A smile teased the corners of his lips. “Would you enjoy that? Being auctioned off? Put on display?”
I pictured a room full of men like Fort, dominant, sexually voracious men who were rich and powerful enough to join a club to get what they wanted, access to a horde of submissive females all the time. The idea turned me on to a surprising degree, but it frightened me too. I wasn’t exactly a seasoned masochist, and I wasn’t a petite beauty like the woman Devin had brought to Goodluck’s show. “I’m not sure I’d like that,” I admitted. “What if no one wanted me?”
His eyes took on a cynical cast. “Really? Are we fishing for compliments?”
“No. Seriously.” I held out my glass for more water. “It’s a possibility.”
“It’s not a possibility,” he said, ignoring my outstretched glass. “But for the record, here’s how things generally go. A submissive comes with her sponsor—her Dominant or Master—and that’s who she spends the bulk of her time with. If a scene develops and draws other people in, it’s a good thing. More pain, more pleasure. More fun.”
He pushed back his chair and gestured me over to him, taking me in his arms. “The Gallery can transform you if you go into it with an open mind. What you can’t do is walk into the club with the idea that you exclusively belong to anyone. You and I aren’t exclusive, right?” He said it kindly, gazing into my eyes. “We’ve been clear about that from the start. Our thing is about physical and mental connection, and experiencing sexual thrills that 99.9 percent of the population is too afraid to think about. Going to The Gallery is doing that same thing, only adding other like-minded people.”
“When you put it like that…”
He squeezed me as I shifted on my toes. “What are you thinking? Yes? No? Not your thing?”
“I don’t know if it’s my thing. It might be. Like scening with you…I didn’t know I liked it until I did it.”
“Let me show you the fine print.” He reached for the paper I’d noticed earlier, sliding it in front of us while his arm tightened to pull me into his lap. “Any submissive who plays at The Gallery has to read and agree to these five rules, and sign at the bottom. They want every participant to be on the same page.”
“I’d have to sign this now?” I asked, turning back to him.
“No. At the door. You’re supposed to read and sign it every time you come.”
“Sounds very legal.”
He laughed. “It’s quasi legal. It’s more a good faith agreement that you won’t cause shit if you don’t enjoy yourself as much as you hoped.”
I looked down at the paper, scanning the bulleted list while he finally refilled my water. Number one: All submissives must be accompanied by a sponsor who will manage their conduct and care. No unsponsored submissives will be admitted. I did a mental eye roll at that one. God forbid some poor woman wandered in there unprepared.
Number two: Any submissive brought into The Gallery shall be considered communal property and shared in any way her sponsor desires. I was glad now he’d warned me about that one in advance, or I would have choked on it. I took a deep drink of water, imagining a faceless stranger forcing me to his will. It turned me on more than I thought. My face flamed despite my best intentions as I moved on to number three.
The Gallery is a no-safe-word zone. The submissive’s limits will be determined by her sponsor.
The last part captured my attention, made me feel a little better about the whole sharing thing. “Ok, so your sponsor basically stays in charge of you. Like, even if some other Dom wanted to interact with me, you’d be there to make sure they don’t stab me in the neck.”
“Of course.” His gaze roved over my throat, then his tongue blazed the same path. “I’d never let anyone stab you in the neck. Your neck is too perfect to ruin.”
He caressed my breasts, stoking the fire that burned hotter with each perverse “rule” I read. I peered down at the fourth line. All submissives must strictly adhere to The Gallery’s dress code.
“What’s the dress code?” I asked.
“What you might expect,” he said. “Fetish lingerie. Don’t worry, it’s nothing extreme.” His hand traced the curve of my waist, then slid back up to my breasts, pinching my sensitive and very hard nipples. “We use a private costumer. If you decide you want to go, I’ll give you the address so you can get measured and fitted. They’ll send me the bill.”
“How will they know—”
“I’ll arrange everything. You’d just show up.”
My hips moved as he fingered my nipples, then pinched, resurrecting the lingering soreness from our last session. “You’re really turning me on right now,” I said.
“Keep reading. One last thing.” He read it instead, lowering his voice for emphasis. “Any submissive not agreeing to these terms may not be admitted to The Gallery. Any resistance or refusal of these rules is cause for immediate expulsion from the premises.”
