Vow of Silence Page 2

  She nods, still smiling, but a more nervous smile, her shaking upper lip a dead giveaway at how not at ease she really is. “That’s good to know, I mean, that Sir is also acceptable.”

  I gesture for her to sit, then pull a chair up directly next to hers, pivoting both of us to face each other. “First, we talk. What exactly are you looking for in our session today?”

  Her mouth opens and shuts, opening again to remain ajar, seeming unsure what to say. She glances anxiously around the room. I don’t believe she is looking for an escape; it would be too easy for her to merely stand and walk through the door she entered if that was what she wanted. I suspect her apprehension is in part due to the insularity of the room. Only the one door, no windows, and I am the only person she has seen since being tucked into this quiet oasis…and now I am asking her to reveal her deepest, darkest secrets.

  “May I touch you?”

  Her lips slam together and I realize I have surprised her, but she manages to nod. “It’s okay to be nervous.” I lift her hand from her lap and hold it gently. “Let’s start with the types of scenes you’ve experienced in the past. Can you tell me about some of your past experiences?”

  She doesn’t lower her gaze as she answers, even though her hand has begun shaking in mine, her words fast, almost running together. “I’ve never done anything before. That’s why I’m here, because I think about it, you know? I fantasize. I think about it constantly. I’ve just never been able to ask anyone. I’m recently divorced. This isn’t something I could have ever asked my husband about…and now that I’m dating again…well, how do I ask a man for that? To hurt me during sex? I haven’t figured that out, but I know that’s what I want, because when I’m on a date, I think about wanting them to use me roughly. I think about screaming and what it would take to make me scream during sex, and I just don’t know how to ask them for that. Oh God, you must think I’m insane.”

  “No, not insane. I’m very impressed that you are here to learn more about yourself.” I rub her hand between both of mine, hers cool to the touch and shaking, mine much warmer and, I hope, calming. She hasn’t looked away, even though she is obviously embarrassed. “Let’s start with one of your fantasies.”

  “This is really hard.” She does look away then and fidgets in her chair, but she quickly recovers, looking up, seeking my eyes.

  Once I have her gaze held, I resolve to hold her there.

  “I want to be bound so that I can’t move.”

  “Would you prefer rope so that you are tied at your wrists…your ankles? Or would being completely wrapped, more like mummification, be more preferable?”

  Standing, she pulls her hands from mine and crosses the room quickly, interestingly not toward the door. She stops to stand before a built-in saltwater aquarium. Bright yellow tangs swim by in a small school and she lifts her hand but doesn’t touch the glass. She keeps her back to me. “I’m not sure how to explain it, but my fantasies involve being held by wide iron manacles that start out cool but then warm to match my body temperature. I am held at my neck and at my wrists and ankles…so that I can’t escape the pain…or the pleasure.”

  I remain seated, giving her space to communicate her needs. “You said exploring the relationship pain has to pleasure appeals to you. Why do you believe pain is something you want?”

  “I think about it!” She turns, insistent, animated. “Every night when I go to bed, I fall asleep thinking about being spanked, whipped, cut, branded… I want someone to hurt me.”

  “And you want to come while you are experiencing pain?”

  “Yes,” she whispers.

  “Now, Sharon, where did these fantasies come from?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I was born with them, because I’ve thought about it my whole life.”

  Her answer doesn’t surprise me. It seems that most who embark on a path of sadism or masochism allege their desire stems from childhood fantasy with no explainable source. My concern lies with her insistence that she seeks the relationship between pleasure and pain but claims that she has no previous experience, the dreaded eyes-are-bigger-than-her-stomach syndrome, wanting to go straight into a hard scene without buildup. “Can you describe the perfect setting? Would it be a Victorian Era or a medieval dungeon?”

  She wrinkles her nose at my suggestions but walks closer, becoming animated as she talks. “I want something dark, modern. Can you terrify me?”

  She is a beautiful woman, tall, leggy and blue-eyed, but her eyes are missing the innocence she declares. There is something about the way she carries herself that makes me question everything she has stated during this interview.

