Chapter 7: Propositions

Helen did not dispense any praise or disapproval of our behavior the previous night when she served our breakfast the next morning. I was sure that she knew exactly what had happened. I had sensed her presence as I cleaned Cathy's face, and later Cathy's moans and screams had reverberated through the entire house for everyone to hear.

But for Helen, today was business as usual, in other words, our daily visit to the gym of horrors. It did not make any difference to Helen that I told her I was now able to hold back my eruption until Cathy was completely satisfied, and it was no use to get Cathy to confirm my assessment. Soon after breakfast I found myself back in my customary position, chained to the wall, my balls trapped in a harness and Cathy kneeling in front of me, licking and sucking my cock for all she was worth.

There were some changes in Helen's torture routine, however. She started to conduct individual sessions, concentrating on one of us in privacy while the other one was confined to our bedroom.

I don't know what Helen did when she was alone with Cathy. My initial thoughts were that Cathy would have to lick Helen's pussy and that Helen didn't want me to be present when this happened, but Cathy never confirmed my suspicion. At times I could hear Cathy's orgasmic screams coming from the torture chamber and when Cathy returned to tell me that it was my turn she was barely able to walk. I assumed that Helen had used vibrators or other devices to make Cathy come until she was completely exhausted.

During my own individual sessions I became acquainted with clamps. Helen didn't use the nice shiny items which almost looked like jewelry on me. No, I had to make do with old-fashioned clothes-pins, both the wooden and the plastic variety, which Helen attached to my nipples, my scrotum and just about any other place where she could squeeze together enough skin to slip into a clamp.

While I was strapped to the table, looking like some strangely decorated ritual offering to an unknown god, Helen made me also feel the sting of hot wax on my skin. She was an expert at tilting the candelabrum just enough so that the hot wax would spill over and hit me in three different places at the same time. My cock, always sticking up like a flagpole, was an obvious target. But Helen wasn't too particular about which part of my body she would attack.

Helen still continued to conduct sessions with both of us, when she let Cathy stimulate me while I was chained to the wall, and then let me watch as she inflicted her special brand of pain and pleasure on Cathy. Sometimes she would suspend me from the ceiling with Cathy being strapped to the table beneath me. On these occasions she would often disappear for a considerable length of time, leaving us on our own, contemplating each other but unable to make contact.

One day, after Helen had tied Cathy and me up and had gone to the room next door, the phone rang and I could hear Helen speak to someone in a language I didn't understand - Mandarin I assumed. Her voice seemed louder than usual and I thought I detected a certain agitation. My impression was reinforced when Helen came into the torture chamber. There was something about that phone call which had upset her.

"I've got to meet someone and I don't know how long it will take," she explained. "So I thought I'd better untie you for the time being. Enjoy your freedom while it lasts." And she was off.

As I walked past the office, I noticed to my great surprise that the computer was switched on. Helen had started it up and had forgotten to log off. There was a document on display on the monitor, but I couldn't make head or tail of the Chinese characters.

I'm naturally curious. Sometimes I snoop on other people behind their backs. It's not a very nice character trait, I know. But that's the way I am. I have occasionally read personal e-mails which Cathy received or sent, and often this resulted in my ears burning, because I found comments about myself which were not at all complimentary.

The document in front of me didn't mean anything to me. Not only could I not read the text, I had no idea what it was. It might have been a part of Helen's translation or rewrite of a literary work, it might have been an essay in which she outlined her approach to translation, it might have been part of a diary containing comments about Cathy and me. There were probably many other possibilities.

My curiosity got the better of me. I wanted to know what this document was. I thought of sending it to my own mail box, but all the options on the menu bar were in Mandarin, I didn't know which one to click. Then I noticed the small printer icon. That was the same as on the English version of the software. I decided to print the document.

I put the pages quietly into a desk drawer from where I could retrieve them later. I didn't tell Cathy about the breach of confidence I had committed. The fewer people knew, the better. Cathy might even disapprove of my snooping; she might insist that I destroy the pages and apologize to Helen.

The next step would be to find someone who could tell me what was written on those pages I had pulled off the printer. But I couldn't possibly walk around downtown Boston, stop everybody who looked like they might be able to read Mandarin and ask them what was written on those pages. What if they contained a detailed description of what Helen, Cathy and I had been doing? It would have to be someone I could trust or someone who didn't know me - two somewhat contradictory requirements.

