The Businessman's Tie (The Power to Please, Book 1) (7 page)

And with that, he snapped the belt across my ass. I bit back
a squeal, but made a grunting noise all the same. Fire flashed across my ass,
gone again in a moment.

Michael rubbed where he hit me. Then smack! The belt struck
again. Smack! Again. I grunted with the blows.

He rubbed me, “Her ass will be bare, of course. And she’ll
feel so much more pain than this, you can’t imagine.”

He struck again. I clenched my stomach against the growing
burn. My ass became more sensitive with each strike, or perhaps the strikes
themselves were becoming harder. Then he rubbed me again. His hand slipped
under my panties, skin on skin, and he slid his fingers down the crack of my
ass, then lower to my pussy, my embarrassingly wet pussy.

He stroked me and I squirmed under his touch. I forgot about
the belt and the burn.

I shouldn’t have. In a quick motion, his hand was gone and
once again the belt struck, but this time lower, where the bottom of my
buttocks met the tops of my thighs. I barely contained my cry.

Michael chuckled. “That one was for turning your head when I
told you not to.”

He struck again, the same spot, with greater force than he’d
used yet. I was unable, finally, to restrain a yelp. My skin stung and burned
from the blow.

“That was for arching your back when I told you to hold your
position. Just think, you never would have gotten those two blows if you hadn’t
been disobedient.”

“Of course,” he said, “I get my greatest pleasure when you
obey me. But, I also get pleasure when you don’t. I enjoy the cries of
beautiful women, Nonnie. For me, it’s a win-win. Now, sit down. And remember,
don’t take your hands from the bar until I tell you to.”

I sat down with relief and trepidation. My legs had grown
increasingly trembly from the stress of holding my straight-legged position
under the shock of Michael’s blows, so I welcomed the respite. But my butt was
fiery from the belt, and it wasn’t exactly pleasant to sit at that moment. Sit
I did, however, and made certain my hands stayed clasped around the bar as I
changed position.

Michael straddled the bench behind me, and snugged up
against my back. The warmth of his smooth chest was soothing, unlike the
stinging heat plaguing my butt.

“Time for the show,” he said, and pushed a button on a remote
control he held.

I didn’t know if I was ready, but no matter, the curtain was
opening.

The window was huge, encompassing almost the entirety of the
wall. The window provided an unimpeded view of the space beyond. And quite a
view it was.

The room was large, with white ceiling, floor and walls, the
whiteness only broken by shelves, rolling carts and various equipment of
unknown purpose that neatly lined two of the walls.

Some tall lamps were scattered here and there, but weren’t
being used at the moment. All the lighting came from recessed fixtures in the
ceiling. Plenty of hooks of various sizes and shapes adorned the ceiling as
well. From one particularly strong and thick hook hung what I thought was a
block and tackle. I didn’t think it prudent to ponder its use. Indeed, most of
the equipment in the room left me wondering at its purpose, but as with the
block and tackle, I didn’t spend time contemplating it.

The real display, anyway, was in the center of the room.

There were three people, two women and a man.

The man was massive in every way, thick and burly, like a
professional wrestler from long ago, or a muscled dockhand. His barrel chest
and meaty arms were bare. Dark hair covered his arms and torso and led down to
a good-sized stomach which protruded more than a little, yet appeared tight and
hard. No one would ever dare to suggest the man was fat.

His black leather pants fit him nicely and not too tightly.
He wore studded black leather boots.

As if all of this weren’t intimidating enough, he wore a black
leather hood that fit around the entirety of his head and neck, so there was no
way to know what he looked like. The only holes in the mask were for his eyes,
ears, nostrils and mouth. Nothing suggested expression of any kind, leaving him
devoid of the usual signs of humanity.

He resembled an executioner from another age. Instead of an
axe, he held a thin black rod. He was frightening, indeed.

A woman kneeled on the floor not far away from him. She was
miniscule in comparison to the bulk of the masked man. Her head was bowed and
her medium-length brown hair fell forward to shield much of her face. I guessed
her age at around 40. She had a ripe figure that swelled out of her
tightly-cinched corset and hip-hugging skirt. The outfit was made of black leather,
like the man’s. Her feet were bare.

