Copyright 2001 Marlene Taylor
Warning: This story contains heavy S&M. If you are offended by this, or under 18, turn back now.
Disclaimer: This original work of amateur fiction is based on the TV series "The Monkees" which (as far as I know) is owned by Rhino. This not-for-profit piece of fan fiction is not intended to infringe on that ownership. The author's copyright extends only to the original material in this work.
The third hooker he tried wouldn't do it, either, but she knew someone who would, and that was how he found himself looking for the table with the bouquet of white flowers at the outdoor café. It was a bright spring day and the square was crowded with people; but eventually he saw her, sitting alone, writing busily in a leather-bound notebook. He paused for a moment, observing her, feeling a little disappointed though he didn't know why. Maybe because she looked like most other women: straight dark hair, a plain face with big eyes outlined in black, casual clothes, summer sandals on her feet: she didn't look like a dominatrix. But then, he reasoned, he'd never seen one before, and maybe they all looked normal when they weren't working. Time to find out.
He stood in front of her and cleared his throat. "Petra?"
She looked up and smiled. "Hello, Michael." Not so plain, then - a gorgeous smile that welcomed him even while her eyes took his measure. "Please sit down." She gestured to the empty chair as if inviting him to sit in her office. He tried to guess her age and couldn't: thirty or forty or anywhere in between. Her hands looked strong, with nails cut very short.
As soon as he'd gotten settled, a waiter materialized at his elbow and stared at him expectantly. "Oh, uh, I'll have..." He looked at Petra uncertainly, then pointed at her glass, full of fizzy red liquid. "What she's having." The waiter left silently. "What *are* you having?"
"Italian soda. Hope you like raspberry. You're a tall drink of water," she said, still smiling, and pulled her notebook into her lap; now he couldn't see what she was writing.
"Second tallest in my class, Thomas Jefferson High in Dallas, class of '60," he said.
"What was in California that you couldn't find in Texas?" That threw him. He thought about it.
"Well, I don't rightly know. It was more leavin' everything behind. But I have found good friends here. We have a band. I play guitar." He said it with more than a little pride.
"Ah. Must be very satisfying to play your own songs for people." Her eyes slid over him, focusing intently on one thing at a time: his lips, his hands, his shoulders.
"Yes, I - how did you know I wrote songs?"
She shrugged, as if it was obvious. "You lead the band, you write the songs."
"But how did you know I was the leader?"
"All my clients are leaders. The only ones with enough courage to find me." Just then the waiter returned with his drink; she picked up her glass and clinked it against his. "To courage." The soda was sweet but tangy, and the bubbles tickled his nose. Petra looked at him over the top of her glass for a long moment, then straightened up and turned very businesslike.
"OK. Here's how it goes. You get three hours with me, at a location I choose. You pay in advance. No intercourse, although I might touch you or let you touch me. You tell me how much you want to be hurt, what turns you on, and anything else I need to know, like if you have a heart condition. This is strictly about pain; I don't do that other kinky shit. You got it?"
He felt a little dizzy from that speech: this was real, she was for real, and she could make it happen for him. For a price. "How much?" he asked, dreading the answer. She named a figure which was as much as his share of the monthly rent, money he could ill-afford to spend. All that cash, for three hours. There was no way he could afford it.
"OK," he said, and the feeling turned into soaring delight. He mentally patted himself on the back for being so bold. I am a fucking leader, aren't I?
The bubbles in his soda popped noisily as she watched him in silence for a few moments. Then she smiled again, like she had when he'd first arrived, and the deal was done. "Well, Michael, you're a lucky man. I'll take you on as a client. I think we can work together," she said, and bent to write again in the notebook. So it had been an interview - but he was the one who had had to pass the test, not her.
He waited till she was done. "Um...now what?"
"Now," she said, leaning her elbows on the table, "you tell me what you want."
He took a deep breath and began.
