Ecstasy in the White Room (2 page)

With one hand steadying me, and one gripping the back of my
head, he thrusts vigorously, almost making me gag. It’s all a bit uncivilized
and unreconstructed, but I love it. That’s the wonder of this dangerous side of
Simon. It’s a complete gift. I loved him passionately before we ever discovered
the Blue Book and began our discipline journey, but now everything’s greater and
more miraculous than before.

Happy beyond belief, I suck at him, tongue him, plague him. I
make terrible uncouth noises, but that only excites him more. Within a few
moments, he’s snarling obscenities and filling my mouth with his come.

But when he’s finished cursing, he gasps joyfully, “I love
you.”

* * *

A short while later we’re stepping out of the lift into
the foyer, heading for the restaurant. After a few rapid repairs to makeup and
hair and general toilette, I’m feeling like a goddess in my hot black dress and
with my hot blond man at my side. Not to mention my hot pink bottom beneath the
stretch velvet. The fabric of this gown is very fitting and grippy and every
step stirs the heat in my buttocks and reminds me of being prone over that white
leather chair. Aroused all over again, I imagine that people sitting chatting in
the foyer can see where I’ve been punished, and are imagining me with my bottom
bared and presented. I sway a little as I walk, consciously trying to increase
the effect.

I want men to want me, and I want them to want to spank
me...even though I’m Simon’s in exclusivity. I want him to be envied and
admired, because
he
has me.

I breathe in, knowing that it lifts my breasts and shows them
off in the low, plunging V of my neckline. My nipples stand out, clearly
discernible beneath the dark velvet, as is the dink of my navel.

“You really are the most colossal trollop,” murmurs Simon in my
ear, but he’s grinning, “Are you trying to give every man in the hotel the horn,
as well as me?”

“That’s the general idea.” I flash him my most dazzling smile
as we enter the restaurant, and the maître d’ leads us to a well-situated
table.

“Remember what I said,” Simon warns the moment we’ve been
seated and presented with a pair of large menus.

“How could I forget.”

He shakes his blond head despairingly, and we apply ourselves
the satisfaction of another favorite appetite.

But all through the delicious meal, I can’t really think about
the food, superb as it is. The distractions are overwhelming. Simply looking
across at Simon sets my heart thundering. It seems absurd, but I adore him more
every moment that passes, and the simmering heat in my backside reminds me
constantly of his dominion, and his rigor.

And because he’s so splendid, I have to be too. I know I’m
blushing a little again, and my eyes are bright with lust. Men at nearby tables
steal glances at me, and some blatantly stare, far less interested in the
cuisine than they are my cleavage, my prominent nipples and my rose-pink mouth.
Many of them eye the ribbon around my neck too, knowingly. This is the sort of
place where its symbolism is known.

“You know that when you lick your lips like that, it makes the
waiter imagine he’s getting what I had not long ago, don’t you?”

Simon gives me an arch look and, to provoke him, I repeat the
gesture, sweeping my tongue over my lower lip, very slowly. “What, only the
waiter?”

“Dirty bitch,” he remarks amiably. “I should throw you across
this table and wallop you again.” He pauses, then continues in a lower tone.
“And then give you a long, hard fuck until you scream...so that then they’d know
exactly who you belong to.”

“So why don’t you?”

We both know that it’s just an outrageous fantasy, here in this
restaurant...but still. From his pocket, Simon retrieves a white plastic
rectangle with an elaborate silver curlicue upon its surface. It’s an invitation
to a private function, a very exclusive private function, extended only to
certain guests here, while others haven’t even the faintest notion such
gatherings exist. The white card was in our welcome basket, along with the sex
toys, and neither of us was quite sure whether we’d accept tonight...until
now.

Simon’s eyes ask the question. It’s not exactly the night you’d
expect us to go to the next level, but then again, why not? Perhaps it’s the
perfect night? We’ve already taken the next step in a different way.

I make the faintest of nods. There’s no need for more. He
understands perfectly, and his beautiful blue eyes blaze with pride and
admiration. For a moment, I’m completely in control of him, then he subtly
straightens his shoulders and his spine, and he’s supreme again.

And I’m melting.

