Eternity Collar

For information contact: Pink Flamingo Publications www.pinkflamingo.com P.O. Box 632 Richland, MI 49083 USA Cover Image: © Simon Podgorsek With the exception of quotes used in reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopying recording or otherwise without prior written permission of the publishers. Prologue I knew the way so well, I could drive there in my sleep. The funny thing was, whenever I stepped inside, it felt like I finally woke up. The place was in the seediest part of Hollywood. Only drug dealers, pimps and whores hung out there, but then you didn’t expect it to be anywhere else. Somehow, a SM leather bar in the suburbs just didn’t seem right. And the flickering neon light above the non-descript door left no doubt about its intent. Leather Heel. It should have read something else, which would have been more to the point, but once inside, you discovered the owner didn’t put a lot of upkeep into the place, so when the petering out glowing neon gas started to rearrange a letter, it just somehow fit. The sign was like a beacon for all the leather teddies; dom, sub, gay, straight, pointing the way for everyone in the scene to find others of like mind. A few went there all the time, living the lifestyle to the fullest, others on certain nights, while most walked through that door only when they couldn’t stand another day without the smell of leather, the unforgiving hug of the ropes, or the smack of leather on flesh. I belonged to the last group. My involvement had started innocently enough, about eight months ago, on one of those foolish sorority dares. (“I’m bored. What’s to do?” “Another tat run?” “Hey, I’ve got an idea, if anyone’s brave enough.”) Just a bunch of drunk, bubble-headed college girls who somehow piled into a car to cruise the seamier side of town, away from the pristine campus, get deliciously scandalized, then return to their clean beds, tucked under the warm covers and their arms hugging stuffed animals. So it began. We ogled the kinky people, the gays in their boots and jackets, the dykes with their spiked hair, the straight men and women dominating or submitting, but then someone suggested it might be fun to go inside. The next thing we knew we all found ourselves in the Leather Heel, a bunch of hyper, clean-cut college girls that stood out amongst all the SM toughs. Everyone in our group wanted to party, party, party, take a walk on the wild side, have a drink, whoop it up. Strange thing though, I thought the leather people might cop an attitude like “Who the hell are these f*****g rich bitches?”, but they were all genuinely friendly. Probably because we were something new, fresh, and unspoiled. And probably because they wanted in on the spoils. That weird night went by in a blur, and we all found our way back to the sorority house, drunk off our collective asses and giggling to ourselves about “our crazy night out”. It was never discussed again, but I never forgot the smell of the leather, the gleaming polished whips. The danger. So, a couple of weeks later I found myself sneaking out of the house. Without any conscious thought I drove until I stood beneath the flickering neon sign that often misspelled the club’s name, a different word that seemed more like a promise: Leather Hell. My first time there by myself, I was like a nervous cat. No beer like that night with my sorority sisters before going out to loosen me up. A few people tried to start up conversations, but I didn’t come across. Then a “scene” started up. Just a woman in leather chaps, her bare butt cheeks getting a light whipping, but that was enough. Next thing I knew I was at the inner edge of the voyeuristic crowd, putting my own tight jeans covered ass out there to see what it felt like. And then the nervous cat was a lioness on the prowl. I kept going back after that, playing with anonymous partners, but mostly with others I had a sort of friendship. And we always stayed in the main room. I never went down to the basement. Down to the heavy play room. Except for tonight. I had seen them go down there, the edge players. Even been invited once or twice to join them, but I always shied away. But tonight was different. Usually I was here on Saturday, to stay most of the night and recover Sunday before classes on Monday. But this was Wednesday. It was near the end of the semester and I had decided to cut classes the next day. Hey, what was one day when you already had a pretty good idea what kind of grades you were going to get this late in the school year anyway? So, when I strolled in, for the life of me trying to look confident, there wasn’t a familiar face in the place. I was really on my own. I found a seat at the bar, ordered some kind of drink. After a while I finally gathered up the courage to ask, “How do I get into the basement?” “Use the stairs,” the barrel-chested, leather vested bartender answered. He gave me look that plainly said “Don’t ask me any more stupid questions” and went back about his business of watering down drinks. All right, strike one, but still good advice. Just go down there. So down I went. The stairs were creaky and narrow, only enough room for one person. Someone waited at the bottom, a man in a suit and half-hood, his lower face exposed. When I reached the bottom of the stairs he didn’t make any move to allow me inside. “Your first time down here?” he rumbled. Suddenly my mouth dried up and I couldn’t talk. I nodded. He held up a blindfold, just a simple black cloth, more than wide enough to go well up my forehead and down my cheeks. “People down here need anonymity. They don’t want a one-timer blabbing about who they played with if things get too rough.” I finally regained speech. “Is it that bad?” “Only as bad as you make it,” he said. “Or as good.” He held up the cloth. I centered it over my eyes and he tied it off in back, firmly but not sadistically. A hand on my arm and I was passed on to someone inside. A woman’s