The Blooming Season

Pet play. I'll never understand it. But, then again, I've rapped more than my share of naughty puppy dogs on the nose with a newspaper and stroked more than one playful lap kitty's fur in my day. Had a damn good time doing it too. "Let them in, Ginger. It's show time."

Wallflower

Cassandra giggles and bounces on her stiletto heels in anticipation. It's freezing outside and I feel as if we've been standing in line for hours. I'm about to make a fuss and demand to be taken home when the crowd finally starts to shuffle forward.

I hear the thumping bass beat of music long before we make it to the door to pay the entry fee. I haven't changed my mind about how the night is going to go. This is Cassandra's crowd more than it is mine. Any crowd, no matter how diverse, is her crowd. She loves people. She'll have a great time. She's one of those lucky few capable of having fun anywhere. As for myself, I haven't even gotten inside and I'm already wishing I'd stuck to my guns and stayed home. The music is too loud. There are too many people. I've been pushed, shoved, and elbowed in the ribs, and I'm over it.

I really want my couch, comfy pajamas, and fuzzy blanket and I'm about to tell Cassandra so by the time we finally reach the door. She yanks the money to cover the entry fee out of her purse before I have time to protest and hands the bills over to a buxom redhead wearing little more than a smile.

The event was well planned. I have to say that. Trying not to think about what kind of damages I could incur while visiting, I hastily sign a waver releasing the club from any liability. The redhead snaps a plastic band around my wrist and I'm turned loose to wander the wild side at my leisure.

Cassandra shells out more bills at the coat check. I'm the responsible one and she hands me our half of the tickets as she all but pries me out of my winter jacket in her haste to jump head first down the rabbit hole. She is eager and quivering with excitement. It's laughable really. How much she reminds me of my kids on their first trip to Disneyland.

There certainly are a lot of sights to see. I catch glimpses of the goings on through the double doors separating the vestibule from the din of activity as people make their way past us and disappear into the pulsating throng of life beyond.

Cassandra snatches a program from the stack sitting on a long wooden table and insists that I take one too. I gingerly glance at the glossy page and fold it neatly before tucking it into my clutch. She is too busy pouring over her copy and making an itinerary to notice my reaction. I don't know what I expected, but programs and live demonstrations weren't it.

Cassandra enthusiastically shoves me through the double doors leading to wonderland and gawks wide eyed at all the people on the other side. I'm trying to school my eyes and not to stare at the collection of oddities in the club. I thought I knew everything there was to know about this strange deviant little universe. Obviously, I was wrong.

A grown man crawls on all fours behind a woman leading him about by a leash. I dodge someone wearing a furry cat costume and pick my way through the leather, studs, silks, lace, and bare skin. Cassandra tries to drag me deeper into the crowd, but I'm determined to stay on the fringes. Luckily, the resounding crack of a whip is enough to have her forgetting about me and wandering off on her own to investigate.

Unfortunately, the floor plan is laid out so that there isn't really a fringe to retreat to. Booths displaying nefarious tools of the trade line the outer walls. The center of the room is open and filled to the brim with mingling people. A stage occupies the entire far wall of the large expanse and on it, a burlesque dancer confidently struts her stuff. People, bound with ropes because they want to be dangle high over the heads of the crowd. The whole place is bursting with excited energy, like that of a carnival midway.

I'm a seasoned nurse of over twenty years. I thought there was nothing that could possibly shock me after two decades in the field. But, I find myself more than a bit surprised by tonight. I really didn't know there were so many people out there on the fringes of society looking for a place to belong. I didn't expect that underneath the leather, corsets, lace, studs, chains, and masks. The sorts of people that enjoy this darker side of life look just like anybody else. Just like me.

I'm honestly surprised by the sheer number of people so close to my age. I thought the world of BDSM and fetishes was one that belonged to the young and beautiful. I guess it makes sense though. Traipsing through the darker side of human sexuality isn't for anyone who doesn't know exactly who they are or what they're about. It'd be too easy to get lost in the depths of fantasy without a strong foothold in reality to keep you anchored.

