I'm continuing with the scareotica from my vampire novel Red Grow the Roses in the run-up to Hallowe'en. This excerpt is from story #4: Seven for the Seven Stars in the Sky - in which Jaqueline watches her cage-fighter husband willingly take take a beating from vampire Estelle.
‘Yes,’ he said through set teeth.
She backhanded him on the other cheek: this one drew blood, because she was wearing heavy silver rings. ‘Really sure?’
The breath hitched in his throat, but his cock didn’t falter. ‘Yes.’
The Boss laughed, low and delicious. Then, stepping back, she untied the suede belt from about her hips, looped it round her hand and swished it through the air. Leon clenched his jaw. The lash whipped out and snapped at him, right across both nipples, with a crack like something breaking. His head jerked, but he didn’t utter a sound.
‘Good,’ said she, lifting the belt again.
She whipped him on the chest and the back and the thighs. She whipped his clenched ass cheeks. She whipped each of his outstretched arms as if trying to pull him down from an invisible cross. She shortened the strap and beat him on the face. She snapped the very tip of the leather across his penis. She was fast and accurate and incredibly strong: she beat him over and over and didn’t tire, didn’t get sloppy, didn’t miss. Not once. Leon began to groan with every strike and roll his eyes, but he didn’t protest or lower his arms or flinch. His erection sagged – but only to half-mast. Sweat rolled down his body in rivulets, but she didn’t even start to perspire. And Jacqueline’s world turned upside down and inside out as she watched, appalled. She didn’t recognise this Leon. Her husband was a man who took shit from no one: she didn’t understand why he was kneeling there and soaking up the pain and the humiliation like that. What sort of man was he?
Then she looked round the other faces at the wire and knew they were all that sort of man. They were watching in avid wide-eyed silence, quivering at every blow, every one of them wanting to be up on that stage. Imagining themselves in his place. There was a strange charisma to his suffering: a nobility even. And the women – did they see themselves in the role of the Boss, or were they picturing themselves being punished? She couldn’t tell. She just knew that they were pressed to the mesh, mesmerised by the spectacle of her husband’s pain. One woman had pulled down the top of her designer gown and thrust her small breasts into the diamond gaps between the wires and was plucking at her big dark nipples. Jacqueline’s own body felt like it didn’t belong to her, awash with sensation that made no sense, off-balance and trembling, her sex swollen like rising dough despite herself.
At last, when the scarlet welts on Leon’s torso had melded into one burning glow, the Boss halted. She took his jaw in her hand and lifted his face, then stooped to as if to kiss him – but she wasn’t kissing his lips and his cheeks and his forehead: she was licking him, mouth wide, sucking the salt of his pain and the ooze of the little cuts left by the fight and her own hand, mumbling greedily at every gash and bruise. The whole crowd groaned low at that.
‘Can you take more?’ she growled, forcing him to look at her. Her eyes were flashing now, her voice suddenly laced with an accent that sounded French. Jacqueline had always thought dominatrices were supposed to be ice-queens: not this one. She was far more fire than ice.
‘Yes,’ he rasped.
She picked him up. Jacqueline’s eyes widened, but she had ceased to balk at anything now; the line between possible and impossible had dissolved in Leon’s sweat. The Boss hefted him to his feet one-handed, gripping him under the jaw, and flung him down on his back on the bench where she’d sat before. Then she straddled his belly – her incredible legs taut now and bare to the thigh - and raked her nails down his chest, hard enough to bring blood welling up in breadcrumbs trails. She bent to lick her way up each red path from belly to heart, while the audience murmured. Then she opened her mouth wide and sank her teeth into his chest, framing his left nipple. Leon arched and jerked his legs: his cock rose from where it bounced on his thigh and stuck straight up, jabbing the woman in the rump. She lifted her head, eyes feral, and lips now much more red than black. Her own arousal was more subtle than his but equally shameless. Adjusting the fall of white satin at her groin, she pulled his cock to the hidden cleft of her sex and sat back hard, engulfing him.
Jacqueline took a broken breath. She felt with all the envy of memory that cock filling her own hole.
‘Give me your hurt, hero,’ the Boss crooned, sinking her nails into his skin and making him spasm. ‘That’s right: give it up. Give it up to me.’ She started to rising and fall on his cock, slamming her hips down, and as she rode him – as she fucked him, because there was no doubt about who was active and who was recipient here - she dug the nails of one hand into his flesh and struck him with the other, aiming at his face. The heave of her hard round ass over his thighs was dazzling. Little barks of pain escaped Leon’s chest with every blow, a mindless animal noise, but he didn’t struggle. And she didn’t take long: her orgasm was on her swiftly, making her shudder and hiss and lose all rhythm and finally arch her back and nearly fall forward over him.
There’s no difference in their reactions, thought Jacqueline. If you’re watching, not feeling it, pain looks just like pleasure. You can’t tell them apart.
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