He looked at the card she'd given him, to make sure the address was correct. No mistake: what looked like a small warehouse in an industrial section of town, with a doorbell by the steel door. As he rang it, he took one last look at his car, a beat-up GTO, his pride and joy, and hoped to hell it would still be there in three hours.
A big bald guy answered the door, took the card and his precious roll of twenties, and directed him down a dark hall to door number three. He wiped his hands on his jeans and turned the knob, only to find an empty, bare low-ceilinged room. Well, not quite bare - there was a table, and a chair, and what looked like closets along one wall, some things up on the ceiling he couldn't quite make out. There was a note on the table with his name on it, telling him to get undressed and wait in the chair. That was it.
As he sat there naked, nervously tapping his fingers, he began to notice details. The floor was sort of soft, made out of rubber or plastic or something; it gave when he pressed his feet down hard, and there were metal rings attached to it at different places. He wasn't cold, which meant that the air was warmer than usual, heated a little, he guessed. And when he cleared his throat the sound died instantly, and he knew the room must be majorly soundproofed. He wondered if she expected him to make noise; he'd always prided himself on keeping quiet when he got hurt. Screaming and crying were what girls did.
Soon there was music, soft but insistent, no words but a steady beat. He couldn't tell where it was coming from. Then he felt a cool breeze, and was about to look for the source when Petra's voice stopped him.
"Don't move." Her words came from somewhere behind him. He stared straight ahead, wondering feverishly if she was naked too, or if she would let him watch her undress, or whether she might just beat the crap out of him right now for fun. He couldn't hear her footsteps and was surprised when she rested her gloved hands firmly on his shoulders.
"I appreciate you being on time. Listen carefully, these are the rules: You will do whatever I tell you. You will not look at me unless I ask you to. You will not come unless I allow you to. You will not speak unless spoken to. If you resist, the punishment will be twice as hard. And you will have a safe word: when you say it, everything stops and the session is over. Use it only if you truly cannot go on." And she whispered a word in his ear. His emergency exit. He locked it away in a safe place in his mind.
"Give me your hands," she demanded, and when he reached back behind the chair she slapped on a pair of cold metal handcuffs. She did something else and then he realized the cuffs were also locked to the chair. He wasn't going anywhere soon.
Her boots came into view in front of him - riding boots, they looked like, black and shiny and well-made, hugging the curve of her calves. He raised his eyes just a little and could see that she was wearing a little black skirt, very tight and short, and a black bra and nothing else. She looked damn good. As always, he felt uncomfortable in his own body, it being so thin and long and awkward; he dropped his gaze to his lap, glad that at least his dick was impressive, and happy that it was starting to grow. The handcuffs were a good choice.
"Now we'll use a few toys," she said casually. She held her hand out where he could see it, and in the palm of her leather glove were what looked like alligator clips. "We'll start with these." Running her free hand down his chest, she paused to pinch a nipple and he suddenly realized what the clips were for, and he knew they were going to hurt bad. Cold sweat broke out all over and he panicked.
"Petra, I -" But that was all he got out. She hit him open-handed, hard, hard enough to snap his head to the right, rattling his teeth. He was so shocked and pissed off that he raised his head and glared directly at her. That was his second mistake, and this time she backhanded him harshly. When he could open his eyes again he saw a drop of bright red blood fall from his mouth on to the pale skin of his thigh.
"I did not give you permission to speak, and I certainly did not give you permission to look at me. If I ask you a question, you will address me as 'ma'am'." Her voice was cool and slightly bored, as if she'd given this lesson a hundred times before. "Do you understand, Michael?"
"Yes, ma'am," he managed through aching jaws.
"And because you can't be trusted to control your gaze, I'm going to blindfold you for the rest of the night." Quickly she slipped something over his eyes; it blocked the light completely and ratcheted his fear up a notch. He'd told her how much he hated it, and that was why she'd done it, of course.
"If you can't control your words I'll have to gag you as well. Will I have to do that, Michael?"
