Betsy Flanagan looked at the image in the mirror. The woman that stared back at her smiled. “Betsy, when you’ve got it, you’ve most definitely got it,” she whispered to herself. Her five foot eight inch form was encased, at least partially, in black leather that hugged her curves like a second skin. The pants were a mesh weave below her crotch, showing plenty of her freshly shaved legs. The leather halter was almost more of a thick bra, coming down to just under the swell of her breasts. Her arms were encased, up to the elbows, in black suede. The ends of the long gloves left her fingers free, much like a driving glove, but oh so much more sensual. Her black hair was tied back in a severe bun.
“You look dangerously sexy, hon,” her husband, Frank, complimented as her came out of the en suite bathroom. “What will you be doing tonight?”
“I’m on floor patrol.”
“Ah, you get to whip the degenerates into line.”
“Yeah, that’s one way of putting it.”
Betsy knew that Frank meant no disrespect for the people that frequented The Mephisto Club. He would never dream of saying such things where someone else could hear. Like many vanillas, he didn’t really understand the attraction of BDSM. Not even a wife who indulged was able to bring understanding to his mind.
Frank and Betsy couldn’t be any more different in personality or appearance. Betsy was a lithe, pretty, black haired daughter of Russian emigrants. She was one of the most outgoing and accepting people in the world. That personality served her well in her interactions with the incredibly diverse customers of the club. Frank was a big boned, six foot five inch Irishman (fifth generation). While he was opinionated, he’d learned to keep those opinions to himself and those few close friends who knew him well enough to know he meant no harm. The only reason he didn’t think of Betsy as crazy was that he was deeply and madly in love with her. That love and her ability to accept him for who he was, opinions and all, enabled them to remain together the seven years they had.
“When are you off tonight?” she asked.
“Unless something goes wrong, around three.”
“Then I suspect that you’ll be home by five, right?”
“Probably. It is Friday, after all.”
One would be hard pressed to decide which of the two worked at the crazier job; Betsy with her job at Mephisto’s, the premier bondage and fetish club in the region, or Frank, with his night shift at 7-11. Until Frank started working there, the convenience store suffered a robbery at least once a month. Frank, an ex-marine, had broken the wrist of the first man to pull a gun on him, doing it before the gun had cleared the perp’s coat. The word spread quickly and the lowlifes moved onto safer pastures.
Betsy continued with the conversation. “Pamela called earlier. She wanted to know if I could do her tonight. Will you be okay with that?”
“Sure, I won’t be up for anything until tomorrow. Then I’ll reap the benefits,” he added with a lustful grin.
Frank, while he didn’t understand D/s, knew two things. For Betsy, domination wasn’t about sex; she never had sex with her submissives. The second was that she was always horny after a session and he was the one who she chose to satiate herself with. If whipping other people made his wife horny enough to fuck his brains out for four or more hours, he was all for it! She never brought her kink to their bed, so he had no beef.
Betsy drove her car while Frank took off on his bike. Twenty minutes later, she was in the parking lot of the club. By the time she’d crossed the lot (employees had to park in the far reaches of the lot), she was shivering from the cool winter air. Several regulars complimented her on her outfit. Most of the people in line waiting to enter were dressed in heavy winter coats, though a few slaves were only wearing their fetish clothes, submitting to the cold at the command of their dominants. Betsy shook her head at what some people thought was appropriate.
“Afternoon, Malcolm. Anything special I should know?”
“Hi Betsy. Andrew wants you to help with the door first. Some of the subs will be needing into the warmth as fast as possible.”
“I saw that. What are they thinking? I wasn’t aware that hypothermia was a fetish.”
“Now Betsy, the subs are consenting.”
“I know, but still, standing in 35 degree weather in micros and short halters? Come on!”
Malcolm didn’t say anything else. He knew that this was just Betsy being Betsy. Betsy believed that there were some things one just didn’t do with a submissive, no matter how much consent you had. She didn’t let it spill over to her job, so no one complained much.
“They have safe words, Betsy. Haven’t you heard of ice play? I have to check on the specialty rooms upstairs. Start filing them in in 5 minutes.”
“I will.” Betsy turned to the lady beside her. “Mary, do you want the till or ID?”
“I’ll take the till. I don’t have your sixth sense on fake IDs.”