  “Sharon, why are you really here?”

  She hurries forward, sitting across from me. “I don’t understand the question. Are you asking metaphorically? Or haven’t I been clear enough? I don’t know any other way to ask for what I need. I want to be tested and terrified and if at all possible, I’d like to find the pleasure within the pain that you can give me.”

  My eyebrows lift of their own accord. My clients don’t usually intrigue me, but this one is beginning to. Glancing at the clock on the wall behind Sharon, I see that it is almost six. Plenty of time if The Factory is available, but if it isn’t… My mind starts clicking and pacing the scene. This is what I love about my job, the individual experience and making sure that each scene is tailored to meet the mental, emotional and physical needs of my clients.

  “Now, Sharon, I do want to caution you. I can give you exactly what you are asking for; however, you are inexperienced and since this is our first session, we are limited to sixty minutes. I don’t want you to be disappointed if I pace the scene at a rate that I believe you can handle. I will not jeopardize any level of your health because you want more than I believe you are capable of handling.”

  “I understand.”

  “I wasn’t finished.”

  “I’m sorry, Sir.”

  I nod, glad that she used the title Sir, hoping it means that she is ready for what I have planned. “That said, I want to go into this scene assuring you that I do not believe that you will be disappointed. Now I want to discuss safe words, because you are controlling this scene. If you are overwhelmed and believe you need to pause, if you are wearing a gag, you will lift the pointing finger of your right hand, meaning that you need a moment to collect yourself.” I demonstrate and wait for her to imitate the motion before continuing. “If you are not gagged, saying the word ‘yellow’ will suffice and when you are ready to resume you will say ‘green’.”

  She nods, and I keep explaining the rules of proper safe word usage.

  “If you say ‘red’ I will also stop, but the scene will then end and it will not begin again. So only use that word if you really want me to stop. Remember that no other words stop or slow the scene, no matter if you are begging me to stop or crying for me to slow down or to give you a second or any other combination. Only green, yellow or red will change the direction of the scene. Do you understand, Sharon?”

  “Yes Sir.” She nods emphatically, smiling too wide, her nervousness seemingly vanished.

  “Now when we took your original information, we asked for your complete name. Did you give us your correct name including first, middle and last?”

  “Yes!” she answers quickly, nodding to assure me, then remembers to add belatedly, “Sir.”

  “Good, Sharon Olivia Von Buren, because if this scene or future scenes take on an intensity that in my mind—or in the mind of any of the other Dominants who work here—that perhaps is too much, we will stop the scene. And if you are insistent that you are okay, even to the point of encouraging us with the word green, we may ask you to state your name. If you cannot state your full and complete name, we will stop the scene immediately.”

  “I understand, Sir.”

  “Good. I am going to take you to a changing room that has lockers for you to place your belongings. I want you to take off all of your clothing and when you are ready, I will be in the
hallway waiting.”

  She takes longer than I expect, and when she does step into the hall I see she is still wearing her bra and panties, by the looks of which are an expensive matching set. I don’t tell her I expected complete nudity, though I did. I respect her decision. This is, after all, her session. I turn her around and place her in metal handcuffs before leading her to the playroom.

  The gray and black abstract-patterned carpeting along this hallway is a tight nap, similar to what you would expect in an affluent doctor’s office or a fine hotel. The walls are painted a dark color, gunmetal gray or magic mushroom, I think. No, definitely gun-metal gray, the magic mushroom was the mocha brown used in my office. I thought that was very apropos.

  The lighting is barely there, small pin-lights recessed in the ceiling, which cast a faint trail. This is the fourth level of Lewd Larry’s Fetish Fantasy Nightclub. The place we refer to as The Attic, the five-star playground of those clients willing to pay premium prices to play with professional Dominants. Generally five-hundred dollars an hour for a basic session, depending on what is expected. The rate per hour can go higher, but never lower.

