The Leather Mask

Chapter Two-1

Chapter Two

No Turning Back

Dawn Flynn

I practically leapt over the steps and ran down the street. My tears almost left me blind and I think I bumped into a few people. Somehow, I found my way out of the village, past 14th and back to work on the third floor of the Turner Building. I was more than two hours late! And not nearly ready to handle any s**t. I dashed past the receptionist, made a beeline for the restroom and locked myself in a stall. I collapsed on the toilet, not to go to the bathroom, but because my legs simply couldn’t stand anymore. I leaned forward and buried my shaking hands between my breasts. It didn’t take long before another gal came looking for me, asking if I was okay. She went away when I said, in as calm a voice as possible, that I was fine, just some bad food at lunch.

Yeah, a bad lunch. No, the food wasn’t coming back up, but I still wasn’t near ready to go back to work. f**k, what was wrong with me? It wasn’t like I didn’t know about SM. I had even suggested to a boyfriend or two to tie me down to the bed just to liven things up. The one that didn’t freak out even followed through on it. So, why did I shake? Was it because I had no idea what waited for me back at that brownstone?

Don’t lie to yourself, Dawn! You knew exactly what you were getting into. You knew it the moment you saw that lady, Mrs. Smith, all those weeks ago, when every day at lunch you couldn’t help but stare at her collar, a collar with a ring for a leash, to be led around like an animal. And then you finally saw her ‘bracelets’ that were designed and worn for only one purpose, for tying the hands in back, or spread out wide on a bed, with perhaps a matching set on the ankles so that nothing could stop a man from taking what he wanted, from pushing his c**k deep inside, shooting his semen into my pussy...

I mean, hers. Mrs. Smith’s p***y.

I sucked in air, tried to stop the raging internal chaos. Reduce the panic to tiny, little basics. It’s s*x, that’s all. I’ve had it before, many times. It all came down to the same thing. Even if Mrs. Smith wanted to be tied down, and allowed herself to be led around on a leash, strung up and whipped. Just like the woman that hung in the parlor. That’s all. s*x.

So why was I shaking?

Because I didn’t just see any woman hanging there, her p***y whipped.

My hands, almost steady from before, got the shakes again. This time I didn’t press them against me, but just stared at them and practically willed them to stop. They were going to stop. My heart was going to stop pounding! Stop. Stop!

I fought for control. My hands stilled, my heart slowed, but only after how long? A half hour? Longer? s**t, when I got my act together it would be quitting time. No, I wasn’t going to let that happen. Get up! Get back to work. Distract yourself, that’ll help. For once I would welcome a complaining phone call from one of the frenchies and listen very closely and translate as they outlined their latest, pathetic, trivial problem. That would work. That would get my mind off what happened today, and keep me from seeing myself hanging in that parlor, hair matted with sweat, legs spread—

Work! Get back to work!

Like I had been kicked, I shot out of the stall, splashed water on my face and, without making eye contact with anyone, wove through the maze of cubicles. I slumped down in the blue fabric covered, slightly padded chair, stuck on the headphones, and punched one call up after another, not stopping for the rest of the day.

“Dawn? Dawn!”

A hand on my shoulder made me look up. It was Drew Sullivan, floor manager and son of the owner.

“It’s quitting time.”

“Wha…?” I glanced at the small digital next to the phone. It was well past five.

“C’mon,” Drew said. “Put down the headset. I’ll walk you out.”

Like a dazed automaton, I obeyed. Everyone else was gone. When five hit, the place emptied out fast. Today was no exception, but for Drew and I. Drew placed a gentle hand on my elbow and guided me past all the empty cubicles, the receptionist’s desk, right to the elevator. I reached to press the button but his other hand stopped me. Like when Mrs. Smith grabbed my hand. This time though it felt nice, not quite as desperate, yet still authoritative.

“Dawn, is everything all right? You’ve been distracted the last few weeks. And today you were pretty riled when you got back late from lunch.”

“I’ll make up the time. I just got caught up in something—”

Drew waved a hand in the air. “Forget that. Things happen. But look, things are going to get tight with Montreal now, we’re close to signing a big design contract and we need everyone on top of their game.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

“Good. I want you to take off the rest of the week. You’ve got more than enough vacation time and, even if you didn’t, I’d insist. Just go home, let things cool off, and we’ll see you bright and early on Monday.”