And then there was the centerpiece of the room — she was
stretched on a wooden rack that stood upright, secured to the floor with
support beams at the rear of the structure. The woman stretched spread-eagled
on the rack, face forward, completely naked. Thick leather bracelets circled
her wrists and ankles and were clipped to the four corners of the rack.

Her face was plain, free of cosmetics of any kind. Although
she wasn’t particularly pretty, she wasn’t without attraction. Her blonde hair
was secured in a low ponytail at the base of her neck. Her best feature was her
eyes, large doe eyes that seemed made to portray suffering.

What she might have lacked by way of true facial beauty, she
more than made up for with her slender figure. Her arms were thin and fine. She
had a graceful, long neck. Her breasts were much larger than mine, and the
shape of them told me they were natural. She had a small, nipped-in waist and
gently rounded hips that curved down to some of the longest legs I’d ever seen.
Her crotch was shaved bare.

Her skin shone in the light, glistening in a way that made
me certain she was covered in some kind of oil. Several narrow red lines
crisscrossed her stomach and thighs.

When the hooded man stood next to her, she seemed tiny and
utterly defenseless. She was spread wide open, completely vulnerable, so
vulnerable that I felt a moment’s fear for her.

“Close your eyes,” Michael said.

That was about the last thing I wanted to do at the moment,
but I did as he asked. He wrapped something silky around my head and over my
eyes. He secured it snugly from behind. I was blindfolded.

And I waited for an explanation.

Michael obliged. “The man you saw is my friend, Ron Hoyte,
and the woman on her knees is his wife, Elaine. I don’t know who the lovely
lady on the rack is. I wasn’t expecting a third person. Hoyte must have found a
new toy I haven’t heard about yet.”

He sounded amused by the new “toy.” “The red lines you saw
on her body are from Hoyte’s rod. We can assume, with what I know about Hoyte,
that he already whipped her back and ass. He always beats back to front.”

Michael chuckled then, as if this were funny. I couldn’t
imagine. I tried not to imagine, in fact, what the woman’s back looked like.

“I hope you got a look at that rod Hoyte was holding,” he
said.

I said I had.

“Hoyte designed it himself. It’s made of a springy graphite
composite. It’s thin and flat and strikes a painful sting. It leaves bright red
stripes and a lasting burn. The marks fade quickly, less than a day usually. I
tried it out on my leg, and it stung like hell.”

“I think it’s time for some audio,” he said, and I assumed
he used the remote control again because the sound of a woman whimpering
flooded into the room.

The speakers must have been hidden somewhere in the ceiling,
I thought, nonsensically.

Michael’s arms wrapped around my waist, and he explored my
body, his hands sliding from my stomach to the undercurves of my breasts.
“Hoyte’s new toy is whimpering. Can you tell if it’s from pain, or pleasure?”

I listened, but I didn’t know.

His fingers brushed my thighs, a light, tickling touch.
“Since Hoyte was stroking her thighs, I have to believe it’s pleasure.”

Then a loud cracking sound split the air. Crack! I jumped.
The woman cried out. Now that, I thought, was pain. Another smack, then rapidly
two more. Crack! Crack! I flinched with every blow, the remaining heat on my
ass a reminder of Michael’s recent belting.

My breathing and heartbeat grew faster, caused not just by
what I heard, but also by what I felt. Michael hands roamed my body, no,
rather, kneaded my body. My inner thighs, stomach and hips, then up to my
breasts. The blindfold seemed to increase the thrill of his touch, and
goosebumps formed on my arms.

The woman’s cries changed to the whimpering sound, then
moans.

I heard a man, presumably Hoyte, say, “Slave, more oil!”

Michael explained. “That’s what he calls his wife, Elaine,
when they’re in scenes.”

I only vaguely took in this information, since I was lost
amid the incongruity of Michael’s touch and the whipped woman’s pain.

He described the scene. “Elaine is rubbing oil on the other
woman’s body, her belly and legs and breasts. She has lovely big breasts. Yours
are more my type, but still, hers are lovely.”

He squeezed my breasts and gently pinched my nipples while
he said this. I think I moaned.

“Elaine has finished oiling up Hoyte’s toy,” he continued.
“She’s back in her spot, kneeling on the floor. Hoyte is tickling his toy with
the end of his rod, tickling her pussy.”