“Right. I noticed a couple of new people in the line, one of whom looks very young. Could be age play, but you can’t be too careful.”
Three minutes later, Betsy took the keys and unlocked the front doors after lifting the arms of the turnstile. With practiced ease, Betsy and Mary fed the crowd into the building. Betsy’s experienced eye scanned IDs, verifying the adult status of the players seeking entrance. The girl she had noted earlier had been 19, dressed to appear much younger, a classic age play couple. Several of the subs were shivering from the cold as they entered.
It took 15 minutes to feed the initial line into the club. Once that was done, Betsy left Mary, the regular doorman, behind and started her usual job, wandering the floor, making sure that no one was violating any of the club’s rules. Those rules weren’t many in number, allowing for the incredible variety of activity that made up the BDSM scene. Most of the rules were designed to make sure the club didn’t violate the local and state laws governing clubs that allowed sexual activity; no alcohol, no drugs, no blood play, no water sports, no scat. The club did allow enema play, just so long as things were kept hygienic.
Play was light so far. A few subs were being bound at play stations around the perimeter of the main floor, but the center stage had yet to be taken by anyone. Betsy spotted a couple she knew and wandered over.
“Hi, Andrew. What’s Chuck in for tonight?”
The blond man, arms already bound behind his back, smiled ruefully as the hood slipped over his head. Andrew finished zipping the back of the hood, rendering Chuck blind and speechless.
“Evening, Betsy. Chuck is in for some harsh bondage and a little stranger play. Of course, he’s not allowed an orgasm tonight.”
“So who can play with him?”
“Anyone. He won’t know if it’s a man or a woman.”
“Oh, that’ll drive him crazy.”
“That’s the plan. I love watching him flinch every time someone touches him.”
Chuck was solidly gay, having no attraction for women what so ever. Knowing that women would be touching him in any number of ways would have him on a roller coaster of arousal and anxiety. Add that to his strong submissive tendencies and the bound man would be lucky if he could obey his orders to not cum. Andrew was particularly harsh about his no orgasm orders.
Betsy continued to wander the floor, her eyes taking in the various scenes developing as people continued to show up. Except for the monthly Saturday charity auction, Friday nights were the busiest nights for the club. Betsy estimated that just over half the people who paid the $25 cover charge wouldn’t participate in any activities at all. She could certainly understand the draw of being able to watch a wide variety of, essentially, sex shows for that one low price.
So far the play was light. Most of the more intense players wouldn’t be in until later. Some of the costumes people wore to Mephisto’s were quite elaborate and needed time to prepare. Seeing two, well one and a half, familiar faces, Betsy wandered over towards a couple of women. The larger one, heavy set with a blindfold, earplugs and gag (but nothing else), was being led on a leash attached to her gag by a much more petite lady dressed in harsh leather.
“Rachael, it’s good to see you again. What are you doing to poor Giggy tonight?”
“Not much tonight. I’m just putting her on display.”
Betsy looked the submissive over and noticed a slight trembling and quite a bit of arousal. “And what did you tell her was going to happen?”
“Am I that obvious? She thinks we’re going to do a safe word whipping scene on stage tonight. I’ll spend a few hours disorientating her then take her to a private room and whip her up a bit there. I want to take her to subspace for a while.”
“Nice. I wish I could see it. I’ll be seeing Pam tonight after we close. She’s had a stressful week and needs some winding down.”
“Funny, I thought that kind of thing was winding up,” Rachael replied with a smile.
“Well, she’ll wind down eventually.” Betsy noticed something out of the corner of her eye and added, “Oops, got to work. Give my regards to Giggy.”
“I will. Call me, we have to get a play date together sometime.”
Betsy moved with subdued haste towards her first problem of the night. She wondered how he got past Mary. She keyed the throat mike on her headset. “Malcolm, Duke’s on site again. He’s at station 7 with what looks like a newbie.”
“Understood. George and Mack are on their way.”
Betsy hoped the bouncers wouldn’t have to do their stuff, but Duke had been a thorn in the side of the club for years. More than once he’d ignored a safe word and injured someone on site. Charges were never pressed because the subs always claimed it was consensual. He’d been banned from the club for over two years. She couldn’t believe that he’d had the nerve to return.