“So if I decide in the middle to disobey some guy or put on some other outfit, I’m out of there. If I yell out a safe word—”
“Then I’ll punish you for being a brat,” he said, giving the side of my leg a spank. “Joking aside, if you disagree with any of these rules, don’t agree to attend as my submissive. That’s the point of spelling things out like this. The Gallery only works if everyone plays along.”
His erection grew thicker and more insistent against my ass cheeks. “I think maybe I could do this Gallery thing if you’re there to keep me safe.”
“I’d keep you safe.” His breath feathered the back of my hair. “And I’d hurt you while we were there. But you seem to enjoy that well enough.”
Goosebumps rose along my arms and neck as bite followed breath. His teeth closed on my nape, making me shiver. I reached back to caress his bulging cock through his jeans, then searched for the button.
“No,” he said. “Naughty girl. You don’t take. I give.”
He spread my legs and shoved hard fingers against my pussy. I was so wet, so soaked. I was sure he could feel it through my panties. He made a guttural lust noise that proved me correct. I wanted him. I wanted The Gallery. I wanted whatever he wanted, even if it was perverse and unnatural.
He pushed me onto my knees and undid his jeans. While I took him in my mouth, he unzipped my dress and pushed it down over my shoulders. My breasts were in his hands, then my nipples were pinched and tormented, driving me on. It wasn’t fun giving him blowjobs. It was an exercise in lack of control, in submitting to greedy dominance. When he shoved his hips forward, I took his cock as deep as I could, and still my nipples were punished. When I whined in protest, his only answer was a satisfied growl.
I gagged and he chuckled, a low, sadistic rumble. “It’s okay, Sparkles. That’ll happen a lot. Get used to it.” He pulled out of my throat and made me stand, then bent me over, facing the table, so my hands were braced on its edge. My soaked panties were yanked down, my skirt flipped up to bare my welted backside. “This beautiful ass,” he said, parting my cheeks. “And these gorgeous marks.” He traced along the lingering welts and bruises, then spanked me, making me jump.
“Jesus, I need to spank your ass,” he said, moving me again, manipulating me until I was bent over his lap in the dining room chair. I looked up, looked out his window at the city’s lights as he ran his fingers over my quivering butt. An old-fashioned over-the-knee spanking. How quaint. How naughty and patriarchal. I had a ten-second reprieve before the first blows fell.
Ow. Ow. Ow. Oh God, it wasn’t quaint at all. It stung like
hell.
“That—really—hurts,” I gasped, between jerking and flailing.
He tightened his arm around my waist and continued his assault. I struggled, finding it hard to breathe through the overload of sensation. His hands were huge and the spanks were hard and resonant, one after the other. “My ass still hurts from before. Please!”
“It’s good to have a hurting ass. It makes everything better for you, Juliet. I know.”
“Oh God!”
“I know from this.” He paused, his fingers probing my drenched, hot cleft. “Are you ready to be fucked?”
“Yes. Please!”
I was hauled about again by his huge, firm fingers, and deposited astride his lap with my dress bunched at my waist. He pulled at his fly and a moment later he slipped inside me, shoving his hips upward to fill me to the hilt. “How’s that?” he asked. “Feel better?”
“Yes, Sir. It feels wonderful.”
“Even with your sore ass?” He added a smack on each side for emphasis. It smarted like heck but also felt so good—I’d gotten to the point where I didn’t question why. I rode Fort’s cock, my pleasure heightened by the throbbing scarlet handprints on my ass. I tried not to think about how connected I felt to him, how perfect it felt to be fed by him, held by him, hurt by him in this room above the city, and brought to a climax that blurred my eyes.
*
I had to get up early on Wednesday to make the appointment for my Gallery fitting. I couldn’t believe they had their own costumer. The woman was soft spoken on the phone, agreeing to meet me at her Soho studio. When I got there and rang the bell, she ushered me inside with a smile.
“What a pleasure to meet you,” she said. “You’re Juliet Pope?”
A flush rose in my cheeks. I thought this might all be conducted by pseudonym. “Yes, I am.”
“Don’t worry,” she said, noticing my unease. “I promise I’m discreet about who I outfit—that’s why they trust me to do this. And I’ve been to The Gallery many times. My name’s Michelle, and I work in the Metropolitan Ballet’s costume department. So you’re going to visit The Gallery for the first time?”