Not In My Wildest Dreams (Dream Series) (11 page)

“Can I get you another?” she asked.

I nodded. The bartender pulled down the bottle of Jack. Mistress C stopped him and tapped the glass in front of her. The bartender put the Jack back and grabbled the bottle of Macallan and a fresh glass, no ice, and slid it in front of me.

“For what was done to you, or for what you did?” she asked raising a brow, taking a sip of the drink in front of her. I watched as she savored the brown liquid. I took a sip of the same and appreciated the smoother quality.

“Does it matter?” I asked turning to her.

“Sure. I can help you work it out, but you have to know what side you’re on.”

I thought about that for a moment. You could say it was both.

As far as what was done to me, well, it was all the demands that are put on you as a model. Where to be, what time to be there, how to stand, how to look, hours of being primped—which I hated beyond belief, then the standing around while the ‘real talent’—the girl—was prepped, and not to mention how much Amanda liked to brag about her paycheck. I was never considered smart in school. Getting a C+ was a big deal for me. But no calculators were needed to figure out that she was getting paid fifty thousand dollars more than I was getting.

As far as what I’d done, it was the way I’d treated said model. She said she was consenting. I didn’t mark her or anything, but I got a wicked thrill out of controlling her. Blindfolding her. Tying her to the bed. Withholding her orgasms from her. Making her swallow. The next day she avoided me, which was actually the result I wanted, but she looked more scared than upset. I could have apologized, but what was the point.

“And how does being at the end of your whip help me?”

“If you’re being lashed for something you’ve done, giving in to the control of someone else can be freeing. If it’s for something done to you, it can release the anger you’re probably harboring. For men, especially powerful men like you, it’s quite liberating.”

I considered what she’d said. Maybe there was something to her theory.

I eyed her suspiciously. “Let’s go, then.”

“So, are you receiving a punishment for what you did? Or are you taking a lashing to release the stress?”

“Does it matter?” I asked, narrowing my eyes at her.

“No. Not to me.”

“Are we gonna do this or what?” I asked, growing impatient.

She swallowed more of her Scotch then stood.

“First time. Horse,” she said, pointing to the black, leather clad horse in the center of the room.

“The center of the room? Hell no. This is bull shit.” I yanked out my wallet and threw a twenty dollar bill on the bar and started to walk away.

“Fine. Let it fester,” her cold voice sang from behind me.

I stopped and
felt
the words echo in my brain. I knew she was right. It
would
fester. It would grow. I would try and numb the ache with Coors, Jack and Stoli. I knew that the numb from the booze would only last the night. Maybe Becca and I would try and fuck it out. This had been the cycle. For years. When I felt out of control, or had taken too much control, I felt like shit. I drank like mad. Days would pass until I felt better. Then, as soon as I was on set, or having my way with a chick, the feeling would come back.

“Fuck! Fine!”

“No!” she barked and stood. Her breath brushed on my neck. “Not fine. You commit, or we don’t do this.”

I looked toward the horse. There, lying willingly, no binds to hold her, no blindfold or gag, was a pale redhead. Another woman stood behind her; a Domme. She wasn’t using a traditional flogger, she was using a ballchain cat.

The sub’s face was tear streaked, yet she looked to be in heaven. At peace. Relieved. I wanted that peace.

I turned and I searched Mistress C’s green eyes. There was confidence. There was authority. There was … hope. I cocked an eyebrow at her, accepting her challenge and started to unbutton my shirt.

“I need this. I want this,” I whispered, nodding slightly.

A tiny smile appeared on her face. A curt nod. I had my permission.

I strode to the horse where the pale thing lay in her private nirvana. I unbuttoned my shirt and draped it on a coat hook. I felt several eyes on me. Did they recognize me? I knew that the general understanding here was anonymity, but I couldn’t help but wonder if someone would recognize me. I felt like I was on the set of my first photo shoot. Like all eyes were on me and judging.

I didn’t see the redhead leave. I didn’t see Mistress C appear next to me. But suddenly the redhead was gone and the horse was free. Mistress C extended her hand for me to take my position on the horse. I felt odd. I looked at her. The look in her eyes set all my fears aside. I drew from her confidence.

Standing in front of the horse, I eyed it and took a deep breath. As I settled my body on the cool leather, she asked with her mouth brushing on my ear, “Cuffs?”

I took a few more breaths and considered the choice. Tied down? Or here on my free will? I wanted both. But I knew what I needed. “Cuffs.” I needed to know I had committed.

Swiftly, Mistress C cuffed my wrists and ankles. I lay there knowing what to expect. I had the training. I tried to steady my breath in preparation for the flogger. I knew that she would bring me to subspace first. Then the punishment. I started to panic when I realized we hadn’t agreed on a number of lashes. That was supposed to have happened first. Part of the establishment phase. I didn’t have that. She hadn’t asked.

But then, the first of the falls came across my back. The sting was sharp. It was reassuring. Instantly I felt a calm fall over me. A second, then a third cascade of leather strands caressed my back. Again and again. With each crashing, I gave in. I gave up my struggles. The frustrations from the job. The annoyances of the women who wanted to be with me because I was a model, not because I was me. The shame for needing to demonstrate control over those women. The warmth that covered my back was comforting and at the same time, oddly erotic. I nearly felt drunk.

