Chapter One

Night Life

 

"I need you to do me, Spence. Do me good."

Spencer gazed at me through a cloud of smoke, his cigarette oh-so-casually poised between two fingers. He exhaled and smiled, knowing I never stood for some poseur dom act. But Spencer had a rule that I had to agree to our ritual negotiation. I didn't want to; I wanted to pretend I couldn't hear it over the pounding techno music throughout the club. But, I still heard him, loud and clear.

"Absolute trust, R.J.," he said.

"Yes, sir."

His eyes raped me, perhaps seeking a hidden layer under my simple answer. Or perhaps he just admired my tense body. Gone was the long lab coat that hid my body most of the day, replaced by one of leather flung over my shoulder. My dark turtleneck and slacks gave him a good barometer of my figure, as if he needed it, given all the times I had submitted to him before, all the times I felt his whip tanning my backside, while at the same time inflaming my pussy, replacing my work stress with a burning need that only a master's natural tool could satisfy. Spencer was a good dom, and I would get rid of my stress tonight, but only as a sidelight to my submission. He took what he wanted and anything else I got was secondary. That was alright, there were always plenty of leftovers that I eagerly accepted.

"Okay, then," he said. Spencer stubbed out the cigarette in a bar ashtray and motioned for me to follow him across the wide play floor. He led me past all the cages, stocks and pillories, some of them occupied by a moaning submissive. One reached out with a free hand through cage bars to Spencer, perhaps in supplication to end her sweet misery, or perhaps just begging for attention from a master. Spencer unhitched a quirt from his belt and, without breaking stride, brought it down across the woman's open palm. She yelped and quickly drew the hand back inside.

I couldn't help but smile myself. Serves her right, daring to beg for a master's mercy. Serves her right.

At the end of a short hallway Spencer held a red door open for me. I entered a small room with which I was quite familiar.

Black, soundproofed walls deadened the irritating techno crap while the unmistakable smell of leather assailed my nostrils. A modified Spanish chair was set in the back, left corner while a suspension bar hung in the right. No surprises, just like it had been the last time I was here. And the time before that. But then, I heard something I'd never heard before.

The door locked.

I spun around, just in time to witness Spencer hang the pewter key under his opened neck, dark shirt. A cold knot formed in my stomach. Never before had the door been locked. It was against the house rules, kind of like a safety valve. If a scene went bad the sub always had the option of ending it. She'd press a panic button on a small, hand held transmitter. A silent safeword. A few seconds later the club bouncer would come barging in to her rescue. But then Spencer also removed the battery from the transmitter he was supposed to give me.

"What're you doing?" I demanded.

Spencer took down a single-tail whip from the toy wall on his left. He coiled it in his hand, like a snake ready to strike. "Strip."

"Now hang on-"

The whip lashed out, its end exploding against the wall beside my head. I screamed and ducked.

Next thing I knew, Spencer was on top of me; one hand over my mouth, the other around my throat. He gave a grin that was nothing but evil.

"I've been wanting to do this for a long time," he said.

His hand left my mouth then held up something dark. He pressed a button.

Goddam! A four-inch stiletto flashed within a hairsbreadth of my nose! Its edges gleamed in the light, razor sharp. Spencer laid the flat edge on my cheek, the spiky point just under my eye. Shit!

"About time you were taught you just don't come in here and demand things from a master," Spencer says.

The knife descended down the front of my turtleneck. Its point pressed against my belly, then, with a quick wrist action from Spencer, it went through and sliced open my shirt, leaving my skin untouched. Gurgling sounds were all the protests I could make as he ordered me to extend my arms sideways. Feeling like I was being nailed to the cross, the blade made its way down one wrist, then, after Spencer switched hands on my throat, down the other.

Suddenly, he held the weapon up and brought back his arm, the knifepoint aimed at me. He let go of my throat and drove the point right for it.

I screamed and squeezed shut my eyes.

A thud sounded right next to my left ear.

