The Story of Owen: One Man's Submissive Journey (11 page)

But tonight something was different. Tonight their relationship had shifted from strictly business to something more. She had introduced him as her friend, but was it in fact more than that? When she’d crossed the line in accepting his invitation, had the way back to business-as-usual been closed to her?

Focus,
she warned herself. It was important to be on her game tonight. It was her first reentry in the public scene after so long away. She would need to concentrate, and to pay attention not to her own confused emotions, but to the man she would lead in this delicious dance of erotic pleasure and pain.

“Place your hands flat against the wall,” she repeated. As Owen assumed the position, Sylvie nodded her approval. “Yes, that’s perfect. I will start slowly, and I’ll be talking to the audience, explaining what I’m doing as I go. Your job is to stand still and keep your back straight. What I really want from you is to experience the flogging with your entire being. Don’t pay attention to what I’m saying to the audience. Don’t try to be stoic in front of the crowd. It’s all right if you moan or cry out. Forget that they are there. What I want from you is the total acceptance of what is happening. I want you to embrace the pain, to become one with it, to move into that special place where nothing matters, nothing exists save for you and me and the leather that connects us. Can you do that for me, Owen?”

Owen turned his head, meeting her eye. She felt something sparking between them. He was worrying his lower lip with his teeth and Sylvie could feel both his apprehension and his desire. She had to squelch the nearly overwhelming desire to kiss him. She found herself taking a step toward him, but stopped, startled by the sudden chiming of bells over the loudspeakers, and then Master H.’s strident voice.

“Ladies and gentlemen. For those of you interested in a public flogging, please go to the rear stage. Mistress Sylvie will be doing a demonstration in approximately two minutes.”

Sylvie stroked Owen’s bare back, enjoying the feel of long, lean muscles beneath her fingers. “Relax,” she urged softly. “You were made for this.”

Master H. climbed to the stage and introduced Sylvie to the crowd of about forty people that had gathered to watch. Once he left the stage, Sylvie addressed the audience.

She started slowly, demonstrating technique to warm the skin, as she talked about how crucial it was to pay attention to the body and the reactions of your subject. Owen stood still, his palms flat, his bearing proud. Some people called out questions, and she answered them, going over technique, wrist position and stance.

When she began the flogging in earnest, the crowd quieted and stilled. Sylvie felt them dropping away from her consciousness as she focused on the swish of leather moving over Owen’s back and shoulders, the twitch of his muscles, the way he held his body, the gasp of his breath. His skin was reddening nicely, a crosshatch of marks left by the deceptively soft strands of leather.

A particularly cruel stroke, the tips curling around Owen’s side, pulled a grunt from his lips, and she could see the sheen of sweat starting on his back. “Accept it,” she said softly. “Embrace it.”

She struck him harder, flicking the leather against the bunched muscles between his shoulders. “You’re fighting me, Owen. Stop fighting and give yourself to me. I want it all. Hold back nothing.”

He was breathing hard, his chest heaving, his eyes squeezed tightly closed, tension making his body rigid. Maybe she’d made a mistake, forcing him too soon to a public display. Maybe she should back off—end the demonstration now, instead of holding out for what she knew he could do, where she knew he could go, if only he could get past this bit of purgatory.

That’s how a masochist had described it to her once, telling her that in order to soar, you had to first descend into the depths of hell, let the flames of the pain lick you until you were nothing but that pain—it consumed you and absorbed you, and then… And then, just when you were sure you couldn’t bear another stroke, came the transformation.

Sylvie never tired of being a part of that, and always thrilled to be the one who could give such an experience to another person. It was the ultimate triumph, she felt, knowing it was
her
whip,
her
cane,
her
touch, that wrought such sublime magic.

“Owen, let go. Let it take you where you need to go. Do it. Do it for me.”

And then it happened.

Owen’s head lifted slowly until his face was to the ceiling. His breathing slowed, his lips parting. His eyes, while still closed, were no longing squeezed shut. Sylvie could feel all the tension easing from his body as he fully embraced what she was offering.

“Yes,” Sylvie cried, elated as she struck him again and again. “Yes!”

