Read Online Eighty Days White by Vina Jackson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Vina Jackson
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thud of floggers and the crack of whips on bare skin and the resulting screams really had a way of travelling, so I could easily understand why people came to the club rather than risk waking the neighbours with their unusual nocturnal practices.
Periodically one of the other club workers would take over on the counter to give me a chance to go to the toilet or take a cigarette break if I wished, though I didn’t smoke. Invariably I spent these snatches of time in the play areas, observing the interactions between the club’s guests.
Somehow I could never quite get used to the sight of women being tied up and effectively beaten. Often I thought of Nick and Liana together on the night that I’d accidentally witnessed. Even though I’d been aroused during certain moments, the thought of my friend in pain, particularly at the hand of a man, horrified me. I knew that each interaction was negotiated in painstaking detail and over the course of an entire relationship and that often it was the person on the receiving end of a paddle who had pleaded to be treated that way. There were plenty of dominants who got a release of sorts from having a partner at their beck and call, but also many who inflicted more pain because they were asked to and enjoyed the enthusiastic response of their submissive.
Richard was the club’s only male Dungeon Master, whose job it was to give advice and keep an eye on the patrons and make sure that newcomers were following the rules. He had tried to explain the intricacies of the dynamic between doms and subs to me, and all the variations that I found so fascinating.
‘You don’t need to understand it,’ he said that night, as he watched me watching a man caning a woman’s arse so hard that she jumped and cried out in pain with each strike. ‘So long as you respect everyone’s right to do what they please with their own body.’
‘Of course,’ I replied. ‘Each to their own. I know that. I just don’t see what they get out of it.’
‘Have you ever had your hair pulled? Or someone slap your butt?’
I mentally ran through my limited catalogue of sexual memories. So many were blurred by the passing of time and often the presence of alcohol. I remembered vaguely that a guy at a house party in my second year of uni had tugged at my hair as he kissed me and had nipped at my lower lip and then slid his hands under my skirt and smacked my arse. We were in the kitchen at the time and he’d been leaning against the refrigerator when I approached to get another bottle of beer and he’d taken me into his arms. When he had pulled on my pony tail and bit my lip, I’d just presumed that he was unskilled and clumsy, but slapping my bum had been the final straw. I’d been thoroughly insulted and had pushed him off and walked away. Who did he think he was? Someone starring in a rap video? Liana had chortled heartily when I’d told her.
‘You need to lighten up,’ she’d said. ‘Objectification can be hot.’
I’d been shocked at the time, but hadn’t given it much thought since. Liana was always trying to get a reaction from me anyway.
At any rate, I had resolved never to attend parties wearing a pony tail again.
Richard brought me back to the present.
‘What do you think about dommes and their male subs and slaves then?’ he quizzed.
He signalled over to She, who looked like something out of a superhero film with her gleaming latex catsuit and towering stilettos. She stood with her back as straight as a broomstick and her dark hair piled on top of her head in a slick bun that made her appear even taller. Her legs were spread slightly apart so that she seemed totally grounded, not crossed at the ankles or teetering precariously in the way that so many women balanced on their high heels. In each of her hands she held a shining silver bracelet studded with diamante jewels that sparkled in the light. Attached to each bracelet was a long chain, and attached to the end of each chain was
Periodically one of the other club workers would take over on the counter to give me a chance to go to the toilet or take a cigarette break if I wished, though I didn’t smoke. Invariably I spent these snatches of time in the play areas, observing the interactions between the club’s guests.
Somehow I could never quite get used to the sight of women being tied up and effectively beaten. Often I thought of Nick and Liana together on the night that I’d accidentally witnessed. Even though I’d been aroused during certain moments, the thought of my friend in pain, particularly at the hand of a man, horrified me. I knew that each interaction was negotiated in painstaking detail and over the course of an entire relationship and that often it was the person on the receiving end of a paddle who had pleaded to be treated that way. There were plenty of dominants who got a release of sorts from having a partner at their beck and call, but also many who inflicted more pain because they were asked to and enjoyed the enthusiastic response of their submissive.
Richard was the club’s only male Dungeon Master, whose job it was to give advice and keep an eye on the patrons and make sure that newcomers were following the rules. He had tried to explain the intricacies of the dynamic between doms and subs to me, and all the variations that I found so fascinating.
‘You don’t need to understand it,’ he said that night, as he watched me watching a man caning a woman’s arse so hard that she jumped and cried out in pain with each strike. ‘So long as you respect everyone’s right to do what they please with their own body.’
‘Of course,’ I replied. ‘Each to their own. I know that. I just don’t see what they get out of it.’
‘Have you ever had your hair pulled? Or someone slap your butt?’
I mentally ran through my limited catalogue of sexual memories. So many were blurred by the passing of time and often the presence of alcohol. I remembered vaguely that a guy at a house party in my second year of uni had tugged at my hair as he kissed me and had nipped at my lower lip and then slid his hands under my skirt and smacked my arse. We were in the kitchen at the time and he’d been leaning against the refrigerator when I approached to get another bottle of beer and he’d taken me into his arms. When he had pulled on my pony tail and bit my lip, I’d just presumed that he was unskilled and clumsy, but slapping my bum had been the final straw. I’d been thoroughly insulted and had pushed him off and walked away. Who did he think he was? Someone starring in a rap video? Liana had chortled heartily when I’d told her.
‘You need to lighten up,’ she’d said. ‘Objectification can be hot.’
I’d been shocked at the time, but hadn’t given it much thought since. Liana was always trying to get a reaction from me anyway.
At any rate, I had resolved never to attend parties wearing a pony tail again.
Richard brought me back to the present.
‘What do you think about dommes and their male subs and slaves then?’ he quizzed.
He signalled over to She, who looked like something out of a superhero film with her gleaming latex catsuit and towering stilettos. She stood with her back as straight as a broomstick and her dark hair piled on top of her head in a slick bun that made her appear even taller. Her legs were spread slightly apart so that she seemed totally grounded, not crossed at the ankles or teetering precariously in the way that so many women balanced on their high heels. In each of her hands she held a shining silver bracelet studded with diamante jewels that sparkled in the light. Attached to each bracelet was a long chain, and attached to the end of each chain was
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