"No, ma'am," he said, hoping that was the right answer. Then, without any warning, she began to stroke his cock, coaxing it into stiffness. Her leather gloves felt cool and unyielding, and her grip was strong enough to keep him from doing anything but breathing hard. She pulled his erection down and something went around the base of his cock, tight but not painfully so, and then she did the same to his balls, stretching them away from his body. When she teased him a little longer, running her fingers up and down his shaft, the bindings seemed to grow tighter and he began to ache for release.
She turned her attention to his nipples again, flicking them lightly until they were properly erect. There was a long, awful pause, full of silence and apprehension, as he waited for her to attach the clips. He knew it was coming: he'd seen those sharp little metal teeth glittering in the light, waiting to bite his sensitive flesh: why was she waiting? A drop of sweat rolled down his cheek. His cock protested against its restraints but suddenly nothing else mattered except the stabbing pain in his chest, no, twin points of pain where the clips bit into him; he gritted his teeth to keep quiet and forced his mind to endure it. In a minute the sharpness had faded to a dull throbbing in time with his heartbeat, bearable - but when she removed the clips the pain was twice as bad, and then ten times worse when she reattached them to the raw swollen flesh.
Despite his best efforts a tiny sound escaped him. Weak, he thought, weak and worthless. I have to do better.
"Michael, does it hurt?" she asked softly.
"Yes..ahhh" - he struggled for control - "Yes, ma'am."
"You are permitted to cry out. No one will hear you." As she spoke he felt her pull on the clips a little, and the sound of metal, and he understood that she'd joined them with a chain. She pulled the chain, the chain pulled the clips, and his whole body moved forward until the handcuffs dug into his wrists when he could go no further.
"I want to hear you scream, Michael." She gave the chain a sharp tug and he gasped, unable to move, frozen in agony. He wanted to obey her; he opened his mouth but nothing came out; it was too much and not enough, almost, almost
"Ma'amI - I can't, ma'am." He wondered what that refusal would earn him. He could all but hear her thinking about it.
"Can't or won't?" she asked. He thought about that. He wanted to, wanted to do what he was told, but that - he couldn't, could not, something inside would not let him. Not when he'd broken his hand, not when he'd gotten into fistfights and ended up bloody, not even when he'd smashed up his first car and nearly died. Silence kept him from feeling; it kept him in control. And now, when he wanted to let go, the habits of a lifetime held him back.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
There was a click, and the cuffs were free of the chair.
"Get up," she ordered. He staggered to his feet, the movement bringing new protests from his groin and his chest. He thought he might pass out. "Kneel."
He could feel her body heat, directly in front of him. Clothes rustled. Gloved fingers were pushed in his mouth and under the bitter tang of leather there was the unmistakable taste of pussy, warm and musky. He sucked greedily, wanting more. This was too easy. Maybe the punishment would follow the pleasure.
"You are here tonight to obey and to serve, Michael. Now I want you to serve me," she said harshly, grabbing a handful of his hair and grinding his face into her crotch. She tasted like hot sweet cider on a cold Texas night and he worked hard to please her, sucking her clit and thrusting his tongue deep into her cunt, kissing her soft nether lips. She moved her hips against him, slickness spreading over his face, but she pulled his head away before she came.
"Very good. And now for your reward," she said with cruel humor in her voice, and pushed him forward. He couldn't break his fall - his hands were still cuffed behind his back - and he landed hard on his chin as he tried to keep his chest from touching the floor. Anything to keep from jarring those merciless nipple clips. His virgin ass was high in the air and that seemed to please her. She slapped it and laughed.
"Perfect. Now, Michael, are you ready to receive the fruit of your labor?"
"Yes, ma'am!" he answered with relief.
"So willing. I like that." She traced a finger in a circle around his asshole, teasing, pushing a little as if to enter but pulling back, again and again but never going inside him where he wanted it so badly, and he felt his throat go dry with desire, a little moan of frustration escaping him. Never in his life had anyone touched him there, and it felt forbidden and wonderful and powerful all at the same time. He had asked to be filled, and now he couldn't wait for it to happen.