  I stop in front of a heavy metal door, peeling paint and a rusted padlock signaling that the interior of this room will not be as plush as the hallway and rooms we will leave behind. “Are you ready, Sharon?”

  “Yes, Doctor Psycho, I’m ready,” she assures me. “I’m so excited!”

  I turn the key and release the padlock. It makes a scraping, ancient-sounding creak as it releases, followed by the tight groan of the hinges as I push open the door to one of my favorite play rooms. Highly industrialized, it plays on the fears of most by being dark, shadowy, mechanical and sterile. With instruments of pleasure and pain always within hands’ reach but stored in a way to be concealed until needed, the element of surprise is always geared in my favor.

  She steps back and I glance at her face, surprised her nervous excitement faded so quickly.

  “Doctor Psycho?”

  “Yes, Sharon?”

  “Inside. During the scene. Could you call me Mrs. Von Buren?”

  “If you would prefer.”

  She smiles and nods rapidly. “Oh yes. That’s exactly what I want.”

  I pull Sharon Von Buren into a pitch-black room. Her first contact with the otherliness of one of my many realms is her bare feet stepping onto cool concrete. I have been told the sensation has made many a pussy clench. I hold my smile in check as she reacts to the sounds and smells that make this room distinctly The Factory.

  Grinding metal and the sharp high-pitched clangs of metal hitting metal make her draw closer to me in the dark. A chain pulley clinks rhythmically, followed by the deep, pain-filled moan of a woman. In the dark she stops, listening, her breathing faster and louder than it was a moment before. I pull her to the middle of the room, knowing that her journey has been a sensory overload, knowing that her path has taken her from bare concrete to rough metal grating and back to concrete that has been dirtied up a bit with sawdust and motor oil.

  We hit our first mark, and a pressurized board beneath my foot triggers a computer panel that will control all of the audio and visual components of the scene. The first of which is a bare light bulb that flickers on, then, seemingly having a bad connection continues to waver, brightening and darkening the space at random intervals, giving Sharon her first glimpse at what is to come. In the shadowy flickers, the faux painted walls appear dirty and the floors grimy. Large metal industrial parts, racks and tables are the furnishings.

  I turn her to face me, lifting a rubber ring gag into her line of vision, demanding, “Open.”

  She opens her mouth and I adjust the bit tight, but looser than if she were an experienced player. Behind us the ratcheting sounds of the chain pulley and moaning woman fill the space with a desolate ambiance. I am pleased with Sharon’s reaction as she fidgets and moves closer to me, nervous energy rolling off her in waves, and though I’m not sure what her fantasies were before coming here to The Attic, I can be certain what she’ll dream about after she leaves.

  She asked me to terrify her, though she said it as a challenge not realizing that it really doesn’t take all that much. The power of suggestion is a marvelous thing, and I admit to abusing it here. I’m also cocky enough to know that I’m good at pulling things out of people’s minds that were probably better off left where they were…and for Sharon, the real mindfuck begins with a woman’s shriek coming from somewhere in the shadows. She jumps into me, stumbling, bound. I catch her, at once her savior and protector, though in just a few moments I will be her tormentor.

  A soft light begins to glow high and right, revealing a loft where a nude woman is obviously lying on her stomach, bound by rope, back arched so that her feet are connected to her elbows in a classic hogtie. A double-ratchet dental gag holds her mouth open wide and is held in place by a wide, black rubberized band. Her wide eyes seem to beg for release. As the light revealing her face fades to a bare glimmer, the sound of her gagged pleas mix softly with the mechanical sounds and louder moans of the woman on the other side of the room, who has yet to be revealed. It is a pre-recorded sound bite that loops of a woman having her pussy swatted with a flogger. The moaning is the sound of her orgasm building, but without the visual, the sounds could easily be mistaken for moans of pain instead of ecstasy and the rhythmic swatting by the small flogger a grislier-sounding device of torture. The visuals and sound garner the response I expect from my first-time client as she shivers and inches closer to me.

  Her eyes grow wider as I point her toward a table that is made of wide aged wood planks. “Climb up.”

