Just An Evening Down The Pub

The club used to be a pub, so the ground floor is the typical bar-centre layout opened up, dance floor to the front, seating at the rear with two staircases at the back leading to the repurposed cellar. A vintage 'No Smoking At the Bar' sign has been amended to read 'No Fucking At the Bar" and the barman jabs his finger at it, as he tells one pretty young man to cool it with another who is being distracted from ordering drinks with the required London efficiency. A shame; both are wearing the briefest of underpants and nothing else, ready and willing, but they'll have to move elsewhere in the building to act on it. I'd like to see them.

It's warm. I request juice, even though you and I would be happy for me to have one drink before playing. You do the same, staying totally sober for playing, as usual. It's a habit that helps me trust you, and if tonight is anything like we've been planning - more intense than previous play - I'm going to need that complete trust in you, knowing that you're going to hurt me but not harm me. A subtle but vital difference.

You fill up a couple sports bottles of water - I suppose you'll be getting exercise and I'll be open-mouthed... I'm starting to feel nerves in my tummy from the anticipation.

"It's loud here, isn't it? Drink downstairs?"

I nod and follow, careful on the narrow steps in my heels.

Down below, the ceilings are low and it's dim but peaceful, despite the bass from the dance floor above. The main room flickers with a dozen electric candles and some patchouli oil fails to cover the scent of damp. Some mood lamps and gauze around various beds and white bean bags are aiming for a mellow, louche feel. Almost no-one is down here yet. We move on. The second room is half the size, lit brighter but more harshly with a couple bare bulbs from above, and the damp smell is hidden more effectively - by a mix of piss and disinfectant.

The room's walls, ceiling and floor have all been hastily painted black, drips everywhere. There's various rings bolted to the wall, a table with condoms, lube sachets, mini sharps bin, and a bin nearby. A case of bottles of water and a few towels which look dyed black some while ago to cover stains.

There's a battered fake-leather sofa in the corner, a dentist's chair, and a padded bench, but we've come to see if the bed is free. And it is. Someone is cuddling someone else on the sofa, but they wave us on.

OK.

I breathe, deeply.

You take the carrier bag out of my backpack and rummage through it. And hold up my collar. It's not something that gets used much, sadly. You're looking questioning, and I give a small nod.

It's not as if it's really going to make much difference to our play, which at root is me letting you restrain and hurt me in ways we find mutually satisfactory, even if sometimes I'm finding that in retrospect, but there's undeniable symbolism with a collar I can't ignore. As soon as you stroke upwards to make me raise my chin, and fasten the buckles snugly round my neck, I feel myself relaxing, getting in a state to cede control to you.

"Ready?"

It seems a superfluous question - it's what I've come here for. I come up with an answer.

"Yeah. I'll just nip to the toilet and be right back..."

"No."

You're holding a finger through a ring on the collar, and gazing into my eyes. "The bed is rubber for a reason. I want you on it now. You want me to control you; well, I am controlling you, so: get on that bed."

I take a deep breath, again. It's not like we haven't discussed a wider range of activities beyond the usual play-party staples of bondage and hitting and such, and in principle I think this should be hot, but I can predict the obvious outcome of this and the embarrassment is huge. I might have wussed out, but the other couple are getting up and leaving, presumably just here for the quiet rather than the kink. If it's just between you and me... that mattress is covered in thick black rubber, easy to clean ... if you want, I can do this.

Yeah.

I get onto the bed, lying face down as urged. You've run a rope under the whole thing, and pull up one end to loop round the metal ring on my collar. A swift safety knot and repeat on the other side, and I'm held down more firmly than I'd have ever imagined, yet with hands and legs totally free. I can't even shuffle up or down the bed. I experiment with where to put my hands and conclude up, above the rope, is best. You aren't taking any risks of my punching out wildly, so cuff both wrists, clip them together and then loop them round the head of the bed frame.

Suddenly I find myself calming, accepting; my wrists being tied is always a trigger to my knowing that I'm staying put now until you release me, no matter what happens. I trust you not to deliver lasting harm, but I also know you! There's going to be some pleasure, I hope, but some of the next hour or so is likely to be very difficult. I remember what you told me and try to convince myself I really don't need to urinate at all, not in the next hour or more, I'd be fine for a car journey - why should I be worried?

I'm worried.

