Page 47 of Hurts So Good

Once his hips began to writhe against the bed, I used my tiny graphite cane to smack his skin. His “oooohs” and “aaaahs” joined the motion of his hips, and I could tell he’d forgotten all about whatever it was he’d wanted to say earlier.

That’s the way things should be. When I play with a boy, I want him focused only on the moment and his body—and mine. If he’s thinking about the ball game score or what he wants for dinner, what’s the point? A good sadistic scene is a work of art for all to enjoy.

Kit loves my brand of pain, almost as much as he loves my pussy, and once I’d settled that over his eager mouth, we were both exactly where we wanted to be. His well-trained tongue and teeth hit all the right spots, but after my first orgasm, I began thinking about what he’d said earlier, so as he worked feverishly to bring me to a second climax, I pinched his nipples hard, letting him know he could come, too.

After indelicately climbing off his face and removing all the clips to the sounds of his little shrieks and whimpers, I untied him and cuddled him close. Soon he began to purr for me.

“All right now, what was all that stuff about ‘doing something’ about?”

“Well,” he said, “you’re so beautiful and confident, you know, and I get hard just thinking about you.”

I kissed his sweaty temple.

“I think a lot of people would feel the same.”

“I told you I wasn’t going to become a pro domme,” I said. I got up and began to dress. “Put some pants on and let’s have some cake.”

“Why do I have to put pants on?”

“Because I said so.”

Kit got out of bed and did as he was told.

I love to watch that lean, muscular ass of his moving around in jeans. Some guys look great naked, and I’m not saying Kit doesn’t, because he does. I especially love his naked ass when it’s red and puffy with my strap-on entering it. But I think he looks his hottest when he’s shirtless, barefoot and wearing jeans. I don’t know why that is. Maybe those tight, stonewashed blue jeans draw attention to his bottom so nicely that I feel the need to rip them off.

“I wasn’t talking about being a pro domme,” he said. “But I know you like doing this more than real estate. You should have a place of your own. Lib, you should open a club.”

I followed him into the kitchen and sat at the table while he served the cake and champagne. “Of course, I like sex more than real estate. Who wouldn’t? And that’s an interesting idea, but I don’t know shit about running a club.”

“I’ll run it for you. All you have to do is be there and do what you do. The market’s crap right now. You said it yourself. Look, what do people spend their money on when they don’t have any? Movies and bars. Entertainment. This is the perfect idea.”

Even though I thought he was nuts, the idea stayed with me for weeks. I’d be showing an apartment for the twentieth time, thinking how fast I used to be able to turn them over, and Kit’s idea would pop into my mind and I’d wonder if this social worker, looking at the apartment, would get his rocks off in a club like that. What about that lawyer last week? Yeah, definitely the lawyer...

Kit has a way of making things happen. He’s attached himself to me, and I’m not complaining. But if he thinks I need something or should have something, he just goes off and makes it happen. He likes to ensure my life is comfortable because he knows if it is, his will be too.

As I was finishing up not renting the apartment for the twenty-first time, I got a text from Kit, asking me to meet him at some Brooklyn address. “Brooklyn!” I shot back. “Just come,” his reply read.

The address was in Williamsburg; not a bad train ride from Manhattan and a very hot location. (I sound like a real estate agent even to myself.) It was in an industrial, rather than residential area, and the loft spaces were large.

“It’s perfect,” he said. We were on the top floor of an eight-story loft building. “Big, affordable, zoned for commercial use and we have exclusive access to the roof! Check out all these columns!” He raced over to one of the columns supporting the high ceiling and stood with his back to it, legs spread, arms over his head, as if cuffed to a bolt in the column, and flashed a Cheshire cat grin.

With a wicked smile, I slowly walked over to him and grabbed his crotch. “Where’s the agent?” I whispered. His eyes became slightly unfocused.

“She’s here,” he said. “You’re the agent.”

“No, I’m not.” My hand squeezed him a little tighter.

“Yes, you are,” he said, in a slightly higher pitch. “Your agency represents the building and I asked for you.”

That’s my Kit; not only does he find the perfect property, but I get the commission, too!

Six months later, Carabas opened. In less than a month, we had a line at the door every weekend. Unbelievably, we were in the black within five months.

Carabas is not a bar. It’s not even just a cabaret; it’s very much more than that. In front, you’ll find fine dining. The style is ultra-modern molded concrete, steel and black glass. Cylindrical steel light fixtures hang from the ceiling at various heights and candles adorn the tables, providing a twilight ambience. The walls are sparsely decorated with modern erotic watercolors. The wait staff is all male. They wear tuxedos and Harlequin half-masks.

Further in, you’ll find a lounge area with cushy leather sofas and chairs, low cocktail tables and a sound system providing a Gothic throb. The lounge is warm, with subdued lighting and a color scheme of browns and reds. Boys and girls, in tight-fitting outfits with high necklines, long sleeves and bared bottoms, wait tables. Columns are ubiquitous throughout the space, so we’ve put them to use in the lounge. There, each column is spotlighted with a boy or girl fastened to it.

While none of the moving sculptures are completely naked, they are all in various forms of undress and are tied or shackled in revealing postures. All clothing and accessories are white as it makes for a nice contrast with the padded brown leather upholstery covering the columns.

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