Swipe to see who's online now!
- Audio
- A Night at the Club
Info
PUBLIC BETA
Note: You can change font size, font face, and turn on dark mode by clicking the "A" icon tab in the Story Info Box.
You can temporarily switch back to a Classic Literotica® experience during our ongoing public Beta testing. Please consider leaving feedback on issues you experience or suggest improvements.
Click hereWhen we arrive at the club, my first task is my second least favorite one of the night. I go into the women's dressing room to remove all of my clothes. Even though I will spend the entire evening naked, this moment, where I first become naked, is when I feel the most exposed. I am not in subspace; I am not collared. I am just a naked woman with nothing between me and my insecurities.
When I come out of the dressing room, you are waiting for me. You hand me my wrist and ankle cuffs and I buckle them on tightly. The leather always loosens slightly throughout the night so I have learned to buckle them tightly initially. The pressure from them is comforting and I relax into it ever so slightly.
I then come to stand before you with my head bowed and you collar me. The collar has a ring at the front for attaching my leash, and a dog tag with my name. I close my eyes and feel my insecurities diminish -- not because they are no longer there but because they no longer matter. What I think of myself when I am collared is irrelevant. The only thing that matters is you.
You turn and enter the club and I follow you closely. You see some friends in conversation and sit to join them. You gesture toward the floor but there is no need. I know where to go. I sit on the floor at your side, my legs folded under me, my head leaning against your thigh. You are chatting with our friends about mundane matters or recent toy purchases or sharing news. You absent-mindedly stroke my hair and I feel warm and content. Usually full of thoughts about home and work, my mind empties. I am silent, listening only for an indication that you want to include me in the conversation, which is rare.
You send me to get you a drink, and I stand and make my way to the kitchen. I don't like walking around the club without you. As I am collared, most people know not to talk to me or touch me, unless they are a close friend. However, there are sometimes people who don't realize or choose to ignore such things, and having to negotiate those situations politely is challenging. But I am often the only naked person there and even those who are respectful are still looking at me. I am not an exhibitionist. Like a child or dumb animal who thinks if they can't see something it doesn't exist, I lower my eyes as I walk so I don't see them and somehow that makes me it possible for me to walk naked through a crowd of strangers to fetch your drink.
I make my way back and sit back at your side; however, my feeling of relaxed contentment is gone. You realize this, of course, which is why you sent me for the drink in the first place. I am discomfited and I think you like me that way.
After you finish your drink you tell me to take the toys to the location in the club you have selected for our scene. Sometimes this is a peripheral area or corner but more often it is the large open space in the center of the club. I know I am going to get a beating when you choose the center of the club. You choose it so you will have enough room to swing.
I am highly aware of being in the center of the club, completely naked except for my collar and cuffs, as I begin the routine of setting up the toys for you. To ease my embarrassment, I focus intently on the task. I have no other thoughts except trying to anticipate your needs. I think you must hate fumbling around in the bag during a scene. I try to anticipate what sorts of things you will want available depending on the location. I leave small items like clamps, needles, and gags in the bag since I this is not the location for such intimate play. I lay out all the toys in a way that seems logical to me, handles facing you, neatly arranged. I have no idea what, if any, of these items you will use on me, but touching them all and anticipating their use creates butterflies in my stomach.
You watch this whole routine, laughing at my dedication to a task you actually don't give a shit about and in fact find quite pointless. But you let me finish and then approach. As you approach, you find me shaking slightly, especially my hands. You laugh at my nerves and beckon me toward the leaning wooden post structure in the middle of the room. It has wooden crossties studded with rings to which you can attach clips or slip rope. I stand in front of you, bowing my head. To my embarrassment, I can see people gathering around the play area and try desperately to pretend they aren't there. You gesture toward the pillar and I position myself facing it. Then, mercifully, you blindfold me. I sink into blackness and immediately all my other senses are heightened. I feel the chill of being in the open space and the feeling of the wood against my breasts. You do not bind me to the structure. You want me to stay there under by own will, holding on instead of being bound, letting you beat me without anything stopping me from walking away, except my desire to please you. Without being so bold as to turn my head, I tilt it slightly in different directions, like a dog, to try to hear where you are and what you are doing. I try to figure out what toy you are choosing so I can brace myself but I can't figure it out.
There is a moment of silence. Suddenly, I have no idea where you are, and I get a a little scared. What if you left? What if you traded places with someone else? What if I've completely misjudged the situation and something completely different is in store for me?
These thoughts are interrupted by a zinging sound. It lasts less than a second but long enough for me to realize before the strike that it is one of the toys that is most difficult for me. The cane strikes my ass and I feel a sharp, searing pain that momentarily brings tears to my eyes. There is no way for my body to swallow this pain -- it is too sharp and too focused. I don't have any more time to think about it before hearing it again as you lay another strip along side the first. There is no counting, no ritual. You just lay into my ass with the cane over and over again. I grip the wood tightly with my hands. You concentrate on the curve of my ass where is meets my thigh -- this area is particularly sensitive and I clench my teeth. You strike harder and harder. The stripes now overlay each other, crisscrossing all over my ass. My ass is on fire. At one point, you approach me and run a finger along a particularly vicious stripe. I am not sure, but I think you are wiping away a stripe of blood. Small amounts of blood are not forbidden at this club, but significant bleeding will cause someone to stop the scene so I think you are assessing the situation. Satisfied that I am not bleeding enough to cause any consternation among the dungeon monitors, you continue with several more vicious stripes and then it stops. My head is bowed, my breathing is hard and fast. My hands relax their grip. The cane touches my lips for me to kiss. It is the only toy you make me kiss, and only because I hate the damn thing so much.