"Open wide," she said. She worked one finger into his slowly, twisting and turning to stretch the tight ring of muscle, then two fingers, then -
She stopped, and he felt the pressure of something much larger. It was hard and slick and much bigger than he had expected. She pressed it firmly into him, a centimeter at a time, he guessed, but it felt like he was being ripped in two by the thing. It slid deep inside him, forcing him to yield, and when it was all the way in, impaling him, she began to move it in small circles; he squirmed and wriggled but that only made it worse until it touched a place he hadn't known existed and his entire being was focused on the incredible pleasure there. He swayed his hips, trying to increase the contact, and in its prison his cock swelled and throbbed. Now she drew out the object and thrust it back in, carefully, deftly, working him so that with each stroke he was left wanting more, his thoughts racing wildly: Is this it? Is she going to let me come? She hasn't - we haven't - too fast - what am I supposed to do - oh god I don't want it to stop - but I need - I need -
"Please, ma'am," he gasped, trying to control the trembling in his legs. She didn't answer, just continued fucking him. This was insane.
"Please, ma'am, can I - may I - may I come now, please?"
She stopped the motion and pulled out of him one last time. He wanted to cry. His erection was probably three different shades of purple by now and his balls felt as if they were being strangled. The fire from his nipples spread out over his chest; he could feel the sweat running down his back and legs. What next? What more?
"No, you may not come now." That was obvious. She jerked him upright by the hair until he was once more sitting on his heels. "Stand up."
Once he was on his feet she moved quickly to unlock one hand from the cuffs and lock it to something else over his head, then repeated the action with the other hand. The nipple clips came off and he groaned as a fresh wave of pain flowed through him. He was so intent on trying to control it that he didn't hear what she was doing.
"But now, Michael, you must be punished for daring to ask. You must count the strokes. If you miss one we start again." And with that he felt the first taste of the whip on his back: not what he expected, not a sharp pain like a slap in the face, but a heavy blow that jolted his body into awareness. He counted one out loud and waited for the next stroke, wondering what it would do. By the count of ten he was completely lost in anticipation and sensation; the thick leather straps - there were five, he could tell - licked cruelly at his skin and drove him ever higher into his head, into the darkness.
And still he could not scream. By thirty his voice was cracking as the whip came down harder and faster, almost pushing him off his feet. He sagged forward and let the cuffs hold him up, even though they cut into his wrists, because his body would not obey him anymore: it answered to her, riding the waves of pain that flooded him: from her arm through the whip to his skin and into his blood. It was heaven and hell. By fifty he could only whisper. But he never lost count.
At some point he realized she'd stopped. He'd gotten so used to the rhythm that the absence of the whip felt strange, and he thought for a moment that the journey was over, before he'd reached the destination. All he could hear was the blood pounding in his head, roaring in his ears, reminding him that he'd never been more alive.
Then the blindfold was ripped from his face, making him squint and blink in the light. Sweat ran into his eyes and stung. She stood in front of him, looking him squarely in the eye - he hadn't noticed before that she was almost as tall as he was - and holding an evil-looking whip. It was very thin, very shiny, and very stiff. She bent it a little between her hands and let it flex back and forth. He swallowed once, twice.
"This is for you, Michael," she told him, cutting the air in front of his nose with the whip and slamming it into her gloved palm. "Now you will scream for me. I am going to whip your tender ass until you learn to let go." She moved behind him and he braced for the worst as the whip whistled toward him.
He choked back a scream at the explosion of pain,; in an instant, all his control was gone. Now she held nothing back, hitting harder and faster, working like a machine; he heard himself crying out, writhing against the cuffs, quivering with tension and fear. She beat him so fast that he couldn't distinguish the blows anymore. It was one long space of agony, starting at his ass but enveloping his whole body in pain and heat until he wept and pleaded for mercy. She came around to his side and twisted his chin towards her.
