling instead. “I’m fine.”
“Tristan, please speak to me. Is this about Friday?”
He closed his eyes and took another deep breath, weighing his words. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“About what?”
He reached for her hand where it lay in her lap and caressed the back of her hand slowly with his thumb. “About that last scene we watched at the club. About the guy that was being whipped with the belt,” he whispered.
Judith didn’t say anything, just squeezed his hand in encouragement.
“I kept wishing it was me. Every lash of that belt on his ass, my own skin prickled. I was getting excited by it.”
“You’re a masochist, Baby,” Judith whispered. She swallowed. “Why did you want to leave? You could have spoken with Ariel and asked her if she knew someone to -”
Tristan dropped her hand. “No. Not in front of everyone.”
“What?”
“I’m not getting undressed in front of a bunch of strangers and letting a strange man touch my cock,” Tristan snapped and scrambled to sit up, nearly bumping Judith off the couch. “Certainly not while my wife’s watching. I’m not gay. I’m a married man, and I love my wife.”
Ignoring his distress, Judith clambered onto his lap and whispered over and over “I love you, Baby. It’ll be okay. I love you.”
After several minutes of silence, Tristan calmed down and wrapped her in his arms. Judith worked her fingers into Tristan’s hair at the base of his skull and slowly scratched his scalp with her nails.
“Sweetheart?” Tristan asked. “Will you whip me with a belt?”
Judith stilled. “I can’t do that.”
“Of course you can,” Tristan countered. “It’s not like you have to tie me up – I want this. I feel itchy,” Tristan admitted. “Restless. I feel like I’m on a diet, and I know where someone hid the chocolate.”
“Tristan,” Judith’s voice trembled. “And if you go through another depression like earlier this week? I don’t know how to bring you out of it safely. It’s dangerous – I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I thought the whole point was getting hurt,” Tristan said, but his joke fell flat.
“If we’re going to do this, we need help,” Judith said. I can ask Ariel for advice, but I seriously think we shouldn’t try this alone.”
~*~
Michael leaned back in his desk chair and rubbed at his eyes. It was no use – he couldn’t concentrate on the shortlisting of the new candidates for the bookkeeper position. Not when all he could think of, was a certain married couple he’d seen again on Friday night at Angelus.
He hadn’t been able to resist checking the system that morning for Tristan Bennett’s appointment time; against his better judgement, he’d changed the appointment from Tristan’s regular doctor to himself.
He didn’t think Tristan had seen him watching them on Friday night. Tristan’s eyes had been fixed on the sub being beaten, right up until the moment he’d fled the dungeon, taking Judith with him.
His desktop phone rang, and he picked it up before the second ring. “Dr McIan.”
“Doctor, Mr Bennett is here for his appointment.”
“Thank you, Fatima; could you please show him to my office?”
He hung up. Rubbing the stiffness from his thigh – he’d been sitting for too long – he stretched luxuriously, then opened his drawer to get the gloves and small, needle-nosed scissors he’d put there in preparation for this consultation.
Michael rarely saw patients in his office. More accurately – Michael never saw patients in his office. When he did see patients, it was normally because another doctor had called in sick, in which case he would use their consulting room, but he’d make an exception for Tristan Bennett. These days, as owner of the practice, his role was more administrative than medical.
Michael looked up at the sharp rap on his open door and saw Tristan waiting for him. “Come in,” he smiled.
“Can I close the door?” Tristan asked.
“Please,” Michael said, then indicated the guest chair on the other side of his desk. He grabbed the latex gloves and scissors and walked around the desk to stand beside Tristan’s chair. “How do you feel?” Michael leaned over Tristan where he was seated in the chair so that he could examine the scars.
“I feel fine,” Tristan said, tipping his head slightly to give Michael better access.
Michael tilted Tristan’s head over to the right to better catch the light coming in from his window. Tristan’s five-o-clock shadow was rough under Michael’s fingertips, and a tingle of pleasure rippled down Michael’s spine. There was just something about feeling the beginnings of a beard that Michael found attractive.
“Hmmm…” Michael said. “No inflammation, and the skin seems to have knitted neatly. Let’s get these sutures out.”
Michael pushed his hands into the gloves, then parted Tristan’s hair to get to the cut on his scalp first, before moving on to the scar on his face. He tugged gently on the end of one of the sutures, opening up the loop so that he could get the tip of the scissors in there and snip it off. Once snipped, the thread pulled easily from Tristan’s skin.