You start massaging my shoulders, my back, and I relax and forgive you - you are one of my best mates, after all, and anything for a good back rub... Anything? Might have been going too far, there. Time will tell.

The massage reaches my bottom, relaxes it too, which is impressive given it's got reason to be the most fearful part of my body. You pull my cheeks apart, prod deeper. It's all good until you tap my inner thighs, implying I should lift myself. I obey.

You shove a towel underneath me. It's a reminder that this scene may well get sticky, and not just me becoming wet and dripping and then lube getting everywhere. I remind myself I'm here for the whole adventure, and we're long past my chance to jump ship. I stretch my legs out and try to luxuriate in the remarkably comfortable mattress even if inhaling the rubber smell does nothing for me and the scent of bleach even less. Perhaps you'd forgotten my legs were free; you run your hands up and down them and pause for a minute. There's the sounds of rummaging in our bags and I predict ankle cuffs, but no; you've dug out my rarely-used thigh cuffs from the bottom of my bag. A loop round each leg and buckle, and then tying those to rope that's looped round the bed frame next to the neck rope - the thigh cuffs only stay in place if pulled upwards. I can't move at all now, beyond a bit of twisting my torso from side to side, and I can feel my cunt open to the air, a cold breeze wafting into it every time you move. I think it's you - there might be someone else here watching me, but I choose to believe there isn't.

In case I was trying to pretend my genitals aren't being exposed for all to see, you run your hand over my labia, as if straightening it, and over my arsehole, inserting a finger for a moment just to remind me you can. You adjust the position of a thigh cuff, spreading my arse open further, then bend down over me. Hands stroke up over my back, and you squat down next to my head. I raise one eyebrow and attempt to look nonchalant, which is probably impossible when your head is fixed sideways to a mattress, quite aside from anything else.

"You're beautiful," you tell me. "Even more beautiful, arranged like this. So expectant. So wanting. So..."

Ah, such nice words. I do like you.

"So pain-free..."

I don't like you.

And here we go. You control my body. It starts with a firm fondling all over, pleasant enough but showing well who's boss. It gets hard and I'm being kneaded forcefully wherever I have flesh for it, which is a fair amount. Breasts and my sides and my arse and my thighs are all starting to suffer, but soon you decide it's time to focus on my bottom.

You don't normally bother with filthy talk, so it's a bit of a shock to be reminded I'm a naughty girl who needs to be spanked. Such a slut, showing myself off upstairs, coming here at all. You're not wrong!

I feel I'm taking your spanking well - getting into the pattern of breathing deeply, helping myself accept it. Of course you get harder and I start to squeak, until finally there's a much-needed reprieve and I exhale thankfully.

You come to my ear and speak again. "It's going to get harder now." I nod, and squeeze the fingers you've placed in my hand, twice, for confirmation. Here we go.

I'm not sure what the implement you use is - you told me later it was a wooden baton - but the initial thuds get more and more sore as they become closer together and, quite simply, more and more of them. I vaguely kept count until about thirty, but after that was concentrating on breathing, then only on whimpering, both wishing you to stop and not to. Finally, you do, dropping the object and clawing your fingers into my backside. You bend your head near to mine and speak clearly.

"Now piss."

Unsurprisingly, I don't immediately feel like overcoming decades of inhibition regarding where I release urine, and I don't. Possibly, couldn't, but I can't pretend I'm really trying.

"I'm going to keep doing this until you do, you see."

You've grasped the baton again and are starting all over again from the top, hitting my arse with force all over again. The difference of course is that now you're hitting me where you've already hit before, and it's much, much more painful. I whine with the first couple whacks, shout with the next, then abuse you with as many words as I can gasp, before lapsing into begging, "no, no, please, no, stop, no". Unfortunately those aren't the safe words today, and some part of my perverted pride is fine to let those words out but refuses to enunciate 'red', though I have my mouth shaped ready to say 'amber' for a while.

Eventually you pause for a moment. I realise my choice here isn't going to be a choice for long, especially as you run a finger over my clit up to my urethra and press. "Not yet? Ah well."

No more words, just returning to beating the crap out of my burning bottom. I'm going to have to do it. What you want. I try to think about pissing on this bed, but can tell I'm clenching up. I try not to think of it and just relax all round there. It might actually work if I weren't being hit and distracted. I'm wailing incoherently. Finally, you stop, and order, "Piss."