I nudge my way past a woman old enough to be my mom and too tightly cinched into a latex body suit. I'm in line again, waiting my turn at the bar. All the drinks have sexy outlandish names, naturally. I'm too embarrassed to order a drink named after a certain piece of the male anatomy. Instead, I settle for an overpriced glass of white wine and tuck the change into the bartender's tip jar before quickly stepping out of the way.

I spot an empty corner of the room and bolt to claim it as fast as I can. From my vantage point, I spot Cassandra mingling with the crowd gathered around a dildo display. Thank God that particular booth isn't putting on a live demonstration. She's ok. She's safe. And unlike me, just as I suspected, she's having a good time.

Luckily, nobody seems to notice me. I stand in the corner, sipping cheap wine from a plastic glass and enjoying the comforting anonymity of invisibility. I'm just a causal observer of this world of pain and pleasure. I'm mildly entertained by the throng of people and their various and nefarious outlandish behaviors. Maybe, I'm even a little curious, but not enough so to go out and join them in this Disneyland of fetishism and carnival of pleasures of the flesh.

My feet are killing me and I slip them out of the spiked heels. I cringe at the thought of standing in my stocking feet on a strange floor, but there isn't an empty place to sit anywhere. From my hiding I sense someone staring at me. Covertly glancing into the thick depths of the crowd, I see him and our eyes meet. I blush furiously and press my way as far as I can into the corner out of sheer desperation to go unnoticed.

It isn't that he's not attractive. He's what one might call a silver fox, tall and lean, with traces of gray framing his temples and woven through crown of his dark hair. His is a rugged look, skin bronzed and creased from years of working in the sun. Muscles honed by the virtues of his labor, not from lifting weights in the gym. His mouth has a hint of hardness and his eyes are relentless. I don't want to be so obvious in my ogling and force my eyes away. I get the sense that he's dangerous, or at least, dangerous for me, and the whip coiled in his grip only drives that point home.

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon," Cassandra shouts excitedly. She elbows her way through the crowd to get to me. Gripping my hand and drags me into the thick mass of people making their way toward the stage. I'm stumbling after her, desperately cramming my feet into the uncomfortable shoes. "We've got to see this! Master Dane is going to put on a live demonstration."

"Who?" I shout.

"Master Dane!" she says exasperatedly as if I should know who that is. I startle at the sound of a whip cracking to draw attention to the stage. It's him, my silver fox, and he's staring right at me. I try to make myself small, to shrink back into the throng of bodies straining to get a closer look at the illusive master. Cassandra isn't having it. She tightens her grip around my wrist and anchors me in place at our coveted spot at the foot of the stage. For such a skinny little thing, she is strong and I can't wiggle free from her grip.

I duck my head and count to ten. I look anywhere but at him. But, the resounding crack of his whip demands a response. His voice is loud and commanding, carrying over the din of the crowd in a deep, pleasant resonant bass that leaves no other choice but to hang precariously on every word he says.

No one makes a sound as he shackles the redheaded ticket taker to a wooden beam and demonstrates the sheer artistry of his craft. He isn't hurting her. The whip sounds more ominous than the actual application of leather to bare flesh. She scarcely has a mark on her. He enjoys making her squirm and she enjoys squirming for his pleasure. It's a game of smoke and mirrors, of illusion, and of pain and pleasure, and one I don't want to play.

He asks for a volunteer from the crowd. Cassandra waves her hands with the enthusiasm of an Indianapolis Colts cheerleader at halftime. I'm trying to shrink into the backdrop and go unnoticed. Almost as if he can sense my reluctance and discomfort, Master Dane focuses on me and calls me up onto the stage. I'm shaking my head no, my cheeks flaming with embarrassment, but Cassandra is shoving me forward, pushing me as he pulls me into places I'd rather not go.

I'm on my knees at his feet. But, I can't exactly remember how it is I got into this position. I mean. I've never knelt at the feet of any man before. He commanded. I did. I didn't even think twice about it. My response came from somewhere deep inside of myself that I didn't even know existed. For some reason, the need to obey was instinctive and undeniable.

I can't meet his eyes, but I can't seem to look away either. Time has stopped with the coiling of his whip around his broad knuckles. He runs the grip along the curve of my jaw and pauses to rest it beneath my chin. The leather is warm from his palm and worn smooth from use. With gentle pressure, he tilts my head up so that I've got no choice but to match his stare. "Welcome to my world, Wallflower," he says with a breathtaking and very meaningful grin.