“Evening Duke. Just what do you think you’re up to.” Betsy noticed he didn’t have the club’s stamp on his hand; meaning he’d crashed the door.
Duke had just finished securing the blond to the wall with handcuffs. “Betsy, I didn’t know you worked tonight?”
“Of course not. You wouldn’t have crashed the door if you’d known. Who’s the sub?”
“None of your business. I guess we’ll just have to take our play elsewhere.”
Duke had seen the bouncers approaching and decided on the better part of valor. He started to unlock the cuffs again. Betsy noticed a tinge of worry in the girl’s eyes; and it was directed at her, not at Duke. Betsy’s sixth sense rang alarm bells.
“Miss, can I see some ID?”
“I ... I don’t have any.”
“Then how did you get in, dear.”
“I vouched for her,” Duke added.
“Duke, you’re such an idiot. If she’s underage, you’ll do hard time.”
“Betsy, I swear, she’s an adult.”
“If that’s so, young lady, then why are you so frightened of me?”
“You’re going to kick us out,” the girl replied unconvincingly.
“I don’t think so. Duke, get out. If you’re still on site in 5 minutes, I’ll have you arrested. George, take this lady to security and have Stan run a check on her. She’s trouble and I want to know what kind.”
“Sure thing Betsy.”
George led the lace attired girl to Stan’s office. Stan was a retired police officer who headed security for the club. His contacts on the force allowed him to run more thorough checks on potential employees and problem customers. While Mephisto’s saw no more trouble than any other night club, the types of trouble that could happen here were much more high profile in nature. With the constant threat of being closed down by those who viewed themselves as morals police, such trouble was best avoided.
Stan was the only employee of the club who didn’t dress in fetish wear. While the floor and door people had an image to uphold, even those in the BDSM lifestyle expected security to look like security. High end jeans and a western style shirt made him look like just that; security without being cop. George dragged the girl into the office.
“Stan, Betsy’s got a feeling about this one. She was in with Duke.”
“Girl, what are you doing with that low life? Don’t you know he’s nothing but trouble?” Stan’s casual, “I’m worried about you,” style was designed to lull people into a sense of security where they’d talk easier. He could see right away that he wasn’t putting her at ease. “Well, what makes Betsy so anxious about you, I wonder?”
“I’m sure I don’t know.”
“I have my doubts. Hand on the scanner, doll.”
“No. You can’t do this.”
“Oh yes I can. Didn’t you read the sign out front when you came in. By entering, you agreed to submit to any security procedures we care to employ, including body cavity searches. Now, place your hand on the scanner, or perhaps you’d prefer to do it at the police station?”
The girl looked dejectedly at the scanner and placed her hand on it. The device scanned her hand and finger prints into the computer while Stan made a call.
“Hello, Sheila, this is Stan ... Yes, I’m fine. Could you run some prints for me? ... Great, I’ll send them by computer fax ... Got them? ... Good...” There was a longer pause as the prints at the other end were being scanned. “You don’t say? ... I’ll keep her here ... Thanks Sheila, I owe you.”
“Well, well, well, miss Jessica Arnolt. It seems you have quite a fan club at the department.” George had restrained her again when Stan had promised to hold her. “I’m almost sorry we stopped Duke when we did. Tell me, did he know that you had a history of fixing men? I didn’t think so.”
The police showed up at the security room’s back door and took a very angry looking Jessica away. Once she was gone, George went back onto the floor to wander a bit. George’s job was subtly different from Betsy’s. While Betsy made sure the rules of play were held to by the various people involved in scenes, George and Mack were there to keep people from making the wrong kind of scene. Occasionally, husbands or boyfriends would track their lovers down and try to rescue them, or simply make them sorry they decided to be here. Essentially, George made sure that only the desired levels of ... violence ... happened on the premises. It took experience to separate the cries of pain that were wanted from the cries of true distress.
Most of the time, it seemed to George that he was being paid to watch people engaging in sex. He was smart enough to not let himself become distracted from what he was supposed to be doing, but he did enjoy his job very much. He knew many of the regulars and knew he could ignore them, either because the boyfriend/husband was already present, or because he knew there was no such threat. His focus was on the newcomers and the infrequent dabblers.