You go on beating me for a long time. Time has lost its meaning. You flog my back and ass until every inch of it is on fire. The impact of the flogger is so heavy it would knock me over but instead it just presses me against the wooden posts as the tails slam against my skin over and over again. You hit me as hard as you can with the flogger until your arm tires. I am panting through an open mouth. The flogging stops. I gather myself, trying to slow my breathing and reposition myself. Then I hear you right next to me, whispering in my ear. "Good girl," you say. You reach one hand around and put it over my mouth. With the other you start at the nape of my neck and rake your fingernails down my back as I scream into your hand. My skin parts where your nails leave bloody trails. You laugh a little, release my mouth, and push me back against the post. "Not done with you quite yet, girl."
I am shaking now, sweat stinging the scratches on my back and the stripes on my ass.
And then I hear it. If you have never seen or heard a sjambok, it is a south African weapon that is made of rhinocerous hide or, if mass produced -- as it was for riot control purposes, of dense rubber. It is heavy and makes a distinctive warbling noise as it is shaken in the air. I know this noise. I know this toy. We have not used it often as once it is used the scene ends. My legs begin to shake and I am grab tightly to the wood. I hear you laugh softly.
When the sjambok strikes, my world explodes. My lungs empty of air. I cannot make a sound. I am frozen in time, stilled by the pain. I am barely able to support my weight, hanging on the wooden supports. The pain is not fast and sharp, like the cane. It is not diffuse like the flogger. It is enduring. It travels through me at a slow pace, not dissipating for... I have no idea of long. But when it finally dissipates enough for me to regain awareness, I take a deep breath and push myself back on my feet so I am standing again. Then I gather myself and lift my arms back up to grip the cross piece again. This is your signal that I am ready to be struck again and you take advantage of the opportunity.
You strike me the sjambok many times but I lose count. I am lost to the world and to myself. My mind is empty except for the pain and trying to remain standing. All the strikes merge together and I am like a sponge for the pain. I absorb it and let it fill me.
It takes several minutes for me to be aware that the beating has ended. You come up behind me and examine your handiwork. The architecture of my skin is deformed -- now swollen and bruised, blood streaks have dried. "It's over," you say, "good job." You remove the blindfold but I am reluctant to open my eyes and rejoin the world. When I finally do, I desperately try to avoid looking at the faces of the onlookers still gathered around us.
I turn and sink to my knees in front of you. I lower my face to the floor and slide forward until I reach your feet. I lift my head and look at you for permission, which you grant with a nod. I press my lips against each boot, careful to not leave a mark, and then slide back until I am kneeling in front of you.
I have not spoken in so long I am not sure I can, but I clear my throat, look up at you, and say, "Thank you."
You lift an eyebrow, smile, and shrug slightly. "You're welcome. Now clean up this mess." You toss the sjambok on the pile of used toys, turn, and walk back to your seat. This is our version of aftercare. I once again focus on the tasks of cleaning the toys, returning them to the bag, and wiping down the furniture for someone else to use.
The rest of the night passes in a wonderful blur of deep, aching pain, a constant reminder of my submission. When, at the end of the night, the cuffs come off, my wrists and ankles feel empty and small, and when the collar comes off, I feel slightly adrift. I get dressed in the dressing room -- my clothes itchy and uncomfortable on my bruises, scratches, and stripes. Finally, my least favorite part of the night has come -- it is time to leave.
Please rate this
The author would appreciate your feedback.
Follow Author
7 Followers
- COMMENTS
Our Comments Policy is available in the Lit FAQ
Post as:
6 Comments
Did so like the insightful descriptions she gives and the detail, but have t agree being a slavesoul to more then a few Mistress's over the past 30+ years, the internal connection between sub& master is way beyond power exchange as it lacks any true exchange between the two, as also commented on aftercare is the core of all exchange from that comes growth and understanding.
Very few times have I felt this is when the so called Dom should be outstanding from the community for his actions of pure malice....
Extreme!
Enjoyed the story to a point, but use of the South African sjambok ( a dangerous instrument) for "many" strokes goes beyond belief even in fantasy! It is a very cruel whip the use of which can permanently damage a person. Likewise the dom's lack of aftercare and concern for her severe condition goes way beyond the parameters of reasonable credibility! .
Awesome!
Thank you! That was definitely different, but omg what a massive turn-on!!
Would love to hear more of your stories!!
:( makes me really sad that us women have been taught to hate ourselves so much that this was written by a woman. So fucked up.
Submission can be aftercare
Thank you for your comment - I'm sorry you didn't enjoy it. Please know that for me, continuing to submit is the comforting aftercare I need. And he did say I was a good girl. :)