Master Dane

The sight of so many wide eyes and curious expressions has drawn me into the thick of the crowd. I generally like to stay on the fringes and watch, play the part of the illusive, cool, aloof dungeon master that I am. But, tonight the club pulses with the beat of life and I'm sucked in.

I dodge an unknowing stranger's hands and move through the crowd, parting the throng of undulating bodies much like Moses parted the Red Sea. Anyone who knows me knows better than to touch me without my express permission. The members of our little club respect the boundaries of one another. The pretty little blonde is a visitor. She doesn't know any better. She is drawn to me by the deference the members of our club show me and by my reputation. I could teach her, very quickly, but I don't think she'd appreciate the lesson too much.

I can see through her as easily as if she were made of glass. She thinks she might find a place for herself in our world and very well, she may. I'm sure there's something here, some fetish she is on the verge of discovering. Perhaps, she is an exhibitionist. She certainly doesn't seem self conscious about wearing a corset in public. But, the receiving end of my particular brand of attention is no place for her.

There is little that escapes me. I pay attention to everyone and everything. Focus is necessary for the type of pain from which I derive my pleasure. Sometimes, limits blur along the edges. It's up to me to control the scene and the submissive. There's such a fine line between too little and too much. It's my job to walk it and to know where the boundaries begin and end.

I move through the crowd, enjoying myself and beaming with pride at my club. Tonight, I'm watching those I've taught teach the lessons they've learned from me to others and they're doing a fine job of it.

My palm burns for an ass to spank. I don't like being subject to the whims of the general public. I love what I've built, but the club is packed with strangers. There are far too many people for my tastes and too many possible situations that could arise for me to control. I'm eager for my privacy, to find one of my submissives, perhaps Ginger, and exert my will over them. I'd do just that right now. Drag one of my favorites by the hair to my private room in the back of the club and turn her over my knee to take the edge off. But, it's almost show time and I'm due on stage.

I've been watching the crowd, looking for someone from the general public to call on stage. Everyone here has signed a liability waver. We're covered from a legal aspect. But, I want to introduce the right person into our world. I don't want anyone who doesn't belong here. Oh, I'm not going to introduce anyone to my whip. That's a privilege hard earned not one simply given away at random. I don't spank strangers. Mine will be a mild display, uncomfortable to be sure, but hardly painful.

My height makes it easy to see over the heads of most people in the crowd. At seventeen I was awkward and embarrassed by my long gangly legs. Since then, I've learned to appreciate how very much my size adds to the types of games I like to play.

I spot exactly the type of woman I've been looking for hiding in the corner. She is someone who belongs in our world. I can tell. Though she's playing very hard at being invisible and she probably doesn't realize what she is, her body language gives her away. She's my age, perhaps a hair younger. From across the room it's difficult to be sure.

She wears a black dress, classically cut and form fitting. Her slouched posture gives away her discomfort over being noticed. She'd rather disappear. But, that's an impossible trick because I see her. She's curious and aroused, looking away and not wanting to meet anyone's gaze, and hoping no one notices her. But, it's too late for that too, because I have.

She's pretty in a natural sort of way with wide-set eyes and a lush soft looking mouth. Her hair is dark and long, pinned artfully away from her face in a waterfall of waves. She doesn't subscribe to the current standards of the times and I like that. I despise people who are carbon copies of everybody else. This woman is definitely not one of those people.

She's curvy. The dress is cut to hide what she probably considers figure flaws, but to me would be simply icing on the cake. After all my years of being a dominant, I've seen my share of naked bodies, firm and tanned, toned to perfection, built to please a master's every desire. Quite frankly, sure youth is nice to look at, but the allure of the young and beautiful doesn't do it for me anymore.

I love to teach. I love to train. I love the expression on a submissive's face when it all comes together and the last of the walls finally tumble down. It's a spiritual experience, like finding God, to deliver a submissive to that sweet spot where there's nothing but flesh, the flogger or the tip of a whip, and the pleasure of delicious pain.