And I do.

It's amazingly hot for a minute, adding to my sudden relaxed feeling, then starts feeling cold and wet. The puddle runs under my cunt to my stomach and starts to form streams along my thighs. I feel something and realise you're shoving a balled-up towel between my legs.

"Good girl," you tell me kindly. "You'll be more obedient next time, I'm sure."

My filthy inner soul is delighted at these words. A tiny fragment of reason is terrified at the phrase "next time" but all the rest of me is exultant. Except - I'm still bound, you surely haven't finished, and I'm lying in a pool of piss.

Oh, fuck.

You run wet hands over my arse and it stings where urine meets particularly tender spots. But it's good, and I moan at the intense sensation, especially when you start to knead me again. It's like my whole bottom is not just as red, but also as sensitive as my clit or my nipples. It's a huge turn-on. This is what I play for. I try to show off my cunt even better in the hope that you'll do something with it. Put your wet hands inside, for example.

I should be careful what I wish for, I remember, too late - as if my wishes were relevant here. You've found a bunch of clips, like small clothes pegs, and start clipping them on my labia, which feel heavy, pulling, bring more blood all round my pussy, making the whole area throb wonderfully but highlight the fact that my cunt is so, so empty. So's my arsehole, come to think of it, and as you briefly push some lube in, I really am thinking of it.

A bit more kneading of that sore bum, and I worry you're going to hurt it more. You probably will, but not yet - you move sideways and start to pull at my breast.

The nipple clamp isn't a surprise and I do love clamps. You apply the second. Lovely! But then you add chain to each - not joining them together, that would be too easy for me - but let the chain dangle down each side of the bed. It's heavy. It'll feel heavier soon.

Meanwhile, you idly flick the clips on my pussy and decide I need more pain. Time for a flogger. It's heavy and at least different, but every blast of the thongs has me yelling. Especially when you start removing a clip in between each stroke, fondling where it had been. The bloodflow rushes in and I feel a throb in my cunt with every heartbeat. I just want your fist inside me. Or anything, really.

Finally the twelfth clip is gone, and you pinch and play with me before using the flogger for an uninterrupted beating. Which is pure hell while it happens and heaven when it stops. Mostly my arse, a bit on my shoulders and the tops of my legs. You stroke me and soothe me and tell me how good I look, but there will be more pain coming.

Bugger.

Still, right now there's just a chance to stretch a bit and feel incredibly aroused all over. I'm desperate to get filled. Desperate, I tell you.

I get my wish. Something a bit cold gets pushed into my arse, then a bit more, and a bit more. It's that chain, a bit from one side, a bit from the other. It's not particularly filling me but it does mean the chain gets taut. Which means if anything pushes it further, that the clamps are going to pull on my tits a lot. Just as well it couldn't get pushed more inside - oh fuck.

"You fucking bastard," I tell you as you push a butt plug into me, which succeeds in forcing the chain in further. My tits are being pulled sideways and I try to lie as flat as I can. Some people say submissives shouldn't talk back. I figure, I did the submitting when I let you tie me down and I'm doing it every moment since by not using a safeword. And by obeying direct commands, thinking about it - the soggy towel is making one knee quite cold and damp now. I asked you once what you felt about me abusing you with all the words under the sun. You said that in the circumstances you found it 'funny' and 'quite sweet'. You patronising fucking bastard.

Then you pull the clamps off. I scream. Then I'm trying, fruitlessly, to rub my nipples against the bed to relieve the sensation. You straddle me and start molesting both breasts - the advantage of big tits is you can reach them easily, sticking out each side of my chest. It hurts but there's something about my nipples being squeezed that sends spasms straight to my cunt, which is now throbbing and wouldn't need much to reach orgasm. I predict you aren't going to help with that for a while. Git.

And then you stop touching me.

Fucker.

Fucking shit.

You motherfucking bastard!

You crouch down to speak in my ear again. "What a filthy mouth you have," - an amused tone of voice. "I'd better do something about that."

I anticipate a gag of some sort. Probably my own pants. It usually is. But no. You're hitting me. A leather or wooden paddle, I'm guessing. So far, I'm panting and trying to control my breath, sort of succeeding, so I guess you have successfully stopped me shouting abuse at you. Though now I can't control my breathing - I'm gasping, then each stroke is making me cry out. It's like burning, every hit on my blood-red bottom, and so, so painful I can't take it.

