it was what he came here for, goddamn it, what he really wanted, and I didn't dare not give it to him. I didn't know what the hell was really going on. I loathed all of it suddenly, the artifice of it, and yet the excitement, the sense of the forbidden, the sheer lust at having him helpless ... well, that was still there. And he was feeling it; he wasn't flagging for a second. But he was really out on the edge. All right, first-class Club experience, Elliott. This is what it's about. 'You want to please me,' I said, close to his ear. That's what the mistress is supposed to say. Go for the Academy Award with it. 'Tell me you do. I want to hear it.' But the handler had come back for him, and it was time. Two other fresh slaves were being tethered to the posts. He was to be on the right. I gave him over to the handler and went up into the highest part of the bleachers to watch. From there I could see a lot of the arcade, the avenues, the fountains, the booths, and the crowds streaming through the walkways, and radiating out from the raised concrete stage on which the pillories stood. He was pulled forward by the metal rung on the front of the white collar. Then that was tethered tight to the high post. Quickly, they had the straps around his ankles.
Now he couldn't do anything but stand straight, arms tight to his back, and take the blows. He looked noble, actually. Like Errol Flynn in Captain Blood when the enemy got hold of him: straight Saturday matinee hero in chains. Grind of desire with a root like a time probe. Immediately the whipping masters started swinging the straps. The others took it predictably, with a nice dramatic flair, but he was tensing, shivering, working against it all the way. A dozen or so guests gravitated to him with an infallible eye for something special. They started taunting him. But I wondered how many of them realized he was really breaking down. The noise and the rhythm of the straps was hypnotizing. And the longer it went on, the worse it was for him. Obviously, no matter how it excited him, it was devastating him. He couldn't give in. As soon as it was finished, I gestured for him to be brought to the foot of the bleachers with the shackles and blindfold still on. He was so hot he was like a man just out of a steambath, his hair soaking, his chest heaving, his breath coming in little pants.
I turned him around and there wasn't a particle of resistance in him as I looked at his skin. He looked just about as enticing as he'd ever looked, and he was silent, licking his lips, only his colour and the dancing muscles in his face revealing how miserable he was. I propelled him carefully down the walkway through the crowd. He was obviously still frantic at not being able to see. He jumped when he was touched. But he wasn't going to beg me again to take off the blindfold. He didn't make a sound. I moved him steadily towards the front floors of the arcade and out into the garden and the quiet.
Chapter Sixteen
16 -- Lisa
Locked Out
He wasn't any calmer when we reached my room, but he hadn't said a word. The lowest lamps were lighted, the bed changed, the covers neatly turned down for the night. I led him to the centre of the room, where I told him to stand still. I stood back looking at him, just quietly watching him. He was crying under the blindfold. And he tried to swallow it in that classic masculine fashion so that the little soft sounds he made actually gave an impression of strength. His cock was still beautifully hard. I moved through the double doors, wondering how keen his hearing was, and glancing back at his profile, at the really luxurious sight of him shackled that way against the civilized furniture of the room. The white blindfold made him look all the more ruddy, and his hair more full. I sat down silently at my desk. I had a pain in my head that wasn't really a pain. It was a great, awful noise.
My body was hurting for him, and yet I felt paralyzed, numbed. I reached over and picked up his file and