I want to show this woman a freedom she's never known. I could deliver her to the gates of paradise by means of sweet surrender. I'm drawn to her light, like a moth to a brilliant flame. She triggers my every dominant instinct in a way I don't completely understand. But, isn't that the fool's errand of every dom? To have such a driven desire to dominate and yet, in reality, to be the one dominated.

"Master," Ginger says softly drawing my attention from the woman. She bows to me in respect, eager to get on stage and flaunt her exhibitionist side for the audience. "It's time."

For a submissive, Ginger knows how to command a crowd and unfortunately, me as well. I follow her up on stage and secure her wrists to the Saint Andrew's cross I built over two decades ago. I crack the whip and all eyes are on us. I play with Ginger's flesh with the tip of the whip. This game is mild compared to some of the games we've played, but her skin pinks up beautifully from the kiss of leather and I quickly slip into my role.

I keep it light. I'm toying with her, wickedly cracking the whip but controlling the force of the blows. She puts on a good show, wiggling in pleasure for the audience. This is grade school stuff for beginners, but our wide-eyed onlookers love it.

I demonstrate various tricks of the trade, explaining to the audience about safe zones. Highlighting with broad strokes of my fingers over Ginger's bare skin where to flog and which places of the human body to avoid. I smack her ass with my cupped hand. It doesn't hurt her, but makes a decidedly loud clap intended to instill fear in the subject. The sound and the cool sensation of fear are just part of the game for people like us.

I explain about safe words and Ginger shares hers with the audience. I stop immediately, touting safety and boundaries to the crowd. I have their attention. They're awestruck, watching me intently and hanging on my every word. That is, everyone except for the woman I spotted from across the room. She looks everywhere but at me. I've nicknamed her Wallflower.

I ask for a volunteer from the crowd. The blonde standing next to Wallflower at the base of the stage waves her arms wildly, jumping and shouting to get my attention. But it's Wallflower that I choose. I need to confirm that she is what I think she is. I need to be certain that she is submissive. I want her and if my suspicions are correct, she wants me too. She doesn't want to want me. I can tell. Hell, I live for it. Forcing the surrender of someone who doesn't want to surrender is just another game I like to play.

The blonde practically shoves Wallflower onto the stage. Perhaps, the blonde is a friend or her daughter. I grasp Wallflower's wrist hoisting her onto the last place on earth she wants to be. I'm not really into humiliation play, but I love the red blush beautifully staining her heated cheeks. She still won't lift her gaze to meet my eyes. It's a trait of a true submissive. I'm hard at how easily she falls into the role without realizing what she's done. I wonder exactly how far I can push her and to what extremes she'll go and decide to find out.

I order Wallflower onto her knees and she goes down without a moment's hesitation. She blinks up at me and then quickly glances away, as if she can't quite figure out how she ended up on her knees at my feet. There's a stubbornness to her that I find alluring. I command her to look up and meet my eyes. She won't. She went down onto her knees at my suggestion easily enough, but refuses to look up to meet my stare.

Wallflower bends, but refuses to yield completely. It's obvious she's never been in this kind of a situation before. She needs trained, under my careful tutelage, naturally. I enjoy breaking in new subs and finding ways to get them exactly where I want them. Where they want to be. I run the grip of my whip along her jaw and let it linger against the point of her chin before forcing her head up. I'm hard and straining against the fly of my leathers. Wallflower sees her effect on me. I know she does by the way she's nervously licking her lips and blushing so vibrantly.

Her eyes are blue and very pleasant in their shape and the light feathering of laugh lines at the upturned corners. They're alight with the flash of that stubborn streak of hers. Wallflower has probably never broken a social norm before. She wants to be a good girl and do as she's told while in full view of a room full of strangers. I doubt if she'd be so readily compliant if it were just the two of us alone. She wants to resist and I can see it in her expression. But, she's determined to behave against what her inner will would have her do instead. It's exactly where I want her.

I want to drag her by the hair to the spanking bench, bend her over the plank of wood, hike up her dress, and pink up that pale, round ass of hers with the palm of my hand until she realizes what I already know. She is a submissive and she's mine. I could fuck my little wallflower into next week, but like her, I have my own set of internal rules I must follow. My cock is the only thing that I have absolute control of and I don't lose control. Ever.