Page 3 of Run

“Thank you, Sir.” He all but purrs as the door closes behind me, welcoming me into my favorite place to be, besides my basement.

The atmosphere in the grand front room is busy, with people in all states of fancy dress and undress mingling with glasses of fine liquor and wine in their hands. The overhead lighting is dim, with red accent LEDs adorning the edges of the walls and around the large bar on the right. Dark woods and deep reds decorate the large room, giving it an opulent and mysterious feel.

I grab a glass of scotch from the bar keep in a black vest and spiked dog collar before making my way through the crowd. Everyone has their masquerade masks in place, yet I can still recognize some of the regulars, as they do me. Silent nods of greeting and approval are passed between us as I head towards the event rooms.

I’m not sure exactly what I’m thirsting for tonight, but I’m sure I’ll figure it out as I watch the men and women play through the glass windows to each space.

The hallways are less crowded, with the occasional couples or threesomes playing in the darkened corners, and some singles like me watching through the windows lined up on both sides of the passageway. Sounds of sex fill the air around me, growing louder the deeper I go into the club. Moans, pants, and screams filter through the glass, making my cock twitch in my pants.

I love the sounds women make when intense pain and pleasure mix together. It’s a concoction of lust, injury, and the desire for more that makes me salivate like a rabid dog. The ones I can hear coming from the last room on the left have my ears pricked and the little hairs on the back of my neck on end. They’re fucking beautiful.

The voice is so perfectly sweet, the way it cries out in pain. Like a tinkling little bell that’s being shook hard. It’s demure, but loud, if you know what I mean, and I can hear the agony laced in it. It’s calling out for help, but no one will come, not unless a safe word is spoken and from the sound of it, she’s far from needing it. She’s loving every moment of her torture.

Stopping in front of the window, looking in, I can almost smell her arousal as the sight of her beauty snatches my goddamned breath away.

Bent over a padded sawhorse is the epitome of sexual perfection. The vision of her flaming red hair, shapely legs with thick thighs, round ample ass, narrow waist, and dainty little hands gripping empty air has my heart hammering and my dick thumping with a pulse of its own. Her large tits hanging over the side of the bench, swaying with her panting breath complete the gorgeous package.

Holy fuck!

Freckles scatter across most of her exposed flesh, but the ones that draw my attention are just below her stormy grey eyes, ones that cry so beautifully with each strike of the cane across her reddened and welted backside. It would be so much fun to play connect the dots with my tongue across them, licking up her tears, tasting her saltiness and pain.

“Who are you, you perfect little thing?” I ask quietly, leaning forward, resting my forehead on the glass.

I study her hourglass body, and the way it responds to her beating, not completely ignoring the masked man who’s caning her. His form is atrocious. He’s at risk of hurting her for real if he doesn’t correct the way he brings that wooden stick across her pale flesh. Yet the precious thing takes it all, crying out loudly, screaming in agony, yet biting her bottom lip, restraining herself from calling out the one word or phrase that could end all of it instantly.

“Such a good girl.” I purr under my breath, my hands finding the glass, almost stroking it under my fingertips as if I were reaching through it and caressing her.

Everything around me in the hallway has faded away. I’m alone in the busy club, oblivious to all other sights, sounds, smells, and feelings. She’s pulled me in, and I may as well be getting sucked into a black hole, because that’s how it seems. Nothing exists except her and the tears dripping off her flushed cheeks.

“I bet they taste so good.”

A husky voice comes from behind me, laced with sexual tension and authority. “Why don’t you go in and find out?”

“Samantha.” I greet the owner of the club without turning around to look at her.

I know what she looks like, both inside and out. She’s a beautiful woman, with long black hair and piercing green eyes. A goddess really, but not my type for anything more than a fun fuck on a dry night. She’s too much like me, a deviant, a devil, a monster masquerading as a normal person. People like us don’tmix together well, not for the long term. We eventually end up eating each other up and spitting out the pieces.

“She’s beautiful isn’t she? So young and fresh. A new piece of meat for the boys.”

“She one of yours?” I ask, watching the pretty little thing writhe across the sawhorse, her ass jiggling so perfectly with each strike of the cane.

“Sadly, no.” She sighs, leaning her tall frame made even taller with her heels against me, her arms wrapping around my waist, her tits pressing up against my back. “I made her an offer, but she declined. Something about feeling like a whore.”

“She isn’t one?”

I’m surprised to hear that the sweet little thing would turn down an offer from Samantha. Any woman in this club would jump at the chance to be employed by the most elite mistress on the East coast. To have a job here at “Le Chateaux” would set her up for life with the type of money she could make. The men here, especially the ones like me, have very specific tastes, and we pay very well for the obedient women who allow us to have our kind of fun.

“A whore? Probably. Look at the way she takes that kind of pain. It’s obviously not her first time.”

“But it’s her first time here? Is that her Dom she’s with?”

Most women come here with a man, it’s very rare that one comes to play all by herself. Even though the club is perfectly safe and all play is monitored by Sam and her staff, women tend to feel more at ease when accompanied by a dominant that they already know and trust.

“Nope. She’s solo. I matched them up. Did a pretty good job, if I do say so myself.”

Watching the downward swing of the dominant’s arm as he brings the cane across the ginger’s backside again, I wince then roll my eyes, finally turning my head so that the woman leaning on me can see my lack of amusement at her words.

“What?” She asks, feigning innocence and obliviousness to the brutality before us.

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