Page 48 of Hurts So Good

The roof affords an amazing view of the city. Patrons can relax in our outdoor cigar lounge where they can take advantage of one of our bootblacks or bring their own, if they like.

The restaurant stops serving at eleven, which is when things begin to heat up. Beyond the lounge area is the real reason for our success, and what Kit had in mind when he began to put all the wheels in motion. The back room contains an intimate theatre with cozy love seats and club chairs surrounding a raised stage, where all the “dancing” is done.

Attendance at the grand opening of Carabas was by invitation only and Kit was the featured performer. After dinner, followed by an open bar in the lounge, our guests took their seats in the darkened theatre. When the spotlight hit the stage, there I stood, with Kit kneeling at my feet. I wore a butter-soft black leather skirt and a blue silk corset. I’ve always liked the way those two colors go together, and they have such great connotations. Kit wore a black leather jock strap and matching leather collar and cuffs. The jock framed his bare ass nicely but of course, it was just a bit of costuming for the warm-up.

The stage was built around one of the many columns in the loft, and this column had the eyebolts imbedded in it that Kit had playfully imagined when he first brought me to the space. I led him to the post and clipped his wrists to a bolt above his head, then fastened his ankle cuffs to bolts in the floor, spreading his legs a bit. The black waistband and leg bands of the jock made his white ass practically shine under the spotlight.

Using a short whip, I began to systematically cover his bottom, the backs of his thighs and his upper back with small red marks that soon turned to raised welts. When I began, I could sense the audience and hear some low voices. I could hear their breathing and the little noises they made in response to the action on stage, but by the time I began to raise welts on Kit’s back it was all about the two of us. Everything else disappeared, leaving Kit and me in our own little island of light and all I could hear was the crack of the whip, Kit’s breathing and my own heartbeat.

After a while, I knew I was finished with his back. Carrying the whip, I walked the five feet between us and gently caressed the welts on his bottom. His sigh at the touch of my fingers prompted me to slide my hands up his sides and around his chest while I licked the welts on his back, tasting the salt from his sweat. I could feel him melt at the touch of my tongue and sense the complaint when I moved away from him. I unfastened his ankles and turned him around, facing out, before refastening them.

Although he looked at me with love and desire, I could tell he was entering that unfocused, floating state. I could relate. I felt much the same way, or at least I imagined it was much the same way. Kit’s pain is my pleasure, but I had to be in control. It’s a fine line between creating deep and abiding pain for him and assuring that he isn’t hurt. I have to stay focused. I can’t allow my own pleasure to carry me too far from Kit’s pain.

I took a moment to cover his eyes with a heavy black leather blindfold. It assured he wouldn’t be distracted by the audience, but also served to protect his eyes. I kissed his mouth and stepped back. He strained his head forward to follow me but I was already gone.

Once back where I’d been, I drew back my arm and let the whip fly again, this time making contact with his thigh. He jumped and gasped. He continued to make little noises as I covered the fronts of his thighs in more small red welts. When I was satisfied, I moved up to his chest and covered the area around his navel and watched his muscles contract each time a strike would fall. Then I moved up to his chest, covering the entire area, with the exception of his nipples, which had been raised to sharp, little points. He’d been moaning and making little mewing noises for quite some time and I couldn’t help but make a few yummy noises of my own. My last two strokes were reserved for those stiff buds of flesh and as I let the whip fly to bite into each nipple, in turn, the sound of his scream made my juices gush until my panties were soaked.

I put the whip down and went to lick his poor, punished flesh. His breath came in rasps as, standing to the side, I removed his jockstrap. His cock had been erect for some time, but now that it was no longer imprisoned, it strained forward, red with a deep purple head. His balls were tight and I could tell he was on the edge. I knew it wouldn’t take much to push him over, but keeping him in this state was a powerful aphrodisiac for me. I ran an index finger up the underside of his cock to the tip. His hips danced and tried their hardest to jerk away from me. Then, as I stroked him to orgasm, I had enough presence of mind to allow the audience a good view. I heard gasps and then a few giggles when a fountain spurted forth. As I removed his blindfold, I heard the applause.

After unfastening the clips on Kit’s ankle cuffs, and then his wrist cuffs, I hugged him to me. Both of us were flying and, though I knew we were on a stage, in front of an audience, that scene was one of the most intimate of my life. Once I felt certain Kit could stand on his own, I let him go and turned toward the applause. People were actually on their feet, still clapping. I looked at Kit and he grinned back at me.

Carabas would be a success.

There are two shows a night on the weekends. We have a variety of tops and bottoms who perform, but my beautiful Kit dances on that stage at least once a week, under my hand. At other times, if I see a boy in the audience who particularly catches my eye, I may call him up to dance for me as well. Most often, however, I can be found strolling through the club, with Kit on a leash at my side, greeting regulars and making small talk.

THE UNIFORM AND THE ROPE

Fulani

The important thing,” Robert says, “is that you feel a Zen calmness. This isn’t just being tied up for sex—it’s an art form in its own right.”

Right.

My interest in things Japanese has brought me to this suburban house, sparsely furnished, tidy and tasteful apart from garish hentai posters on the walls. They’re Japanese, yes, but they suggest complex, deviant interests rather than Zen calmness. Hentai is a shortened form of the term hentai seiyoku, meaning “sexual perversion.”

Having learned to create ikebana, wear a kimono convincingly, and appreciate the subtleties of calligraphy (though not write it, which takes years of practice), I’ve come to experience the seamy underside of Japanese erotic sensuality. This is something everyone knows about—because the DVDs and magazines are everywhere—but few people can do properly because, like ikebana or calligraphy, it takes years of practice.

Shibari. Japanese bondage.

I’m wearing my best, difficult-to-obtain Japanese schoolgirl uniform. Japan doesn’t share Western tastes for leather, rubber and PVC. Everything is cutesy, “schoolgirl” doesn’t have the same connotations as it does in this country, and the kinkiest sex toy you can have is a bagful of rope...

Hence, over my school uniform and causing some disturbance to it, I’m wearing karada and shinju. Karada: the classic diamond-pattern body harness. Shinju: binding above and below my breasts, compressing them slightly. At the same time my forearms are drawn behind my back, fingers of the left hand touching my right elbow and vice versa.

“There’s no need to bind the wrists,” Robert explains. “You can’t move your arms to defend yourself or reach the knots anyway.”

I like the way the rope holds me, the embrace and constraint of it. I’m entranced by the pressure across my breasts, between my legs, and elsewhere too. It hits sensitive spots, erogenous points I didn’t know I had, all over my body.

“Where did you learn to do ropework?”

I’m imagining a trip to Japan, months apprenticed to a nawashi—a bondage teacher.

“Oh,” he says airily, “reading books, going to bondage workshops, and I went to Shibaricon a couple of years back.”

I try not to let my disappointment show. I was hoping for some kind of…what? Authenticity? Robert doesn’t appear concerned by his un-Japanese learning. He hums to himself as he adjusts the ropes.

“In Japan,” he says, “there are maybe half a dozen guys recognized as Rope Masters, though it’s a very subcultural thing. Midori once said even the liberal arty crowd thinks of bondage as something that’s only practiced by sexually immature people.”

I know who Midori is, because he’s lent me copies of her books.

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