We’ve finished eating. It’s time. But I need a moment to
myself, for certain reasons. I rise and excuse myself. “Back in a trice.”

Simon’s expression is amused, and lightly warning. Oh, how he
knows me!

I sashay across the room, feeling full of confidence, knowing
I’ve never looked better. Men eye me up again, and I wonder which of them might
have special white cards too. My bottom’s still pretty warm beneath my skirt,
and the thought of being ogled heats it up even more. I imagine the possessors
of the white cards focusing on my swaying rear as I pass by, wondering what it
might be like to touch it, fondle it, spank it.

My heart flutters. I’m not ready for that yet, and maybe never
will be, but the idea of them watching Simon do the honors thrills and stirs
me.

A few minutes later I’m in the powder room, behind a locked
door, fighting a battle with myself. I’m almost dying of lust, but at the moment
Simon’s in control, and he hasn’t told me I can masturbate. But I want to. God,
I need to. My pussy is aching and engorged. I have to come.

Sprawled on the throne, I slip my fingertips between my thighs
and start to rub, wriggling and swirling my hips as I do. I’m in another white
room now, small as it is, and I seem to see Simon leaning elegantly against the
cubicle door in front of me, watching my every move, his eyes full of delicious
threat as I fiddle and diddle myself.

Slicking my clit like the colossal trollop he accused me of
being, I put on a show for him, hitching myself about, moaning a bit. I know
there’s nobody outside in the powder room, but I probably couldn’t stop myself
if there was.

I work hard. I’m rough with myself. I come fast, grabbing a
quick, uncouth orgasm, not really satisfying myself, just taking the edge off. I
still feel tingly as I wipe myself and I know I’ll be ready for more soon.

Back at the table, Simon gives me a comprehensive going-over,
his eyes acute. He knows. Of course he does. He knew before I even left the
table, and it doesn’t need my bright eyes and my radiant face to tell him
now.

“What did you do in there?”

“What do you think I did, Simon? Please don’t be gross.”

He sighs. “You know what I mean. What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar.” He reaches out and holds my hand across the table, his
forefinger just stroking the pulse point at my wrist. It’s as erotic as if he
really had flung me facedown on the table and rogered me from behind. “Tell me
what you did.”

“I...um...played with myself,” I say in the tiniest voice, but
I imagine it louder and heads turning in interest.

“Did you come?” Still the finger strokes, just as mine did.

“Yes.”

“Wicked slut...I didn’t give you permission. Now I’m going to
have to see to you, and I don’t think we should wait until we return to our
room, do you?” I shake my head. I can hardly breathe. “Dirty, lustful behavior
like this needs to be dealt with as quickly as possible.”

Releasing my hand, he gets smartly to his feet and comes around
to my side of the table, to draw out my chair for me. I feel a tiny bit anxious
as I rise and he escorts me from the restaurant. Has the “entertainment” started
already? Or has he something in mind.

Quickly, I discover it’s “something.” Holding me firmly by the
hand, Simon whisks me into a small room just off the foyer. It’s a little
writing room, a holdover from a more elegant age when people sent postcards from
their holidays. Now perhaps, they nip in here to send an email or tweet from
their iPhones, but there’s still a couple of elegant desks with blotters and
writing materials along with data terminals for laptops.

Simon closes the door, then whirls me against it. At first I
think he’s going to kiss me, but instead, he bends me right over, right up
against the door, and throws my dress over my back.

Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!

He gives me four very hard spanks, two on each buttock. No
building up to it; no finesse. Just solid fiery pain. Then he straightens me up,
and as my gown slides down over his cruel handiwork, he blots my tears with his
snow-white handkerchief.

“Now you look really pretty for your audience,” he whispers,
low and thrilling.

Then, as swiftly as we took refuge in the writing room, we’re
out again, and heading for a set of double doors at the end of the foyer. A
hotel footman is standing there, apparently on guard. He’s very cute, and he
gives me look of shy appreciation as Simon flashes the white card to him, but I
can’t think of anything except the sizzle and ache in my bum cheeks, and the
fact I’m almost blind with lust and the desire to have my dear love’s cock
inside me.

