Page 11 of Dare to Love Again

“When done correctly, in a controlled setting with precautions taken to prevent infection, needle play is quite safe. Note the gloves the domme is wearing. They are sterile, as are the needles, and she took care to prepare her sub’s skin with an antiseptic in advance. It’s a work of art when finished, but more so than aesthetically pleasing, it’s erotic. With the excitement of the scene, the crowd looking on, and the needle pricks, not to mention the high she gets when she surrenders completely to her mistress’ care, a flood of endorphins are coursing through the girl’s system. Look at her face, and listen to her moans,” he directed. “She’s in subspace and has been since the fourth or fifth needle went in.”

Looking at it through fresh eyes—ones that were calm, not shocked and horrified—Esme realized it was true. The sub’s eyes were half closed, her lips slightly parted as she kept up a constant moan, which sounded nothing close to pain. She flushed, realizing she’d jumped to a conclusion, which considering where she was and what else she’d witnessed tonight, was wrong and narrow-minded.

The man leaned down and whispered in her ear, “Next time, little newbie, I suggest you gather your facts and reserve your judgment until after you do.”

Though softly worded, it was a scolding all the same.

“Another thing that should put you at ease,” he continued. “We always have medical personnel on standby on nights like tonight, just in case.”

Good to know, but was that supposed to be reassuring? She lifted her gaze to the towering figure standing next to her, grateful he had turned his attention back to the performance. The thought of piercing her skin anywhere, including her earlobes, made her stomach queasy. No freaking way!

She murmured, “Thank you for the lesson, sir,” then was out of there so fast, she accidentally stepped on a few bare toes and ran headfirst into another dom. He steadied her and glowered when he didn’t immediately get the requisite apology, but she didn’t stick around for another scolding.

Leaving behind thoughts of needles in tender places, no matter how sharp or how small, she wandered to the back of the main room and the stairs leading up to the second-floor theme rooms. In Esme’s opinion, the elaborate fantasy suites were where the Decadence magic really happened.

There was an authentic school room complete with a blackboard and a naughty-girl stool in the corner, an office with a large executive’s desk where she imagined more than a few subs had spent quality time taking more than dictation, and a private torture chamber which was straight out of the Middle Ages.

As she passed by the dungeon, she saw the observation windows were open and she stopped to peek in.

Flickering bulbs in the wall sconces cast eerie shadows over the iron shackles mounted to the walls. There was a set of wooden stocks and a bondage table that looked an awful lot like a rack. And hanging from hooks on the back wall, every punishment implement imaginable. But tonight, the main attraction was the iron slave cage and the willing victim inside.

On her hands and knees, the sub had her face pressed to a rectangular opening on one side of the cage and her bottom against one on the opposite end. Her two strapping “guards” were availing themselves of what she offered, one sliding his cock in her mouth while the other took her hard from behind. From the moans emanating from within the iron bars, she seemed far from tortured.

Moving on down the long corridor, Esme paused to take in the scene at the next room and the next. She could exit medieval Europe, enter a CEO’s office, and then be in a modern-day schoolroom all in the span of a few moments. Walk another thirty feet, and she could step into the opulence of a Sultan’s Chamber in Istanbul, complete with a huge four-post bed with silk bed curtains.

Most of the rooms had their doors flung wide and the sliding glass observation windows open, inviting people to stop and watch. Esme had figured out why, pretty quickly. The membership was heavy into exhibitionism and loved holding demonstrations. She’d seen them before, mostly stilted, boring, anticlimactic how-to sessions. But once again, at Decadence, there was a difference. They were a step above, and neither boring nor stilted, and more like choreographed mini-dramas. And, when it was an actual how-to session, Esme noted they were often interactive with the audience, like in the medical room which she came to next.

A man in a crisp white lab coat, presumably playing the role of the doctor, addressed the crowd peering in through the open observation windows. Beside him, calmly watching from atop an authentic-looking gynecological exam table, lay a strapped-down, stripped-bare submissive with her legs in the stirrups.

“The elusive G-spot,” the doctor was saying. “Does it exist? And, if so, how does it work, where do I find it, and how can I make my partner explode with a deluge of passion? How many of you have asked these questions?”

Affirmative answers rippled through the crowd from both the men and the women.

The doctor grinned. “Tonight, we will prove it is more than a myth by making Ellie, my beautiful assistant, a very satisfied and extremely dehydrated girl. Who’d like to be my volunteer for this demonstration?”

Hands shot up in the air. Too many to count.

The lucky man selected entered the room as the rest of the spectators pressed closer. They looked on in eager anticipation—or in Esme’s case, gaped in horrified fascination—as the man donned a pair of long gloves that went well past his wrists.

Considering the man’s large hands and the sub’s smallish frame, Esme hoped she was wrong about what she suspected was coming next, but knew down deep, after cage sex, needle play, a fire scene, and everything else, she wasn’t.

Under the direction of the man in white, the volunteer coated his hand liberally with lube and stepped between the stirrups. Then, he slowly fingered the woman, building her arousal and penetrating her one digit at a time until she had taken four fingers inside her. Her cries rolled through the room and out the window to the onlookers, becoming gasps of pleasure-pain when the volunteer folded in his thumb and sank in up to his wrist.

The sub whimpered and moaned continuously now, tossing her head from side to side, but she wasn’t asking to stop, or crying in discomfort, and, much to Esme’s amazement, no safeword had passed her lips.

“She’s nearly there,” the doctor dom murmured. “Add clitoral stimulation with your other hand, and when you press the knuckle of your thumb against the anterior wall, stimulating her G-spot, she’ll erupt like Old Faithful.”

In seconds, as predicted, the woman let out a sustained wail and shuddered. Next, her body convulsed, and she bucked wildly against the restraints. Then she came with such intensity, it forced the man’s fist from her pussy, along with a spray of liquid.

The crowd cheered while the man in the lab coat urged his volunteer to resume.

“Fisting gets her excited. Keep going; she’s good for at least three squirts per session. Sometimes more.”

Esme didn’t think it possible, but to the voluble approval of the crowd, he fist-fucked four screaming orgasmic eruptions from the bound woman. Amidst the clapping and murmurs at the conclusion of the scene, she heard a man comment that Dr. G-spot—how she would refer to him from this point forward—was a real-life gynecologist.

Overwhelmed and in a daze from the barrage of extreme activities she’d seen, some she didn’t even have names for, she wandered back downstairs.

Standing on the main floor looking around her, she decided what she needed before leaving was a nice, normal, flogging scene. She headed to where she knew one of the several spanking benches was located. When she got there and found a domme painting her sub’s testicles with drop after drop of melted red wax, she resigned herself to the fact nice and normal weren’t on the agenda tonight.

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