A collective murmur moved through the watching crowd. They could see it too, and no doubt many of them knew just exactly what they were witnessing. Sylvie continued to flog Owen’s back and shoulders, her rhythm steady and hard as Owen soared. She let him fly as long as she dared before finally easing the tempo and the force, until the leather was only a whisper across his heated, marked flesh.

“Stay where you are,” she said softly, placing her hand gently on his shoulder. “Take your time to come down.”

Though they hadn’t discussed how to end the scene, Owen turned slowly to face her, his eyes burning with a fervor that bordered on the religious. He sank slowly to his knees in front of Sylvie and lifted his head to her. Sylvie lowered the flogger toward his face and Owen, as if they’d choreographed it beforehand, kissed the handle.

The crowd broke into noisy, raucous applause and Owen whipped his head toward them with a startled expression on his face, as if he’d truly forgotten they were there. He looked back at Sylvie, his smile at once embarrassed and pleased. Sylvie cupped his face in her hands and it took every ounce of self control not to bend down and kiss him.

~*~

It took a while before Sylvie and Owen could extract themselves from the crowd that gathered around them after the demonstration. Owen mostly just stood there, still trying to come down from the incredible place she’d sent him to with her flogging. Sylvie handled the crowd well, accepting compliments with grace and easily deflecting offers to participate in private scenes with some of the eager onlookers.

Finally they managed to slip away, and were left alone to sit at the bar. Though Sylvie was sipping a glass of cold Chardonnay, she’d recommended Owen just have water until he had calmed down, and he’d agreed. Owen’s back and shoulders still stung from the flogging, but mercifully his erection had subsided. He’d been terribly nervous when the scene first started, glad he was facing the wall, and praying he didn’t make a fool of himself in front of a bunch strangers. He wanted to please Sylvie, to impress her, to show her the “grace and courage” she had ascribed to him.

What he hadn’t expected was to fly. It had only happened a few times before during their sessions, and then only after an intense buildup beforehand. He’d never dreamed it could happen in such a public forum, and within just a few minutes. Or had it been hours? He had no idea—he had stepped out of time, truly becoming one with the sensations—part pain, yes, but also part pure, perfect pleasure. 

“You okay?” Mistress Sylvie’s sweet voice penetrated Owen’s thoughts.

“Oh yeah.” Owen smiled at her. “Better than okay. That was amazing. Thank you, Mistress Sylvie.”

“Thank you, Owen. You made me very proud tonight.”

The background music was again interrupted by the chiming of bells. A different voice came over the speakers. “Master H. will present slave Mark tonight, in celebration of their recent engagement. You will get a firsthand taste of Master H.’s expert knife play. Be warned, the play is real, so if the sight of blood makes you squeamish, you might want to give this one a miss. If you dare, they will be at the marble pedestal in five minutes.”

The man they’d met earlier named Rick was sitting on Sylvie’s other side at the bar. “Oh, goody—knife play! Mark is absolutely
to-die-for
gorgeous and a perfectly trained pain slut.” He rubbed his long, thin hands together, his expression eager.

“Come on.” Rick stood, gesturing with his head toward an area where a crowd was already gathering. “You won’t want to miss this. Master H. is super talented with a knife.”

As Rick moved away, Owen turned to Mistress Sylvie, his stomach clenching. “Blood play? Is that even safe?”

Mistress Sylvie shrugged. “I’m sure if Master H. is the one in charge, it will be safe. He wouldn’t have the reputation he has if he didn’t know what he was doing.”

“But blood…” Owen trailed off. It wasn’t that he was squeamish per se, but the sight of blood, at least his own blood, sometimes had the unnerving effect of making him dizzy.

At the same time, he couldn’t deny the sudden, urgent tug in his cock, as a dark and rarely tapped fantasy involving being whipped until he bled suddenly surfaced with uncomfortable clarity in his mind. “I don’t know,” he began again, but Mistress Sylvie slipped her arm through his.

“Come along, slave Owen,” she said, draining her glass and setting it on the bar. It was more of a command than a request, but she was smiling. Owen drained the last of his water, wishing suddenly for a double whiskey, neat, to offset the nervous churning in his gut. He found himself moving alongside Mistress Sylvie, loving the feel of her hand tucked into the crook of his arm as they approached the crowd gathering in the corner of the room. 