I held my breath when Michael reached between my spread legs
and began stroking me over my panties. His fingers teased around the elastic
edge of the fabric.

Then ... crack! Hoyte struck again. I flinched. At the same
time, Michael gave me a nasty little pinch on my inner thigh.

I believe I yelped louder than the woman being whipped, from
surprise more than from the minor bite of his pinch.

Michael left me no time to think about it. He fondled my
labia and I squirmed against him.

“I think you’re beginning to see,” he said, and he removed
my blindfold.

I blinked. There they were, still just past the glass wall,
Ron Hoyte and his two women.

“Watch them,” Michael said. “Don’t look away.”

While Michael teased my breasts and pussy, I watched Hoyte
tease the woman stretched on the rack. With the tip of the black rod, he traced
a line across her belly then down to her pussy where he stopped and tapped the
rod against her puffy flesh. He moved the tip to her thighs, then raised it
upward again to her stomach.

The woman watched the rod travel over her body, but she
never looked at Hoyte himself. Her muscles tensed and twitched as the rod
traversed her oil-slicked skin. I think my muscles twitched as well.

Hoyte said nothing, gave no warning. He simply pulled back
his arm and with a quick flick of his wrist, delivered a cracking blow across
the woman’s stomach.

She cried out.

Hoyte unleashed another strike across her stomach. Then
another. Then he moved to her thighs. Crack! Crack! Crack. The helpless woman
shuddered in her restraints and cried out, her big breasts shaking from the
onslaught. Blows fell on her stomach and thighs, quick, sharp and relentless.

I could hear my heart beating in my ears. I could feel
Michael’s heart beating faster now, too, his excitement growing.

Hoyte stopped striking the woman. With his free hand he
caressed the areas he’d struck. Thin red lines crisscrossed her stomach and
thighs. He rubbed those lines and massaged her hurts until she began a low
moan, then he reached between her legs and slid his fingers inside her slit.

Up and down he slid his fingers from her clitoris downward
and back up again. He rubbed her and her moans grew louder and she began
struggling in her restraints for a wholly different reason than before.

I, too, began to moan. Michael pinched and stroked me during
the entirety of Hoyte’s assault on the bound woman.

Once, Michael whispered to me, “This is nothing to what
she’s feeling. Nothing.”

I couldn’t stop staring at the red marks on the woman’s
stomach and thighs, fascinated by the evidence of coldly-delivered pain. Hoyte
hadn’t spoken a word to her during the storm of blows.

Hoyte stepped back and traced more lines with the tip of his
rod, invisible lines across the woman’s breasts. He prodded a nipple, then drew
a trail across the undersides of her breasts.

The woman’s moans of pleasure changed in tenor. They got
louder, raising in pitch ... from fear, I knew, believing it could be nothing
but that. Fear of what would come next. My palms grew sweaty and slick on the
bar. I hadn’t thought he might ... no ... not there ...

Hoyte pulled back his arm and delivered a cruel blow across
the tops of her breasts. A terrible, shrill scream exploded from the woman. I
barely had time to gasp before Hoyte struck again, this time claiming the
undercurve of her breasts.

Her screams were frightful, loud, high-pitched and beyond
anything I’d heard before. She continued to keen when Hoyte reached out to
massage her poor flesh.

I couldn’t look anymore. I closed my eyes and turned my head
away. Surely a pain of that magnitude ... surely Hoyte couldn’t rub it away. In
my natural recoil from the scene, I released the bar and grabbed Michael’s
wrists. I fiercely held on to him, wanting everything to stop. It was too much
for me. I wanted no more of it.

Michael yanked my hands off his wrists and with one hand,
while with the other hand, he drove two fingers inside my pussy. I was so
surprised, I didn’t know what to do or think.

His voice was ominous. “I told you not to let go of that
bar.”

With each word he spoke, he plunged his fingers inside me.
“Now ... grab ... the ... bar!”

He released my hands and I grabbed the bar. There was no way
for me not to grab the bar.

“Watch them,” he commanded.

And so I did. I watched Hoyte beat that poor woman’s
breasts, and I nearly cried along with her, but for different reasons.
Michael’s fingers worked a rhythm inside me, and when he stopped that, he
tortured my breasts and nipples with fierce squeezes and pinches.