Then I thought of Ricky.

Ricky had been a close buddy during my high-school years. We used to hang out a lot together. He had been the wilder one of the pair of us, and I had saved his skin on a number of occasions. At one stage, he got into trouble with the law. I never found out what exactly he was accused of. The stories which went around had him involved in all kinds of serious offenses, but how could the people spreading these rumors know anything, if I, his closest friend, didn't know what kind of trouble he was in? Whatever it was, Ricky found it serious enough to skip state. He now lives in New York City and runs a laundry service for hotels and restaurants.

Ricky's people collect the dirty linen from his customers, wash and iron everything and then return it neatly folded to its owners. He started off with a couple of washing machines in a rented garage. Now his operation covers a large part of southern Manhattan. There are unconfirmed rumors that he launders more than just bed sheets and table cloths, but these rumors are probably just a case of sour grapes.

Ricky had told me once that he was employing a large number of illegal immigrants, because they were much cheaper than union labor. Somehow, I associated illegal laundry workers with Chinese. Ricky should be able to ask one of them to translate the document for him. Of course, I couldn't do this over the phone. I would have to send him the pages by mail.

I decided to call in a favor and ask Ricky for help. I wrote him a letter, telling him a little about the recent developments in my life and enclosed the printed pages. But I also told him it was merely to satisfy my curiosity, nothing really important.

When I returned from the post office, Helen was waiting for me, dressed in her usual black body stocking.

Did she know where I had been and what I had been doing there? I sure didn't want to think about it now, so she could pick up what was on my mind. I made a conscious effort to think of something else. I tried to remember the names of my girlfriends before I met Cathy. That didn't take very long. Then I tried to remember the names - and the nicknames - of my teachers at high school.

Helen wasn't into mind-reading at that moment - or maybe the stuff which passed through my mind didn't interest her. "Cathy's waiting for you," she announced.

I realized that I hadn't seen any trace of Cathy since I returned. "Waiting for me? Where?" I wanted to know.

"In the pleasure palace."

I should have thought that much.

"You'd better take off your clothes before you go in," Helen suggested.

Helen handed me a miniature whip - the one she had been carrying on the evening of her arrival.

"I know that you've been waiting for this for a long time - both of you," she said. Then she closed the door behind me.

It took my eyes a while to adjust to the darkness. Helen had gradually reduced the electric lighting in the former storage room. At this stage there was just one 25-Watt light bulb left - and that had been covered with a black hood. Two candelabra were standing on the floor in diagonally opposite corners of the room. In between those candelabra I saw Cathy, naked, her arms raised above her head and tied to ropes which were hanging from the ceiling. Her legs were spread and equally immobilized.

Cathy's body and limbs formed the letter X. She seemed to be more hanging, held up by the ropes, than standing by her own force. In the flickering light of the candles, I could see traces of wax on Cathy's breasts and abdomen - a sign that she, too, had been given a taste of Helen's imaginative use of the candelabra. Cathy's inner thighs were glistening with moisture. She probably had experienced several orgasms at Helen's capable hands.

Cathy was blindfolded. She had heard the door open and close but didn't know who had entered the room, or whether there was, in fact, someone in the room with her.

"Helen?" she asked tentatively.

I remained quiet while I contemplated the sight in front of me. This must have been one of the most exciting images I ever set eyes on. This beautiful helpless woman, who had already suffered some abuse by Helen, was completely in my hands. I could do with her whatever pleased me. And there was the added thrill that she was unable to see me. Did this make me a coward?

Helen had said that to be a good torture-master you have to love your victim. I loved Cathy. Standing there and looking at her, I loved her more than ever before. I loved her so much that I wanted to hear her scream - in pain and in joy. I stepped closer to her and hit her left breast with the whip.

The unexpected attack made her gasp, but only briefly. She soon recovered her composure.

"Oh, it's you, Stan. Don't be such a wimp. Whip me harder. Make me scream."

It is hard to hurt someone you love. It is painful to see them suffer. One part of me wanted to swap places with Cathy, found it easier to be punished than to punish. But another, stronger part told me, 'You want this. She wants it. Do it!'

I let the whip slash across Cathy's right breast, struggling to overcome my reluctance to hurt her.

Cathy's gasp was a little louder this time. But she wanted more. "Harder," she said. "Show me how much you love me."