  She finds following my order a challenge. I tap her leg lightly with a metal rod that vibrates with the strike, leaving her knowing she was struck but unmarked. It is not my intention to leave her battered or bruised during her first session here. Repeat business is what has made Lewd Larry’s flourish, and as a major contributor to that repeat business, my fiscal recompense has been greater than I could have ever imagined as an early investor.

  “Move faster next time!”

  She nods, and I see that the bit is already causing her to drool.

  A soft mewling and sniffling is now the room’s background noise, the intermittent pulley clinking followed by a deep moan, an unpredictable addition that causes her to flinch in response as I position her on her knees. I slap her silk-clad bottom bare-handed, leaving what I know is a pink flush though it is hidden from view. “Don’t move!”

  She immediately stills and I bring her implements of torture into view—a tray of nipple clamps, clothespins, vibrators, whips and rods of varying lengths and materials. Her brow furrows and her eyes widen even more. An iron bar stands vertical to the table. Attached to the bar is an iron neck collar, which, by having her lean forward, I clasp quickly into place. Though it looks horribly roughened with rust, it isn’t. The magic of faux paint techniques ensures the surface is smooth and will not scrape her. However, the weight of it alone makes it uncomfortable.

  I release the handcuffs, allowing her to support her weight on her hands and knees. The round curve of her ass trembles, her legs obviously shaking, a strong reaction to the scene thus far, which makes me wonder if we will get through an entire hour. I don’t ask her if she is okay; I don’t say anything at all, letting my silence weigh heavy on her.

  I bring a second bar into view, sliding the bar vertically and locking it into place at her shoulder level. Iron wrist manacles make it obvious where her hands are going to be placed so that when I command, “Hand,” she lifts her left hand into the hole.

  She is visibly shaking as I tighten the manacle, tight enough to make escape impossible but not so tight that it is anything more than a solid weight around her wrist, keeping her immobile.

  I step back to look at her, secured, gagged and beginning to show some tightness around her eyes that wasn’t there before. She might be a little concerned at this point, maybe a bit fearful of what is going to happen next,
definitely not terrified. I purse my lips, making a show of thinking about what I am going to do next to my willing captive, then smile, winking, before moving around behind her.

  Soft strikes on the insides of her thighs with a metal rod indicate what I want, and she separates her legs in response. I continue to tap and move her legs until her ankles are exactly where I want them, between two sets of predrilled holes. I place two bent iron bars around her ankles, sliding heavy bolts into the predrilled holes to hold the manacles in place. I flip a switch that puts into motion a series of events. Corners of the room are slowly illuminated with low-level light, revealing in the shadows the tools and machines that give the room its name; a conveyor belt whirs into motion; a compressor hisses and a chain is pulled through a square in the ceiling.

  She starts breathing heavily and I see her hands close into tightly balled fists, which could be a sign that she is battling within herself to call this scene quits. I decide that I have honored her request to be made afraid and move to part two of our scenes’ agreement, helping her find pleasure in pain, which is always the harder request because everyone reacts to pleasure, pain and the combining of both differently.

  I decide to start with nipple clamps hung with small weights.

  I didn’t ask her to take her bra off nor do I cut the fabric away, but I do pull her breasts above the embroidered silk cups. Quickly. Forcibly. I attach the nipple clamps quickly and without comment. Even with the bit in place, I hear her sharp intake of breath at the immediate pain they bring. Her eyes close and in her restraint her right foot jerks, her hands open and close as she relaxes into the pain. I judge that is exactly what she is trying to do, relax into the pain, but I don’t want her relaxed. I want her wired tight, and so I immediately add weights to the clamps, nudging them so that they sway off the tips of her breasts. Her eyes water, and I elicit her first moan from her gagged lips.

  I pat her shoulder, rubbing my hand down the length of her spine, this stroke being the only tenderness I will show her. When my hand comes to the curve of her ass, I smack her twice, catching her off guard, causing her to scream around the bit.