“Nothing like having a prescription for chocolate, is there?” Michael chuckled after working in silence for a few minutes, and Tristan’s eyes opened.
“Chocolate?” he looked up at Michael.
“Didn’t your wife give you chocolate when you woke up last week?”
“No,” Tristan said slowly. “She offered, but I didn’t want any.”
Michael raised an eyebrow. “And wat
er?”
“I had some, why?”
Michael snipped another stitch. “Chocolate and plenty of water is an old remedy for endorphin shock.”
Before Michael could tug on another suture, Tristan pulled away. “Endorphin shock? Not subspace?”
“It has several names. ‘Endorphin shock’ is the medical term, or ‘subspace’ if you’re in the Lifestyle. Runners call it ‘runner’s high’.”
“Lifestyle?” Michael reached for another stitch, but Tristan pulled away.
“The Lifestyle,” Michael said. “BDSM. Sit still; there are four stitches left.”
“So it was definitely subspace that I had?” Tristan insisted.
“I’d say so,” Michael said. Snip… Snip. “Not surprizing, since we sutured your face without local anaesthetic. It was your body’s way of reacting to the pain.”
“And after subspace comes subdrop?”
Snip. “One more.” Snip. Michael straightened and swept the removed sutures he’d been placing on the edge of his desk into his hand, made a fist and pulled the latex glove off over his fist, trapping the sutures in the glove before tossing it in the bin.
He walked around his desk and sat down in his chair again, leaning back and resting his elbows on the armrests of his chair. “I take it you experienced subdrop after you got home,” Michael asked.
“I’m not a submissive,” Tristan protested. Michael raised an eyebrow; Tristan squirmed when Michael didn’t say anything. “I’m not!” He looked away and swallowed. “I’m not going to ask a Dominatrix to beat me.”
“And if it were a man that beat you instead?”
“I’m not gay!”
Michael’s heart flinched, but he schooled his expression not to show his hurt. What did you expect, McIan? The man’s married. Just because you’re attracted to both sexes, doesn’t mean that every man you’re attracted to is also Bi; that’s just wishful thinking. “Who said anything about sex? There’s more to Domination and Sadism than intercourse.” Michael stood and walked to the window. He unhooked the thin transparent plastic wand from the aluminium blinds.
“I’m not submissive,” Tristan repeated, but Michael heard a hint of uncertainty.
Michael stalked slowly around his desk, testing the flexibility of the wand and swishing it experimentally through the air a few times. Seeing him approach, Tristan stood and retreated until his back met the door, never taking his eyes off the make-shift cane. Tristan licked his lips.
Michael stepped right into Tristan’s personal space until he was standing chest to chest with him. Holding the wand across Tristan’s throat, he tipped Tristan’s head up until their eyes met. Tristan’s pupils were dilated, and his pulse fluttered visibly at his throat. “You have a choice,” Michael said directly into Tristan’s ear; Tristan’s Adam’s apple bobbed against the wand. “You can say ‘red’ this very moment. I’ll step back and shake your hand, you can leave, and you never have to see me again. I won’t even bill you for the consultation.” He paused, and Tristan swallowed again. “Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Tristan whispered. He swallowed, cleared his throat, and tried again. “Yes, I understand.”
Michael leaned even closer until his mouth was against Tristan’s ear, and he felt the other man’s beard stubble rasp against his. “Or you can walk over to my desk, and lean over so I can stripe your ass with this cane.”
Michael decided he wouldn’t mention that he could feel Tristan’s erection against his hip through his jeans; the man was not as unaffected as he’d like to pretend. For his part, Michael was careful not to bring his own unruly cock to where Tristan might feel it.
After a long moment, Michael pulled back far enough that he could look Tristan in the eye. He watched Tristan’s breathing deepening as the craving for pain won the battle with his reservations, and lowering the rod, Michael took a step aside.
As if in a trance, Tristan walked to the desk and leaned over it, placing his elbows on the desktop. The man was perfect, waiting with mounting anticipation for the promised caning, and Michael’s cock felt like it would explode in his pants just from the sight.
Michael didn’t move for a few long minutes, getting his own raging lust under control, savouring the sight of this man submitting to him, even if he didn’t want to admit it.
Tristan shifted self-consciously at the desk. “Aren’t you going to do it?”
With a last longing look at Tristan’s ass, Michael walked around the desk and sat in his chair. “I’d love to give you the pain you need,” Michael said softly, “but I won’t do anything behind your wife’s back.”