I'm screaming. "No!" turns out to be easier to say than "stop!" and you do, so I manage to whimper, "please?" You hit me a couple more times and then hiss "Remind me of your safe word?" at me. Suddenly speech is easy and I obediently tell you, "Red."

"Good girl," you reply, idly tracing a welt with one finger. "Is there anything you want to say?"

For once, I'm polite enough to suppress the urge to retort, "Fuck you!" and a small voice says, "No..." Though seriously, all people who feel they mustn't talk back to their tops or they will be punished horrendously - you really think they're going to hold back from hurting you as much as they feel like, just because you didn't say anything cheeky? It's not a precision chart where I'm going to get hurt somewhere on a scale of 1 to 10 depending on my behaviour, but a mere switch from off - normal friends doing normal things - to on, where you hurt me as much as you damn well like. Like the difference between a gas stove and a crappy student electric hob. At least with a functioning emergency breaker, I suppose.

This thought is cut off by you resuming beating on my backside - I can only guess you are determined to leave one enormous blackened bruise - and while my throat squeaks "Fuck!", the pain is so much I'm only squealing and gasping and screaming as I try to wriggle away from your weapon. Failing completely of course, but the feel of leather pushing on my limbs and the rush of blood round my cunt is making me desperate to be fucked. I hang onto that feeling as I try to drift my mind away from the pain, and as I hump the mattress I just feel sensations which are too much to comprehend. It's a total eclipse of my brain as you pause a moment and I come back to earth, and when you strike me again it's a shattering pain and I cry instantly.

You fondle my cunt a bit and I thrust into your hand, but then hit me again, and I sob more. A few more rounds of this has me a snotty mess, panting as I can't breathe through my nose. Then at least you fill me, but it's not enough. I think it's the handle of the flogger. I writhe about, trying to get it to hit the spot, but it's not cutting it. You shouldn't have bothered. Ungrateful, moi?

Which brings me back to the pain, continuing, unending, my running eyes and nose, and I'm accepting it; I have to accept it and that makes it both bearable and, suddenly, wonderful, and finally I'm coming, such amazing throbbing of my cunt rippling against my stuffed arsehole, but I'm crying because of the terrible, horrible pain. The orgasm is truly tremendous and I'm roaring wordlessly, aahing to please any doctor, my whole sweaty, sticky body twitching uncontrollably. I can tell there is pain being inflicted but my body isn't feeling it as it's too busy.

Finally, dry-mouthed and breathless, I fall still, totally relaxed. I've pushed the butt plug out and feel a slight soreness where it pressed against the chain. I have no idea if there's anything in my cunt. I inhale, mentally testing whether there's any tension anywhere, and let my bladder go, adding a few more drops of urine to the wetness beneath me. I'm totally blissful.

And then there's the abrupt end as a cane whacks down on my purple and black backside, twice, three times. I scream at the first and it's so shocking and painful I simply burst into tears. There's another, and another, and I sob, unable to cope, and one more, six, and I cry, no other response possible.

You crouch next to me and put your arm round my suddenly-cold shoulders. "All done." You pass me a towel to wipe my face on and I blow my nose in it like a small child. It'll see worse in a minute. You untie my arms and remove the cuffs from my legs, and I bring both into my chest, curled on my side, fetus-style. You swipe another towel over the rubber mattress, toss it aside, and curl up next to me. Your warmth is what I need. Yes, being beaten to tears was what I needed, but that requires comfort afterwards. My arse brushes your jeans and I flinch.

"There's a tiny dot of blood from one of the last cane strokes, but otherwise it's just bruising," you assure me. That was the aim: to beat me black and blue but not open any skin.

"Just bruises!", someone watching gasps. I turn my head to try to see the audience - about ten of them. A couple are looking a bit queasy, possibly more so because their partners are looking extra aroused. I hope they don't get persuaded to try anything they don't really want to. Or more likely, sadly, the partners end up ignoring withdrawn consent and then try saying "you enjoyed it really." Sometimes I think maybe we shouldn't play so intensely in public, especially seeing as it can look as if you're ignoring my pleas to stop, but the club staff know what we're doing, we encourage others to play, and tossers ignoring consent exist everywhere.