“Are you ready?” I heard Mistress C say. Her voice echoed in my head slightly. I heard her clearly enough, but it was distant.
So this is subspace,
I thought. I nodded, slow and numb. I needed more.

“Say it. I cannot go further.”

My mind searched for the rules. “Yes, Mistress. More, please.”

A moment or four passed.
Whoop-tsch!
The warmth that hit my back was initially a tiny spot. Then that heat radiated. And with the growth of the whip’s bite, I felt things—bad things—surface under my skin.

It wasn’t pain. It wasn’t agony. It was etherial. It felt like it was happening to someone else. Perhaps I was watching.

Whoop-tsch!
This second crack opened the space. I felt anger bubble and surface.

Whoop-tsch!
A third crack. Shame. My heart ached. A soup of emotion swirled under my flesh.

There were several more; I’d lost count. As for the whip, I don’t know if I heard the crack before it hit,
as
it hit or
after
it hit. But as each crack shouted, my head and heart opened and let go.

Whoop-tsch
! This last crack was harsher. It opened something. A giant
whoosh
of air left my lungs. I felt it was done. My body collapsed. I relaxed. I was spent.

The episode shocked me some. It reminded me of running or working out… at first it’s uncomfortable, but you enjoy the survival, and you want to push yourself. Like that runner’s high, endorphins flooding your senses. The edge between pain and pleasure was so blurry.

Like an angel from the unknown, my body was blanketed with something, my wrists and ankles were released. My arms were guided into sleeves. I was pulled back and my feet found the floor. I tried to stand, but found that I was in a stupor. Mistress C was suddenly under my right arm and she helped me … away… to someplace dark and warm.

I was laid down on a soft surface… a bed? A sofa? I felt a pair of hands snake under my shirt. A cooling moisture was rubbed in methodically. I imagined that each area of pain on my back was a hole. And those holes let the bad feelings that I had all trapped inside of me escape. And, as those pains were being eased away with the lotion, the holes were being closed. I relaxed into the touch.

“How are you feeling?” a soft voice fell on me.

“Good. Better,” I breathed. “Thank you.”

A last touch on my skin and the hand disappeared. I heard a door close. Silence hugged me. I relaxed fully. And slept peacefully.

W
atching Jack under the whip of Mistress C was a sight. I admired how she wielded a whip. Always with respect and freakish accuracy. And Jack. My darling Jack… He was so very stoic. Took each bite bravely, contemplating it and giving into it. I watched the pain and anguish of the past years surface and release.

Just last night we talked about me using a whip on him. We had been drinking. He asked me to do it. He’d had a tough trip. He said he’d spoken to some subs he’d been with who told him that the bite of the whip could release the stress and anger and frustration. I refused because I had been drinking. One of the first rules of Dominance was to not exert under the influence. It was a good rule for me. I enjoyed exerting my Domme tendencies more than the drink, so I found myself drinking less and less so I could morally take the handle of a whip.

As Mistress C helped Jack off of the horse, I saw a new man. Jack was still handsome and proud, but now he seemed to have a new peace. Mistress C took him to a room where she would deliver the after care. Too bad she wasn’t going to fuck him after the lashing—did Jack know that she was lesbian?

March 1986

T
he next couple of years brought some changes.

I finally decided to get my own place. Found a reasonable condo on East Fifty-first Street. It was a shit hole given that men didn’t earn a fraction of what women did, even if I was working for some of the biggest names in fashion, but it was my shit hole.

Becca and I continued to be the best of friends. If I wasn’t crashing at her place, she was crashing at mine. We continued to work, but as we both aged, work became more and more difficult to get. Becca continued to see R, or Rita, but it wasn’t exclusive. Becca still kept her at arms length. I continued to have random, domineering sex with whoever was willing. But I stayed away from tapping into the modeling pool to indulge my new found preferences in the bedroom.

Becca, Lisa and I continued to visit the club, but Becca and I would also practice at home. Now we weren’t just banging each other for release. We would paddle, or whip each other…then fuck. It was still not an emotional thing for either of us. Just a release.

Our “sessions,” as we called them, became a routine. If one of us felt like we needed a session, we’d kneel in the middle of a room. The other person would see it and start firing questions. Asking if the kneeler had been bad, to which degree of badness, and what punishment they wanted and how much. Not exactly a conventional D/s relationship, but it worked for us. Most of the time we’d make shit up, but sometimes we were brutally honest. Becca would bring up sad things from growing up with her overbearing parents and how she felt inadequate because of it. She’d ask for a few lashes to let the darkness out. I would sometimes be overcome with sadness, because the women I was with were only with me for my ‘celebrity’ status. I felt dirty and ashamed, and I would need a bite to feel
something….anything…
because too often, I had stopped feeling. In the privacy of our homes, the release felt so much greater than the release from a whipping at the club. And to receive aftercare in the arms of a true friend was far more healing.

The slowing career was bothersome. It was all I knew. A future without this job was scary. I was getting gigs, sure. And they were great, especially the after parties, but the runway had pretty much stopped for me. As a 24 year old, I couldn’t compete with the new 16 year old men coming onboard. I was still under contract for big names, and I prided myself on being the exemplary model on set. It was my strength. I was on time, courteous, and took direction—and was not a diva, like some of these new kids coming into the business.