Tristan slowly stood, his eyes not meeting Michael’s.
“I do, however, want to invite you and Judith to my home for dinner. If you’re to enter the world of Sadism and Masochism, I’d rather you did so responsibly, and armed with the correct knowledge.” Michael took one of his business cards from a holder on his desk. He wrote his cell-phone number and address on the back and handed it to Tristan, who slipped it into his wallet. “Tonight, seven o’clock. Bring an over-night bag. And in the meantime – don’t try this at home.”
~*~
ME: Dr McIan, thank you for your invitation to dinner tonight. Could you please text me your address? I can’t quite make out your handwriting.
16:33√√
DR McIAN: << Location Pin >>
16:37√√
DR McIAN: Does that help?
16:37√√
DR McIAN: The combination on the keypad at the front gate is 4147
16:37√√
ME: Thank you – I’m sure Tristan will know how this works. I’m fine with working a computer, but my cell phone is alien technology. ;-)
16:39√√
DR McIAN: << Ø This message was deleted>>
16:40
DR McIAN: Ask Tristan to show you how it works – a woman needs to be independent.
16:47√√
DR McIAN: I’ll expect a demonstration tonight when you visit.
16:49√√
ME: What can we bring tonight? Salad? Garlic bread? Dessert? Wine?
16:51√√
DR McIAN: You don’t need to bring anything.
16:52√√
ME: Are you sure?
16:53√√
MR McIAN: Positive. All I want is your company.
16:55√√
MR McIAN: And please – call me Michael.
16:55√√
~*~
When Dr McIan had sent her the location pin earlier that afternoon, Judith suspected he had money. Driving down the street lined with bridle paths and ancient oaks, the suspicion was confirmed; unless Dr McIan lived above someone’s garage, he’d have to be rich to afford one of these properties.
In the twilight, two riders on horses ambled along on the bridle path, reins hanging loosely and feet dangling free of their stirrups, deep in conversation and clearly on their way home from a ride. Tristan slowed and passed them wide and slow, and one of the riders raised a hand in acknowledgement.
Houses weren’t really visible from the street, apart from the occasional ornate Cape Dutch gable visible above the tree line. Properties were ringed by high walls, most topped with electric fences, and the gates operated by automated motors.
She scrolled through the text thread between her and the doctor. Michael. She’d felt so foolish, having to admit she couldn’t read his scrawl on the back of the business card Tristan had shown her the minute she’d arrived home. It seemed stereotypical, the doctor with the illegible scribble.
“In two hundred metres, turn left,” the GPS instructed, pulling her from her musing to look at her husband, and he shot her a tense glance in return.
“Are you nervous?” She asked. He’d seemed troubled when she got home, and beyond saying that he’d gone to see the doctor, and that they’d been invited to dinner, he’d been closed-mouthed about his visit.
“A little.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,”
she said. She reached over and pried his hand off the gear lever. She brought the hand to her thigh, and when he rested the hand there, she covered it with her own.
“Turn Left. In fifty metres, your destination will be on the left... Your destination is on the left.”
They halted before an imposing black steel gate, and Judith double-checked the brass numbers on the wall. At the driver’s side door, a keypad waited on a galvanized steel pedestal, and Tristan rolled his window down to punch in the code. When the gate swung open slowly, they rolled down the long, steep driveway towards a double-storey house.
It was built in a Pseudo-Cape Dutch style. Two ornate white gables book-ended the façade in imitation of the Cape Dutch architecture, and spanning the entire width of the building was a wide stoop with a grapevine-covered pergola, but the fittings, such as the doors, windows and shutters, appeared recently made.
Tristan parked the car on the paved area in front of the house, and switched off the ignition. “Are you ready?” He asked.
“Tristan, why so nervous?” She asked.
“I’m fine.”
“Tristan –”
“Come, let’s go inside,” he said, opening his door and hurrying around to her side to open her door. She slipped her handbag over her shoulder, and retrieved the medium-sized, metallic blue paper gift bag from the floorboards by her feet.
He opened her door for her, and when she’d climbed out, he closed and locked the door behind her. She reached for his hand, and with a last moment of eye contact, they headed for the front door.
The door opened just as they reached it, and Michael smiled at them, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. “So glad you could make it. The food is almost done.” He stepped aside to let them enter, and Judith took in the interior of the house.
Michael Page 5