One couple was setting up at another of the wall stations. A tall, heavyset man was binding an equally heavyset, though shorter, woman’s hands above her head. The woman was dressed in an open mesh, white corset that forced her not so slim body to what must have been painful dimensions. A matching skirt covered her ass and not much more. Her legs were then locked into a spreader bar that forced her feet four feet apart. That forced her on her toes if she wanted to take the weight off her arms. The stretching pulled the short skirt up enough that only her ass cheeks were still covered; her cunt was visible between her spread legs. The engorged lips were glistening and drops of sweat were running down her legs, arms and back.
The man pulled her head back by the hair and asked, in a surprisingly polite voice, “Are you ready?”
“Yes,” came the harsh response, “whip me, make me scream, slave! Hurt me.”
George raised his eyebrows at the exchange. He’d heard that one could be a dominant and a masochist, but this was the first he’d seen. The man, slave, picked a whip up out of a bag nearby and started to use it on his Mistress. The single tail (so called because it was a single lash as opposed to the multiple lashes of a cat) struck her on the lower legs. The first blows were fairly mild and left red marks that started to fade right away.
He worked the whip slowly up her body, turning the exposed flesh a nice deep red without leaving any actual welts. Through it all, the woman didn’t do much more than grunt. Several people had come to watch the scene play out, and George kept his eye on them, looking for anyone who looked upset about it but still stayed. While his back was to the scene, the man changed implements to a multi-strand cat. This one had thick, stiff lashes, clearly designed to be very painful and to leave lasting marks. The first lashes from the cat were met with low cries from the woman as white stripes that turned a darker red were left behind. The woman was struggling to take deep breaths; the corset tight enough to make filling her lungs a painful, and fruitless prospect.
A casual observer wouldn’t have been able to see the attention the man was paying to the woman’s condition, but Betsy, who had wandered over to monitor a scene involving breath play, could see the attention to detail he had. Betsy knew that the mild oxygen deprivation could enhance the euphoria caused by the endorphins of a whipping. She also had to admire the beauty of the markings. While the blows seemed haphazard, they were laying down stripes in a lovely lattice pattern. Once the corset was off, the mixture of lattice stripes and the bare areas protected by the corset would be awe inspiring.
When he’d finished with the cat, the man pulled out a tawse of heavy leather. The blows from the twin straps of the wide leather paddle-like device were slower than the previous instruments’ lashes, but were far harder. Each blow left a wide mark that turned to purple quite quickly. The woman was now crying out loudly in pain while gasping for breath with increasingly fast pants. Her legs trembled and Betsy could see her pussy quivering. She was on the verge of a climax in the midst of what most people would assume must be excruciating pain. While they’d be correct, the woman wasn’t feeling it the same way a vanilla person would. The woman was riding high and in that floating place many masochists loved. Betsy gave a smiling wince when her orgasm hit, causing her to scream at the top of her lungs. He kept the blows up for another minute, easing the intensity as he did; prolonging her climax somewhat.
The laces on the corset were the first thing he released, once he’d stopped. The woman drew in great gulps of air as he released her legs from the spreader and her arms from their suspension. Once the release was completed, he knelt at her feet, waiting for her response. She brushed her hand through his hair, whispering how pleased she was. Betsy smiled as she moved away, towards the main stage, where the first scene was being set up.
Stage scenes always attracted large crowds, given the promise of intense play. Some of the onlookers were simply voyeurs, attracted by the possibility of seeing real sex performed in public. Most fetish clubs in the state couldn’t allow actual sex on their premises because they were unwilling to give up the lucrative income from serving alcohol. The laws prohibited sexual activity in any public establishment where booze as available. The prohibition didn’t apply to activities in private rooms, so other places could still provide sites for play; a useful thing for those in the lifestyle who didn’t have the resources or space for elaborate setups in their homes.
The crew, as the club’s gophers were called, had just finished setting up a St. Andrew’s Cross. A large Nordic woman was leading a blindfolded slave up onto the stage where she strapped him to the cross with obvious skill. The slave’s cock and balls were locked in a cage that had small, dull spikes pointed inwards. Any erection he had would be very painful. Betsy nodded at the arrangement. The slaves genitals were below the intersection of the cross, allowing the Mistress access from the backside of the cross if she wished. The Mistress opened her ubiquitous, yet distinctive gym bag (most players at the club used the handy totes for carrying toys) and extracted a rather wicked looking bull whip.