hands, I think. Small, but definitely in control. “Look what I found!” she crowed. “Isn’t she just darling?” Answering calls of agreement. Next thing I knew I was on hands and knees, doggy style, while several pairs of hands undid my jeans, bared my ass, pulled my snug light blue pullover over my head. The pants and top were flung away and the hands kneaded my bra-cupped breasts, dove down my panties, checked out my wet p***y, tested the tightness of my asshole. I bucked a little at the bold invasions, grunted here and there, gave a couple of fast yelps when fingers probed both openings, then cut off when even more searched my mouth. “Hmmm. Not too bad,” said a male. He was near me, in fact, it was probably his hand in my mouth, forcing the jaw to remain open. “I’ve seen her upstairs. Always wondered when she couldn’t stand it any longer and would come down here.” “You just want to rape her mouth,” another man said. “For you, any mouth will do.” “Yes. But this one is especially luscious.” A leather ring gag anchored itself between my upper and lower teeth, expanding my mouth even wider. My jaw strained at the unfamiliar sensation. Yes, I had worn ring gags before, but never one so big, and with such an obvious intent. Then I was up on my knees, the woman’s hands wrapped around my crossed wrists in back. A hot, hot c**k shoved itself down my throat. A large hand on the back of my head prevented any pulling back. A pair of fingers on either side at the base of my ponytail found the center and distributed pressure evenly so that I couldn’t even attempt to turn away. The c**k filled me, male musk invaded my nostrils and, with each coarse thrust, balls lightly slapped against my chin. I wanted to cough, hack, retch, but they wouldn’t allow it, and that’s when I knew any freedom of choice had been stolen. Hot jets of c*m flooded my mouth, spilled over my lower lip, dripped on my breasts, stained my bra. Taken away, the ring gag thudded to the floor. My hands were released and I fell forward onto my stomach. Now I did cough, tried to speak. This isn’t what I wanted. Not what I thought... Another mouth covered mine, a woman’s. The same one that had pinned my hands behind me, it had to be her because I recognized her perfume; light, elegant, yet sickly sweet with a tang of smoke. Her lips crushed against mine, the tongue lapped up any male c*m still in my mouth, then licked my chin clean, like a mother cat with her young. Distracted, I didn’t notice that my bra and panties went missing. Then I lay on the floor, arms stretched past my head, legs spread out. And my p***y brought high in the air with a group of soft pillows shoved underneath. Mouth on my p***y. Male. He hadn’t shaved and the rough whiskers stimulated my p***y lips, threatened to rub them raw. I hissed through clenched teeth but the languid tongue, the teeth that nipped my p***y didn’t retreat. They only dived deeper; the teeth snatched at the inner labia, the dexterous tongue lifted the clit hood, flicked at the engorged, sensitive little d**k. I screamed. “Responsive little cunt, isn’t she?” said the woman. “How does she taste?” The man didn’t answer. He pulled away and I was strung up, arms tight overhead, head locked between them. Someone cranked a winch and soon my feet swung off the floor, toes pointed at the ground. My body heaved with petrified, shallow breaths. “Stop that or you’ll pass out,” a man said. “Stop it or we’ll rip off your f*****g lips!” A hand slapped against my p***y, male. Fingernails clipped short but still with a tight grip, they squeezed my p***y, squeezed, squeezed. “Slow down,” the man said. “Easy. Easy.” I forced myself to obey, get it under control. Like when a kid has to stop under a discipline threat from an impatient parent. My breaths returned to normal, but my stomach still shook in repressed fear. “I think she’s getting the hang of this,” the woman said. My legs were leather cuffed, spread, then locked apart. The metal rings on the cuffs dully jingled as my ankles twisted, toes grazing what I assumed were thick wooden poles. I dangled helplessly; teeth gritted in fake defiance, then lips aquiver in genuine fearful submission, while the man and woman moved about the room, quietly discussing their plans for their latest victim. I might have understood them, if not for the heart thumping in my chest, the blood pounding in my ears. No, this wasn’t how I wanted it! A thin, almost breathy whistle was my only warning. The cat o’ nine tails flew through the air, pointed leather blades landed right on – “f**k! Fuckfuckfuck!” I yelled. My body twisted. Instinctively I tried to close my legs. Red hot fire seared my p***y. A newly discovered pain threatened to send me to delirious new heights and, under the blindfold, I wept. A crop joined the cat. They both now stayed away from my sore, raw p***y, striking my overly sensitive, unmarked skin and I imagined being transformed into an obscene tapestry of red welts and dark bruises. But always the threat remained, my dripping p***y open to whatever whim might make either of them turn it at a moment’s notice from a region of pleasure into excruciation. Likewise with my n*****s. A squeeze here, a pinch there readied them for a pair of clamps that easily could rip them off. The woman and man each suckled a breast, mouths over my areoles to draw out the little nubs until they stood straight out. Then the clamps, tiny little alligator teeth, bit into them both. I didn’t scream then, and still didn’t when a light chain that connected them was stretched down by one...two...three...small lead weights, but still I didn’t scream. “One more, honey,” the woman softly. “You can take it. If you don’t...” The cat’s leather blades slithered high across my inner thighs. I barely felt them, marked and bruised as I was, but that wasn’t the part of me that she wanted an excuse, any excuse to strike. The last weight was hung free and when I still refused to scream, refused to