I brought the whip down between Cathy's legs. This time there was no doubt that I had caused her pain. Cathy lost her foothold. Her body was dangling from the ceiling, only held up by the ropes around her wrists. I waited for Cathy's feet to find a firm hold again, while I planned my next attack.

I realized that this wasn't just about inflicting physical pain. This was also about letting Cathy know how powerless she was; that she was completely at my mercy. It was about making it clear to Cathy that I could hit her where I wanted, when I wanted, and as hard as I wanted. I noticed that Cathy was holding her breath. Every fiber of her strained to sense my next move, to brace herself for the next assault.

I walked around Cathy, trying not to let her hear where I was. Then, in a rapid succession of movements I swung the whip across her buttocks and the front of her thighs.

"You're getting better. More, please," Cathy requested.

She still hadn't fully understood that I was in control of the situation. That I was going to do what I wanted, when I wanted it.

I continued my cat-and-mouse play, alternating short sharp attacks with periods of silence. I whipped her breasts, much harder this time, her back, her flank, her buttocks and the back of her thighs. Whenever I hit the center of her inner thighs, Cathy's screams of pain and approval grew louder. She urged me on to hit her faster, harder.

Standing next to Cathy, I put my free hand between her legs. I let my fingers slide up and down her slit, pry it open, enter her. When I squeezed her clit between two fingers Cathy moaned with desire. I withdrew my hand and, at the same instant brought down the whip where my hand had been. Cathy's scream confirmed that I had hit my target as planned, and that my attack had surprised her, as intended.

The whip also visited the less obvious parts of her body. Her feet, her legs, her outstretched arms, including the armpits, her sides, were all legitimate targets for castigation.

Eventually, I succumbed to Cathy's demands. I let the whip rain down on Cathy's front without paying much attention to where I hit her. I worked myself into a frenzy. I aimed for her pussy and her screams confirmed every time I hit my target. Her screams also told me that she had achieved what she had longed for: she reached her climax under the impact of my whip!

I removed the blindfold and kissed the tears off Cathy's face. I assured her of my everlasting love. Cathy thanked me for being such a severe master.

But I wasn't finished yet. I knelt down in front of Cathy and licked her pussy lips. Cathy moaned in response to the gentle touch of my tongue on her punished sex. She opened her legs as much as her position allowed to give my mouth easy access to her pussy. By doing so, she also opened herself for my attack at the back door. I thrust the whip-handle into Cathy's ass as I held on to her clit with my lips. I pushed the hard stick in and out of her rear, while my tongue brought her to another climax.

Only then did I free Cathy from the ropes. I bent her over the table and entered her pussy from behind. I fucked her whipped cunt until the last candle of the two candelabra had burned itself out and left us in near-complete darkness.

"Congratulations! You two are starting to tick really well together."

Helen's compliment as she brought us our breakfast the next morning made me feel extremely proud of myself, although 'tick' wasn't the verb I would have used.

"Have you ever thought of bringing other people into your love games?"

I was sure this question was leading somewhere, I just didn't know where. I decided to remain quiet until I knew what Helen was driving at.

Cathy did not exercise the same restraint.

"What other people did you have in mind?"

"No one in particular. But before you try out perfect strangers you might experiment with people you know. Friends, for example."

Cathy went into thinking mode. "I left all my friends behind when I moved to Boston and didn't stay in touch with any of them. And here I've only made a few casual acquaintances - apart from Stan, of course. I don't think I know anybody I want to have wild sex with."

"How about you Stan? Do you know anybody you want to share Cathy with - or who you might want to share with Cathy?"

I felt like saying, "What's wrong with just the three of us?" but thought that Helen might take that as a non-constructive, non-cooperative comment. I went through my list of friends and acquaintances, both male and female. Julie seemed an obvious contender, but Cathy had rejected her once before. Besides, Julie's domestic situation didn't make her a serious candidate. Other than that, my situation was similar to Cathy's. I, too, had lost contact with most of my high-school friends.

"Nobody except those Cathy already knows," I said with a smirk.

I confess that I wasn't unhappy about this outcome. Sex with Cathy had taken on a completely new quality; it was more intense and much more satisfying than it had ever been. I didn't feel any need to rush out and invite other people to join us. Now, if Helen would be willing to participate in our lovemaking, that would have been a completely different matter!