I didn’t protest, not after what happened today. The elevator arrived. I got on but Drew didn’t. He shrugged. “I still got some stuff to finish up.”

I stood there for a moment, my finger on the elevator’s ‘door open’ button. For the first time I took a good look at Drew. Oh, we had seen each other a lot before, but always in passing, or in some quick business oriented conversation. Yes, he was the owner’s son, and you would think he got his job because of that. Probably so. But Drew knew how to handle people, and people liked him. I liked him. And with him standing there, tie slightly pulled down, most likely tired, yet still in command of the situation, I saw him in a new way.

“Drew? Would you like to, I don’t know, get something to eat?”

For a moment, I thought he would say yes. His eyes seemed to light up, with a hunger that strangely I didn’t find scary or unattractive, but then he shuttered them. “Ah, no. But I’ll hold you to that another time. Now, go on, get out of here. Before this place really drives you nuts.” With that, he reached in and took my finger off the button, a gesture that spoke of confidence, of command. His hand surrounded mine, lingered, then was gone. The memory of his touch stayed with me all the way home, and through my suddenly extended weekend.

I wandered around in a daze those few days. I ate, I slept. Turned on the TV just to have the company of other people’s voices, but hardly paid attention. No, what I listened to was all inside. What I heard was a whip whistling through the air, of the slap of leather on tender flesh, of a woman strung up, calling herself a cunt, knowing that she could walk out, at any time, and not doing so.

I heard Drew’s voice inside me. But you don’t want that option, do you?

What’s the sense? I thought back. If you can leave at any time, for whatever reason, it just kinda kills the whole reason of being...being forced.

Is that what you want?

No! I don’t–

A cold hand slapped my face, so hard that I flipped over on my stomach. Several more slaps on my ass set it on fire and turned my p***y red hot. I tried to protest but something grabbed the back of my head, shoved my face into the pillow and smothered my cries. My hips bucked as the slaps rained down and another hand found my wet p***y, stroked the lips, circled and teased the clit. I moaned and the end of a pillow slip was shoved into my mouth to become a gag and stifle any further noise. But my throat growled, like a captured animal, as the pressure mounted inside.

Drew’s voice cut through the hand slaps. Is this what you want? Is this want you want?

No. No!

Or is this what you NEED?

I tore my head away from the pillow, gasped for air. I tried to shout NO!, but my body gave its own answer. I flipped back over, tossed my head and howled. My orgasm ripped through me, but it was nothing like what that miserable Judith had reached. Still, I lay in ruin, but it was shallow and quickly recovered from. I opened my eyes and found myself in bed, alone.

I sat up. My fingers shone in p***y juices. I stumbled to the closet mirror, didn’t find any marks on my ass, but it still felt hot, raw. I touched my mouth, at the sore corners where the ‘gag’ had been forced past, but there was no linen taste on my tongue. What the hell? But at least the orgasm had been real, wasn’t it?

My fingers stroked my p***y lips. My wet, tender, sore, p***y lips. What had happened to me? What was happening to me?

Every night thereafter it returned, the longing, the desire, and each time became less and less fulfilled. I would spend my days in dread, and hope, that the inner voice, which sounded so much like Drew Sullivan, would return and I couldn’t help but obey. I guided my hand between my legs, allowed my fingers to swirl over wet p***y lips and gently picked at my clit. My body racked to one orgasm after another, yet I knew they would be even more if only...

If only it wasn’t Judith but me who contorted in the ropes, arms and legs pulled wide apart, and just from a whip on the p***y.

A whip on the p***y! What the hell was I thinking!

And then it hit me. I knew exactly what I was thinking.

Monday arrived. I dressed for work, got on the subway as always, followed the crowd through the streets and jammed myself into the elevator. But when I got out I slowed down and watched everyone else file past the receptionist, back to worker drone lives. And then I heard Mrs. Smith’s words and realized they had been repeating over and over in my head all weekend long.

Are you going to continue with your drab existence? Or will you take control of your life?