No doubt recognizing them from the flogging, the crowd parted for Mistress Sylvie and Owen as they approached, allowing them to move to the front of group. Owen would have been happier hovering at the edges, but Mistress Sylvie’s grip on his arm was firm.

A broad-shouldered man with dark skin was already in position, kneeling up on a dais that appeared to be made of solid marble. Resting on a sturdy pedestal, the dais was about four feet from the ground. The man’s muscular arms hung loosely at his sides. He was naked, save for a leather codpiece covering his cock and balls, held in place with leather strips slung over his narrow hips.

Master H. appeared beside him. Facing the crowd, he flashed a white smile. “Greetings, my friends and guests. For those of you I have not yet met, I am Master H., and I welcome you to my club.” He smiled, red lips against very white teeth, reminding Owen, with his silk shirt and rakish smile, of a pirate. Owen noticed he now wore a leather holster on his belt, the handle of a knife protruding from it. “Allow me to introduce to you slave Mark. He is my most prized possession, and it pleases me tonight to display his utter obedience and willingness to suffer for me.”

Owen glanced toward Mistress Sylvie, wondering if it was too late to sit this one out, but her gaze was fixed on the man on the dais.

“Without further ado,” Master H. said as he gripped the knife handle at his waist and pulled the blade from its leather sheath. He pressed the flat side of it to slave Mark’s lips. Mark kissed the blade and Master H. drew the flat edge along his chest. It glittered brightly against his dark skin.

Owen drew in a breath and pressed his lips together. He glanced down at Mistress Sylvie’s hand, which still lightly gripped his arm. Leaning close, he whispered, “I’m not sure I can watch this.”

Sylvie leaned close as well, her soft hair brushing against his cheek as she murmured into his ear. “I want you to watch it, Owen. Then we will talk about it after, okay?” Her voice was silky smooth, but her tone was firm. In spite of his fear, perhaps partially because of it, Owen felt the hard press of an erection rising at his groin.

As the crowd gaped, Master H. stepped back and touched the tip of the knife to Mark’s bulging biceps. Several gasps rose from the crowd as he drew the point down, leaving a long thin line of pink in its wake. Little droplets of bright red blood beaded along the cut. Owen found himself wincing in sympathy, but slave Mark didn’t so much as flinch.

Mistress Sylvie’s grip tightened on Owen’s arm and she moved closer.

Master H. drew the tip of the blade along the other arm. The slave remained still, his eyes always on his Master, seemingly impervious to the bloody cuts dripping to the white marble at his knees. Master H. focused his attention next on slave Mark’s thighs, drawing several more welting lines along the skin, each of them beading with blood.

It was as if he were cutting on a living, breathing statue. Throughout the ordeal slave Mark held himself still as stone. Owen breathed a sigh of relief when Master H. finally wiped the bloodied blade on a piece of cloth and returned it to its sheath.

But apparently Master H. wasn’t done yet, because he pulled something from his pants pocket and held it out for the crowd. Owen saw it was a small pocketknife. With a push of an unseen button, the razor-sharp bladed whipped open. Master. H. stepped to the side so the onlookers could get a better view as he raised the blade to Mark’s groin.

Owen turned away. “Shit,” he whispered, his balls tightening, his stomach clutching. “I can’t watch this.”

Mistress Sylvie took her hand from his arm and placed it on his neck, her cool fingers stroking him. “It’s okay,” she murmured softly in his ear, her tone at once authoritative and comforting. “He knows what he’s doing. I feel your resistance, but also your fascination and desire. Give in to it. Feel what you are feeling, instead of fighting it. Watch slave Mark’s grace. Look at his eyes, Owen. Look at the way he adores his Master and what is happening to him.”

Owen obeyed, pulling his eyes from the blood on the dais and looking at the kneeling man’s face. He was staring at Master H. with such naked, raw love and adoration it was almost embarrassing—as if they were witnessing something too personal for a public display. Owen could see Sylvie was right—slave Mark loved what was happening as much as Owen loved what Sylvie gave to him, and he loved the man who was giving it to him.

Sylvie hadn’t taken her hand from Owen’s neck. Her touch electrified him, moving in warm, eddying currents through his body. As much to keep her there as anything, Owen focused on the scene unfolding before them.