already.
The wallpaper from the foyer was replicated here, except it was cream with the gold. It gave the room a much brighter feel, and I supposed that had been done on purpose. If people wanted to watch, they needed to see clearly. A murky ambience might lead to the thrill that comes from shadows and not quite being able to make things out, but I preferred to see everything in all its stark glory. The cream floor tiles gave it a somewhat sterile air, but the sounds coming off them always added to the excitement. High-heeled shoes tapping, whip tails scraping, groans bouncing off them to ricochet against the walls. There was always so much going on, so much to observe, that at times there was sensory overload and it got too much to handle. It led to breathlessness, to me closing my eyes to ward off the sights, but that never did any good. I still saw everything playing out beneath my eyelids, still heard the noises that went with every action. All the senses were bombarded in here, and the echoic effect was sometimes staggering. A fuck symphony.
Only one cross was occupied. A blond man, possibly in his late-thirties, was strapped by his ankles and wrists, naked, his impressive cock jutting out at the watchers as though demanding it be looked at. His Master, the complete opposite of him with dark hair, sharp suit, and around the mid-twenties, wielded a whip that he teased his partner with. He dragged its handle down the blond man’s chest. I marveled at how age didn’t figure here like it did ‘out there’, where a Master could be younger than the sub and it didn’t make a blind bit of difference. No one judged, just watched. A Master was a Master, a sub a sub. Rules were followed, contracts signed and adhered to. “It’s how it should be, pet.”
I studied the blond. His balls hung low. How long would it be before they drew up tight and spunk jetted out of his cock? Would it be after he’d been whipped? Did he need the pain in order to get off? That was the beauty of being a voyeur. You learnt so much—and you understood, knew how certain things felt, which added to the experience. In the past I’d come just from observing, no touching myself at all. The power of sex was a mighty thing.
Blond stared at his Master, waiting for a signal, I supposed, or to give one. There were no lowered gazes for him, and it was clear they communicated silently while sceneing openly. I admired the Master for allowing that—his sub’s safety was clearly paramount. But there was something else going on in their communication, laid bare for all who took the time to see it. Love. Utter trust. Adoration. I smiled, hoping that those who watched me and my Master saw the same thing, that it was more than just getting off at the crack of a whip. For some it was just that, a need for release, no ties with their Master or sub other than consensual pain and sex. But with these two, well…
The whip handle had reached Blond’s pubic hairs, was being swirled around in them. His cock bobbed, butting against the handle, and his balls rose slightly but not to the telltale degree that orgasm was close. The men continued to stare at one another as the Master laid the handle on top of that glorious, hard cock and clasped them both in his fist. An almost imperceptible nod from Blond, and the Master wanked, slow and sensual, drawing his foreskin back as far as it would go. I wondered how that felt to have a whip mashed tight against his cock as it was massaged so expertly. Was Blond in need of a connection to whatever toy was being used—did it have to touch his skin? Perhaps this was nothing more than play, no psychological reasons involved at all. Maybe my mind was conjuring something that wasn’t even there.
“Good evening, pet.”
My stomach fluttered at the sound of his voice, at the breeze of his breath after he’d spoken, lightly scented with mint. I turned to my left and looked into blue eyes that seemed to bore into me, to slither
The wallpaper from the foyer was replicated here, except it was cream with the gold. It gave the room a much brighter feel, and I supposed that had been done on purpose. If people wanted to watch, they needed to see clearly. A murky ambience might lead to the thrill that comes from shadows and not quite being able to make things out, but I preferred to see everything in all its stark glory. The cream floor tiles gave it a somewhat sterile air, but the sounds coming off them always added to the excitement. High-heeled shoes tapping, whip tails scraping, groans bouncing off them to ricochet against the walls. There was always so much going on, so much to observe, that at times there was sensory overload and it got too much to handle. It led to breathlessness, to me closing my eyes to ward off the sights, but that never did any good. I still saw everything playing out beneath my eyelids, still heard the noises that went with every action. All the senses were bombarded in here, and the echoic effect was sometimes staggering. A fuck symphony.
Only one cross was occupied. A blond man, possibly in his late-thirties, was strapped by his ankles and wrists, naked, his impressive cock jutting out at the watchers as though demanding it be looked at. His Master, the complete opposite of him with dark hair, sharp suit, and around the mid-twenties, wielded a whip that he teased his partner with. He dragged its handle down the blond man’s chest. I marveled at how age didn’t figure here like it did ‘out there’, where a Master could be younger than the sub and it didn’t make a blind bit of difference. No one judged, just watched. A Master was a Master, a sub a sub. Rules were followed, contracts signed and adhered to. “It’s how it should be, pet.”
I studied the blond. His balls hung low. How long would it be before they drew up tight and spunk jetted out of his cock? Would it be after he’d been whipped? Did he need the pain in order to get off? That was the beauty of being a voyeur. You learnt so much—and you understood, knew how certain things felt, which added to the experience. In the past I’d come just from observing, no touching myself at all. The power of sex was a mighty thing.
Blond stared at his Master, waiting for a signal, I supposed, or to give one. There were no lowered gazes for him, and it was clear they communicated silently while sceneing openly. I admired the Master for allowing that—his sub’s safety was clearly paramount. But there was something else going on in their communication, laid bare for all who took the time to see it. Love. Utter trust. Adoration. I smiled, hoping that those who watched me and my Master saw the same thing, that it was more than just getting off at the crack of a whip. For some it was just that, a need for release, no ties with their Master or sub other than consensual pain and sex. But with these two, well…
The whip handle had reached Blond’s pubic hairs, was being swirled around in them. His cock bobbed, butting against the handle, and his balls rose slightly but not to the telltale degree that orgasm was close. The men continued to stare at one another as the Master laid the handle on top of that glorious, hard cock and clasped them both in his fist. An almost imperceptible nod from Blond, and the Master wanked, slow and sensual, drawing his foreskin back as far as it would go. I wondered how that felt to have a whip mashed tight against his cock as it was massaged so expertly. Was Blond in need of a connection to whatever toy was being used—did it have to touch his skin? Perhaps this was nothing more than play, no psychological reasons involved at all. Maybe my mind was conjuring something that wasn’t even there.
“Good evening, pet.”
My stomach fluttered at the sound of his voice, at the breeze of his breath after he’d spoken, lightly scented with mint. I turned to my left and looked into blue eyes that seemed to bore into me, to slither
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