I stopped at the receptionist’s desk. From my purse I withdrew a sealed envelope, addressed to Drew Sullivan. I had written the resignation late last night, had carried it with me, but hadn’t intended to turn it over until now. I just couldn’t go on the way I was, crammed into a box, trying to find time to date on the weekend and having almost all of those end in disasters. At last, I knew what I wanted. I wanted to be loved, wanted a strong man in my life, and knew I wouldn’t find it here. Even if Drew might have those qualities, I needed someone more up front, more... Well, masterful.

I threw down the envelope in front of the surprised receptionist, muttered something about making sure Drew got it, and then almost ran down the stairs. I couldn’t wait for the elevator, couldn’t take the chance that I’d run into Drew. Not after how kind he had been. And I couldn’t take the chance that I’d let him talk me out of what I was about to do.

When I hit the streets I strode with a purpose. The sidewalks were full of people, but not pressed like sardines a few minutes ago, and the crowd thinned out when I passed Spizo’s, the sandwich bar where all this started. Then I hit the village and it was like another world. The sound of the traffic and shouting seemed far away now and the village transformed the city into an oasis of calm that, when I thought about it, didn’t make Mrs. Smith’s old style dress so out of place. Here there were no obnoxious intrusions from the modern world like beepers, cell phones and PDA’s. The calm and quiet infused me, and even more so when I passed through Abington Square, turned off Bleeker and found myself in front of a certain three story brownstone.

I hesitated in front, giving myself the excuse that I wanted to see exactly what kind of place I was about to walk into. From the sidewalk sprouted a paper birch tree, its leaves green and fluttering in the slightly warm, springtime breeze. The drapes on the ground floor were pulled back so one could see easily through the pane glass into the parlor. No one hung there now, but the other floors were all shuttered. Up a short flight of concrete steps was a brass plate that announced in raised lettering: ‘The Velvet Glove’, and underneath that: ‘New York – London – Amsterdam – Sydney’. To the right of that was a single, etched glass door, framed in rich, red wood. A curved, brass finished door handle pushed down easily under my hand and I was in the vestibule, umbrella bucket to my left. A tiny bell jingled at the top of the glass door as it swung open, then closed. Before me was a solid, richly carved, wood door. A small gray and white speaker hung on the wall to the right.

“Yes?” came a neutral, tinny voice.

“I’m here...I’m here to see Mrs. Smith,” I managed to say, half croak, half whisper. “Please. I have to see her.”

The buzzer gave me my answer and I found myself almost on the same spot as when I witnessed Judith’s whipping. Sunlight bled from the parlor and cut across the tops of my dark, pointed high heels. From deeper in the hallway a woman emerged from the shadows.

Not Judith, but she was also naked, except for two n****e clips on pert breasts and a light chain that hung between them. Her ease of movement suggested a grace and lightness in spite of the red stripes that criss-crossed her legs, stomach and breasts. Yet, her eyes were puffy, as if after a recent crying jag. But she held herself straight. She lowered her head and gave a little curtsey. “Yes, ma’am. My name is Chelsea. Mrs. Smith is presently busy but ordered me to escort you to her office. Please follow me.”

Through her long, dark hair I stared at the dull marks on Chelsea’s back and ass as she led me past a staircase and kitchen area, then beyond a set of double doors. Another large, paned window looked out onto a Japanese garden filled with bright flowers and many green plants that now stood in shadow. Inside, off to the right, two old style padded chairs were angled in front of an equally antiquated, yet still useful desk with a laptop computer. A bonsai tree sat near a corner, a red poker chip just to its right, while at the other a gilded frame held a black and white photo of an older, yet still attractive man and woman dressed Victorian fashion. Next to that lay a short, coiled black whip. Lights under fringed lampshades scattered throughout bathed everything in a soft, welcoming glow.

“Would you like a drink, ma’am?” Chelsea said.

“Uh, no. No, thank you,” I said. “Uh, Chelsea?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“What’s it like? I mean, does it hurt? Much?”

Chelsea gazed at me a moment, as if measuring a proper response. “I was ordered to escort you to Mrs. Smith’s office.”

Silence hung between us.

“Oh,” I said. “Thank you.”

“Yes, ma’am.” She moved to the doors, then paused and whispered, “Yes, it does. A lot.”