"Open your eyes. Look at me," she commanded. He blinked back the tears and tried to focus on her face, but he couldn't hold his head up and fell back, gasping for breath.
"Please, ma'am-" he started, but she raised her hand high and hit him again, in the center of all the heat and pain. He screamed and shook. She came up close to him and brushed the wet hair out of his eyes.
"Does it hurt?" she asked him softly. "Tell me how much it hurts."
She dealt him another powerful blow and he screamed again. "...it's terrible...I can't stand no more...please, please ma'am, no more..." he sobbed.
"Then no more." And it was over. Though the blindfold was gone he kept his eyes shut, not wanting anything to disturb the place he was in. The pain was dissolving and what was left was pleasure, and knowledge, and the cool air rushing over his aching, tingling skin. What ever he felt was to be enjoyed, to be explored. He realized that his cock was still hard: through it all he had stayed erect, with a little help from the cock ring. It felt good to be hard. He looked down at himself and was for once proud of his body for all it had endured.
She stood in front of him and followed his gaze; then once again she caressed his shaft, drawing all his attention there as need began to build. When he started to thrust into her hand she stopped and smiled at him.
His knees were weak but he managed to stay standing after she unlocked his wrists; he was so distracted by his painfully erect cock that he didn't immediately notice that she snapped on handcuffs again, this time in front of him, as soon as both arms were free. She grabbed his shoulders and shook him.
"You want to come, don't you?" she intoned, gazing at him steadily. He could only nod in response, aching for release. "Get down on your knees," she commanded, pushing him toward the floor. He fell heavily, finally comprehending that his hands were still bound and unable to break his descent; she crouched behind him and put her mouth close to his ear.
"You have to do it yourself, Michael. Think about what we've done tonight and make yourself come."
Slowly he wrapped his hands around his erection and began to stroke, the cuffs heavy on his wrists and the chain between them brushing his balls each time he came down to the root. It felt surprisingly erotic; he wondered briefly what that might mean, but was brought sharply back to his task when she leaned again his raw back to remind him what he had just suffered. He ran it all through his mind: the teasing of her hands, the first shock of the whip on his back, the slow pleasure that grew from the pain, the sound of leather against his skin. His sweaty palms helped him go faster, faster, the pressure building as his stiffness swelled with each stroke; suddenly she wrapped his arms around him and pinched his already-raw nipples mercilessly, making him cry out, the current of pain running down into his balls but it only made him hotter and more desperate, and then she began whispering to him:
"You want more, and more, and next time I'll whip you harder, till you bleed, till you beg me to stop, till you can't think of anything at all, and then I'll bend you over that chair and I'll take this whip and I'll fuck you with it, this hard handle up your tight ass, deeper and deeper-" and then he couldn't hear anymore because he was coming, his whole body in spasms, his cock jerking in his hands as it spewed his seed across the floor. Then he collapsed, gasping for air.
"Oh no, you're not done yet, Michael," she laughed, and pointed to the trail of white drops. "Lick that up or I'll whip you all over again."
When he got dressed again he was surprised at how little of it showed. His nipples were red and swollen, and there were some nasty bruises on his ass, but no blood, no torn flesh, no permanent marks to remind him of that evening. Petra had checked him over, made him drink some water, and made sure he could get out the door; then she took his hand and looked into his eyes.
"Did you enjoy it? Did you get what you wanted?"
"I...yes. More than I wanted. More than I ever expected." Her face softened and he knew he'd passed another test.
"I'm so pleased. You did very well for the first time, you know. Not many could take that much without using the safe word." She leaned closer. "Did you want to use it?" she asked conspiratorially.
"Almost. Yeah. Almost," he sighed, and grinned in spite of himself.
"I would enjoy teaching you, Michael. When you're ready, you know where to find me." And then she walked out of the room and left him alone with the echo of his screams.