The knife quivered in the wall. I slid down from it, making a small whimpering noise, dully aware that the tattered remains of my turtleneck were ripped away. I crawled for the door, afraid that any moment I would feel the knife in my back. What I felt instead was Spencer's hands tearing off my bra. My pants soon followed until all I had left was a thin pair of white panties. He reached for those too, but one of my kicking feet caught him on the shoulder and he fell back, cursing under his breath. I made it to the door on my knees, my fists pounding against the padding.

"Let me out! Let me out! Help! This guy's gone fucking crazy!"

My head was wrenched back. Despite its extreme shortness, Spencer got a good hold of my russet hair and dragged me back. I clawed at his hand, his arm, anything that would force him to let go of me. But my nails were short too. Cut to a practical length, they simply scraped off his iron hand. The door, the one portal for my deliverance, receded from my kicking feet. The room was small, but with Spencer's sure grip on me, the door might as well have been non-existent.

He drew me up, held me at arm's length, like a rag doll. "Present your wrists. Present!"

I hid them behind my back. Defiant I was, at least outwardly. I fought to keep my lips from quivering. No way was I going to show him fear.

"You want to challenge me? Fine," he said.

My right breast exploded in pain. His forehand and backhand would've brought me to my knees if he didn't already control me. Another set of blows on my other breast caused me to tear up.

"Obey me now?" Spencer said. He drew back his hand again, this time poised to slap my face.

I wailed and closed my eyes. No, no, I couldn't take it! My breasts would give under his punishments, but not my face. If he hit me I wouldn't be able to turn my head and absorb part of the blow.

My hands shaking, I brought them around in front.

"Good," Spencer said. His tone was almost soothing.

I knew better. I'd been sent to hell. Yet, there are circles to hell, degrees of suffering. Things could get worse. They did.

Spencer selected from the wall a pair of brown, tooled leather cuffs. The floral design cut and dyed into them belied their hidden strength. Although slim, they'd be able to hold me in bondage no matter what position Spencer choose for me. I remained submissively still as they were fastened on me, using all my will to keep my legs from buckling. I was in his power now, whether I liked it or not. Fear was the one thing I had left, and from that I drew the power to see me through this ordeal. Like the cuffs that now held me, I too would be strong even though my appearance suggested fragility. I'd endure, and come out the other side. But from what I knew of Spencer, he was going to make me pay every step of the way. I still had to make it there.

Also, I still had one weakness. One I couldn't control.

His hand went between my legs. Even though I still wore my panties, when Spencer held up his hand it glistened in my juices. He grinned, knowing I couldn't do anything to halt the flow.

"Alright, so I'm wet. Enjoy it, cause that's all the pleasure I'm gonna give you!" I spit on his boots.

Spencer's jaw set. He wasn't used to this, a woman talking back to him. So what? Why should it all go his way? But instead of slapping me or bringing out the knife again, he just got even colder.

"When I'm through with you, you're going to beg me to finish you off. He paused and grabbed my chin tight in his hand. His voice was low. "And I'm going to do most of it right out in the middle of the club."

The bravado I'd demonstrated suddenly deserted me, replaced by fragile hope. He was going to take me out of the room? There might be a chance... I tried to keep up my defiant front. "People will know what you've done to me in here. I'll tell them - "

"Ha! You may try, but they won't listen. You've already seen to that. They all know you're an edge player. You remember the boy who cried wolf? It's coming home to you, in spades."

With practiced ease, Spencer hooked me up to the suspension bar, my arms spread wide. He ratcheted the bar higher and higher, and the tension in my shoulders increased until all I felt was a constant strain down my wrists, through my arms, into my lower back. My toes stretched in vain for the floor. I grunted and strained, hopeful that as long as I kept in contact with it I could relieve some of the pressure. But Spencer didn't stop raising the bar until I was swinging free. He'd never taken me entirely off the floor before. I always had that little security blanket, that reassurance that this was all just a game. Not now. My insides churned, sweat dripped from my brow. Yet, I still tried maintaining my outward rebelliousness, even though my quavering voice betrayed me.

"Gonna take me now, you bastard? Or...Or can you hold out on creaming your pants while you stripe my back?"