The Story of Owen: One Man's Submissive Journey by Claire Thompson Page B

dungeon is different from this public setting. I am proud that you are willing to be a part of this with me. We will do it in a way that feels comfortable and safe for you.”
    “Thank you, Mistress,” Owen replied, the relief evident in his tone.
    Sylvie watched as Owen unbuttoned his shirt and removed it, silently admiring his broad, muscular shoulders and back. She realized she was looking at him with different eyes than when she was in the dungeon. There she kept a stricter control over her emotions, always striving to be professional in what she gave her clients, keeping her own feelings and desires out of the equation.
    But tonight something was different. Tonight their relationship had shifted from strictly business to something more. She had introduced him as her friend, but was it in fact more than that? When she’d crossed the line in accepting his invitation, had the way back to business-as-usual been closed to her?
    Focus, she warned herself. It was important to be on her game tonight. It was her first reentry in the public scene after so long away. She would need to concentrate, and to pay attention not to her own confused emotions, but to the man she would lead in this delicious dance of erotic pleasure and pain.
    “Place your hands flat against the wall,” she repeated. As Owen assumed the position, Sylvie nodded her approval. “Yes, that’s perfect. I will start slowly, and I’ll be talking to the audience, explaining what I’m doing as I go. Your job is to stand still and keep your back straight. What I really want from you is to experience the flogging with your entire being. Don’t pay attention to what I’m saying to the audience. Don’t try to be stoic in front of the crowd. It’s all right if you moan or cry out. Forget that they are there. What I want from you is the total acceptance of what is happening. I want you to embrace the pain, to become one with it, to move into that special place where nothing matters, nothing exists save for you and me and the leather that connects us. Can you do that for me, Owen?”
    Owen turned his head, meeting her eye. She felt something sparking between them. He was worrying his lower lip with his teeth and Sylvie could feel both his apprehension and his desire. She had to squelch the nearly overwhelming desire to kiss him. She found herself taking a step toward him, but stopped, startled by the sudden chiming of bells over the loudspeakers, and then Master H.’s strident voice.
    “Ladies and gentlemen. For those of you interested in a public flogging, please go to the rear stage. Mistress Sylvie will be doing a demonstration in approximately two minutes.”
    Sylvie stroked Owen’s bare back, enjoying the feel of long, lean muscles beneath her fingers. “Relax,” she urged softly. “You were made for this.”
     
    Master H. climbed to the stage and introduced Sylvie to the crowd of about forty people that had gathered to watch. Once he left the stage, Sylvie addressed the audience.
    She started slowly, demonstrating technique to warm the skin, as she talked about how crucial it was to pay attention to the body and the reactions of your subject. Owen stood still, his palms flat, his bearing proud. Some people called out questions, and she answered them, going over technique, wrist position and stance.
    When she began the flogging in earnest, the crowd quieted and stilled. Sylvie felt them dropping away from her consciousness as she focused on the swish of leather moving over Owen’s back and shoulders, the twitch of his muscles, the way he held his body, the gasp of his breath. His skin was reddening nicely, a crosshatch of marks left by the deceptively soft strands of leather.
    A particularly cruel stroke, the tips curling around Owen’s side, pulled a grunt from his lips, and she could see the sheen of sweat starting on his back. “Accept it,” she said softly. “Embrace it.”
    She struck him harder, flicking the leather against the bunched