The room beyond is another sumptuous example of Art Deco style,
much like our bedroom and just as white, but with accents of silver, pistachio
and black. There are stepped frame accents everywhere, mirrors, long-legged,
attenuated dancing nymphs in gleaming brushed steel. At any other time, I’d love
to explore and admire and investigate the room, but right now, it’s the people
in it who grab my interest.

Most are in elegant evening dress. Women in floor-length gowns
like mine; men in superb, high-end suits, one or two in white tie even.

But others are not so conventional. The maid who serves us a
glass of champagne is dressed in a really old-fashioned uniform, long and
formal, with lace cap and pinafore, but she’s one of the more normal ones. Some
of the attire is vintage and looks as if it’s come right out of the pages of the
Blue Book. And some of it...well, some of the outfits are so outré that I never
thought I’d ever see them in real life.

We’re greeted by a cordial volley of “Good evening,” but it
seems nobody wants to get into any deep conversations. There’s an electric air
that something’s going to happen any moment, and even if it isn’t, there’s
plenty to look at while we wait.

To my right, a rather handsome couple give us a nod and a
smile. He’s tall and husky and well set up; she’s younger, very pretty and a
happy-eyed blonde. She’s also wearing the most startling red rubber dress that
makes my formfitting black velvet look like a sack. It clings to every contour,
and I do mean every. I can see the puckered shape of her fully erect nipples and
the outline of her pubic mound, and when she turns toward her man, the cleft of
her bottom is clearly defined. The frock, if it can be called that, is long
sleeved and high necked, but so short it barely skims her crotch. Very risky
when there’s no way on earth she could wear a stitch of anything beneath it.

I catch Simon’s eye and he’s grinning. I wonder if he’d like to
buy a dress like that for me?

But Rubber Dress Girl is overdressed compared to others. One
very elegant lady is wearing a satin skirt and beautiful, crisp organza evening
blouse. It looks as if her hands are secured behind her back, and the blouse is
hanging open. She’s wearing a white bra beneath, and one cup has been pushed
down to bare her breast. The nipple is compressed in a fiendish-looking clip and
a heavy weight dangles from it, dragging and tugging. Her face is composed,
although she has a large ball-gag in her mouth, stretching her lips.

There’s another woman in a harness, with thin straps of black
vinyl tightly cutting into her skin. The strap between her legs is the tightest
of all.

And it’s not just the women. There are men in harness too,
handsome, virile but tamed. And one in leather chaps...and nothing else,
sporting a considerable erection as well as perfectly naked buttocks. Even as I
watch, his companion—owner?—a woman in a purple sheath dress, reaches down,
grabs his cock and leads him across the room by it.

Simon nudges my elbow and turns me away from the assembly. “Are
you okay, Suzanne?” For a moment he’s completely out of his role, and just my
kind beloved, making sure I’m all right and not scared.

I grin at him and nod. “I’m fine. This is amazing.” I glance at
the man wearing the chaps. “But I think you should get a pair of those, you’ve
got exactly the cock and bum to carry them off.”

He grins back. “Saucy madam, you’ll pay for that.”

“I’ll look forward to it.” I flick a glance around the room, as
a signal to him. Telling him I’m ready, willing, able and eager to be part of
this assembly. The look in his eyes tells me he’s understood and that he’s
blazing with pride.

We drift around the room, discovering that the party is a kind
of ongoing performance, with ad hoc scenes of discipline in various locations
making entertaining tableaux.

In one corner, a polished black wood punishment trestle has
been set up, and there’s already a woman secured over it. She’s nude but for her
shiny high heels, a flimsy garter belt and a torn pair of sheer black stockings.
From where we stand, we can’t see her face, just her bottom, striped with thin
red lines from a cropping, and her shaven sex, glistening, almost dripping with
arousal. The way she’s grunting and moaning, though, confirms she’s wearing a
gag.

I almost wish I was wearing one too. The sight is almost
unbearably stirring, and it’s like I’m suddenly transported into the woman’s
body, feeling what she feels. The pain. The sense of complete exposure. The
unbearable, bottled-up desire, fizzing and screaming for release. Her long brown
hair is dangling down and she’s shaking. Does she love the short, rather thin
bearded man who steps forward with the crop to hit her again? I would have to,
but I know some people don’t need that.