beg for mercy I sensed a disappoint that tended toward anger. The cat’s blades slid away and again my back was lit up like a string of firecrackers. Yet, it wasn’t the woman’s grunts that echoed in the basement. All the man’s strength flowed through his arm, down the whip and into my psyche. But not a cat this time. No, after a few strikes I longed for the cat as the single-tail poured all its beautiful evil into me through the end of thin, feather like explosions. My ears rang with each angry outburst, my throat turned raw as vocal chords reached new notes. Jesus, f*****g god! He wanted to flay me alive! And then I was down on the floor, like a puppet whose strings were suddenly cut. Cuffs removed, replaced by rope. Ankles crossed in front, lotus style, wrists crossed in back. More rope around my stomach, under the armpits, across the shoulders. Another piece connected from around my neck in front to the drawn up ankles, pulling me into a nice, tight little ball. Pushed onto my back, p***y up, open and ripe. And then that c**k, that wonderful p***s did what it’s designed to do, the swollen head gently parted my somewhat recovered p***y lips, entered me, took me as I wanted, needed. Yet gentle, almost trepidatious thrusts that allowed me some relief. A hand lightly across a breast here, pursed lips across my own there, a tongue that didn’t invade my mouth so much as invited itself in, to twirl with my own in a wet dance. I joined him, uhhhmmm, tasted his saliva, pumped back at his c**k as much as I could, a willing partner in submission. And when he came this time it wasn’t manic like before. Stream after steady stream poured into me, longer, more controlled, more everything, while I...almost tore myself apart. His arms wrapped around my violently shaking body, reinforced the ropes but it was barely enough. I nearly shook myself free but he hung on for the ride as my internal earthquakes toppled whatever sense of reason, of sanity I still possessed. I screamed again, utter nonsense sounds that touched deep through to my primal self. Then another earthquake that led to one tsunami after another until I almost drowned in severe pleasure. The roars subsided and I was left on the floor, surrounded by silence, then deep breaths as the man recovered too. He seemed nearby, like he sat just a few feet away, and the woman lifted my head to rest across her leg. “She’s not done yet,” she said. “Not by a long shot.” Still tied in a ball, they flipped me over. A butt plug, oh god, a huge butt plug found its way up my ass, one delicious inch at a time. Those tender, yet demanding male hands kept pushing it up my ass. I moaned, squealed, but took it. Took it all. Oh, so big, so full. Pushed in at the base just that little extra, my hole expanded, not reluctantly, but eagerly, if only it could go more. But then the calloused male hands rested on my ass cheeks as if to say “This far and no more. I know what’s best.” Then they hoisted me up, swung me from the ceiling like a lantern. Almost as an afterthought, the man stuck a small vibrator in me, turned it on full, and left me there while others made their way down to the basement, did their scenes. I heard the submissives pleading, their plaintive cries, the smack of whip on tender flesh, the plugging of mouths with large gags, and I hung there while the vibrator took me from one orgasm to another, yet none like when he came inside me. No one else touched me again, save by whip or leather belt as a warm up to whatever other woman they had tied up and ready to receive punishment. The only hands I felt belonged to him. It was like he had claimed me, his own prized possession, and everyone else knew I was forbidden territory. I cried like a baby at his touch, begging him to take me again, f**k me, please, please f**k me, but the only answer I got was a brutal whipping across my ass and a tightening of the n****e clamps that only made more tears flow. At last, at long f*****g last, they let me down. The ropes came off and my clothes, minus the bra and panties, were flung across my prone body. Not daring to touch my blindfold I managed to dress and virtually crawled up the stairs. Every part of me was sore, each inch of my skin on fire, yet I had never felt so high, so relaxed. Eventually I made it back to the same bar stool, drank whatever the bartender threw in front of me, then two more after that. I lay my head down and shivered. Something clumped on the bar. I lifted my head, rubbed my burning eyes. Shiny, rounded edges, a circle of steel. “What..?” I blurted. “Take a good look,” said the bartender. He wasn’t as gruff as before, and held it up for my inspection. “It, it looks like a collar,” I said. “An eternity collar. I haven’t seen many of these.” “Eternity collar? What does it...” I stopped, tried to catch up. The bartender said, very slowly, “What do you think it means?” “What does it mean?” I said, rhetorically. I stared down at the cold steel, the rounded edges, and the fact that, unlike other leather collars that buckled on, there wasn’t anything like that here. Once it captured my neck, there wasn’t any means for removal. Oh s**t. Oh s**t! I jumped back off the stool, heart racing again. Eternity. Forever. Eternity. No. f*****g. WAY! Then why was I reaching for it? No. Stop! I jerked back my hand. There was a sound behind me. There, near the top of the stairs, still within the shadows, stood a darkened figure. I couldn’t see the face. It took another step up, started to emerge into the light. I ran. I ran out of there as fast as I f*****g could. Tears clouded my sight, streamed down my cheeks. I found my car, shoved it into gear and peeled out of there. And still the tears came, like the raindrops on my windshield, I cried. Cried that I was too scared, too scared to even think about what such a thing implied. Cried when I undressed and saw the marks, his marks on my flesh, cried in terror because someone desired me that much. For eternity.