|Because I Want To Be|
|by The Technician|
|Technician666@Gmail.Com | Forum Feedback | Published eBooks by Wayne Mitchell (aka The Technician)|
|© Copyright 2009/2016 - The Technician - Used by permission|
|Storycodes: Solo-M; FM/m; club; bond; cuffs; chain; hood; thong; stage; display; bdsm; spank; crop; torment; public; cons; X||
WARNING! All of my writing is intended for adults over the age of 18 ONLY. Stories may contain strong or even extreme sexual content. All people and events depicted are fictional and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Actions, situations, and responses are fictional ONLY and should not be attempted in real life. If you are under the age or 18 or do not understand the difference between fantasy and reality or if you reside in any state, province, nation, or tribal territory that prohibits the reading of acts depicted in these stories, please stop reading immediately and move to somewhere that exists in the twenty-first century. Archiving and reposting of this story is permitted, but only if acknowledgment of copyright and statement of limitation of use is included with the article. This story is copyright (c) 2009 by The Technician (Technician666@Gmail.Com)
|Because I Want To Be The Technician Solo-M; FM/m; club; bond; cuffs; chain; hood; thong; stage; display; bdsm; spank; crop; torment; public; cons; X|
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I wrote this story almost ten years ago, but posted it on only one site. I found it as I was cleaning up my files and deleting duplicates, etc.
This is a spanking / pain story. There is no “sex” as such in this story. If you understand– and enjoy– spanking games, you will enjoy the story. If you don’t... well, I have a lot of other stories that you might like.
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I am here because I want to be.
It is Friday night. The marquee above the entrance to the club says “Amateur Night.” Some tourists walking by might think that means karaoke singing, but this is a leather club specializing in public BDSM. Much of what goes on here is technically against the law, but discretion and cash make quite a difference, especially in this city.
In return, there are some rules which have to be obeyed. No nudity before 1:00 am. Nothing that causes permanent damage on stage. All ID’s must be double checked. It has to look right to the bouncer, and if your drivers license doesn’t scan through the police computers, you don’t get in – period! How the club gets access to the confidential data bases for drivers licenses is another issue of discretion and cash.
It is almost midnight and I am standing against the long wall to one side of the stage. All I am wearing are leather cuffs on my wrists and ankles, a very small leather string thong, and a leather hood. My cuffs are attached to short lengths of chain which are bolted to the wall so that my hands and feet are slightly spread. It is not an uncomfortable position, but it looks very restrained. I have been standing here since about nine.
People walking by often think that the hood which covers my head is for punishment. It could be used for that if the eye holes were sealed and I had earplugs in my ears. But my ears are clear and the eye slits are open. I can’t see much through them, but they are open. The hood is not to punish me. It is to protect my identity.
I don’t think any of the people who work with me would be here in the club, but it would destroy my career if they knew I was here, especially if they knew I was on stage. And although there is a strict, no cameras rule, cameras -- even video cameras -- can be concealed within almost anything. I don’t want my face to be on the internet for everyone to see. The rest of me? Well, if they can recognize my ass, then they already know me far too well for it to matter.
I hear one couple talk about me as they go past. The woman in the couple reaches out and strokes my chest. “Smooth,” she says. “I can’t feel any stubble.” She giggles and says, “He doesn’t have any body hair. I wonder how often he has to shave himself? Or does he use Nair once a week?”
If they only knew. I only have to touch things up to stay this way. I naturally have almost no body hair except a small patch above my penis and on the front of my scrotum. Maybe that is an indication of low testosterone levels. Maybe that is why I want to be here tonight. In any case it is relatively easy for me to have a smooth, hairless body.
It is almost 2:00 am when the announcer finally calls our “act.” Two men in tight, black jeans come to get me. A spotlight follows them. Mistress K is already seated on stage. She is wearing a black leather outfit that is somewhere between a swimsuit and lingerie. It is cut very low between her breasts and very high on the thighs. She is also wearing a mask. Her mask has cat ears. I think it is modeled after Catwoman from the Batman movies, but I have never asked her.
I don’t know Mistress K’s name. Actually, I know nothing about her, and she knows almost nothing about me. We met in an internet spanking chat room. After a long time of careful testing, we determined that each of us were who we said we were and found that we had a perfect match. She wanted to spank men in public, and I wanted to be spanked in public. We both wanted to totally protect our identities, so Amateur Night at the club was the perfect opportunity.
The bare chested men in the tight jeans remove my thong and drape me across Mistress K’s lap. They click my ankle and wrist cuffs to eyebolts properly located on the stage floor. I cannot move from Mistress K’s lap until I am released.
She begins with her hand. Loud clear smacks reverberate through the club. Each smack is followed by a grunt from me. She once asked if I wanted to be gagged for our performance, but I said that there were probably some who would like to hear me scream. Her reply was, “Then I will be sure to make you scream a lot.”
Mistress K now switches to a leather hairbrush. I don’t know if it could actually be used to brush your hair, but it makes a wonderful paddle. It is flexible and hits with a snap that moves across my ass cheeks. This time I yelp rather than grunt. “Count them!” she commands, and I obey.
I don’t know how many swats she intends, but when I cry out, “Forty-four,” she stops. I can hear her laughing softly. It is her inside joke. She knows that I am forty-four years old. I don’t know her age, but she is at least ten years younger than me.
A tawse comes next. Mistress K doesn’t ask me to count, which is good because I don’t know if I could as she rapidly beats one cheek and then the other. The tawse moves down onto my thighs and my yelps become more shrill as the pain increases.
She stops. I know what is coming next and I dread it, but at the same time I think to myself, “I want to be here, and this is what I am here for.”
The riding crop strikes. Mistress K has a wonderful technique with the riding crop. She alternates between striking with the stiff rod of the crop hard across my cheeks and thigh and then hitting with just the leather tip somewhere on my backside. You would think that the small leather flap would not hurt as much as the hard rod, but the tip of the rod also strikes, and the flap snaps like the tip of a whip creating an intense pain in a very small area.
As she strikes her breathing becomes deeper and faster. She is approaching orgasm, and so am I. After the many time we have done this, she knows her pace... and mine. We climax together. I do not ejaculate, but I climax. I know that is hard to explain, but it is possible for a man to orgasm without ejaculation. I am not even particularly stiff. This is a mental thing. This is a pain thing. This is not a sex thing. To those who understand, no explanation is necessary. To those who do not, no explanation is ever sufficient.
She returns to spanking with her hand, but it is obvious to everyone that we are finished. After a few moments during which I can hear loud applause from the audience, Mistress K slides her chair out from under me. I collapse to the stage floor. She walks into the darkness toward the dressing rooms. The men in tight, black jeans take me back to the wall.
Now I am tethered facing the wall. I am naked, but it makes little difference since the thong would not have covered anything from the back anyway. I can feel hands inspecting the welts on my ass cheeks and thighs. I hear a man’s voice. I don’t know who he is speaking to. “I’ve seen him here a dozen times. I wonder why he keeps coming back?”
I don’t answer out loud, but the answer forms in my mind. “I want to be here.” Then a different, louder answer overwhelms the first, “No, you don’t WANT to be here. You NEED to be here!”
I press my naked body against the coolness of the wall. The club doesn’t close until 5:00 am so I will be here for a couple more hours.
I am here because I need to be.
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Published eBooks by Wayne Mitchell (The Technician)
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