I’ve always loved Indiana Jones. Not Harrison Ford, no, just Indy. Rough, ready, whip cracking and rule breaking, he was one of my earliest crushes. So when I walked into Stripes and saw that fedora hat matched with a battered leather jacket and khaki coloured trousers, I had to look twice.
I’m used to seeing folks in strange outfits, it is a BDSM club after all, but Indiana Jones was stood by Shrek, a leather harnessed donkey and Darth Vader. That was more than a little strange, even for this place.
“Cosplay night,love, where’s your costume?” Frank the club owner asked as I passed him a tenner for entry.
“Cosplay?” I shook my head, “I didn’t realise.” I was wearing my usual low cut, black dress with pretty lingerie beneath. I couldn’t think of anyone famous who wore that.
Frank sucked air through his teeth, loudly and annoyingly. “Well, I don’t think we can let you in then.”
I could never tell when he was joking. His face was like concrete, He never smiled. The twinkle in his eye could have been playfulness or it might have been seething anger. So of course, my first instinct was to panic.
“Oh, well, yes. I didn’t know, I should have –erm,”
“It’s okay, you can be my damsel in distress.” Indiana growled, peering under the brim of his hat.
“Oh, well I am a damsel in dis dress.” I pointed at myself and giggled. When I’m nervous I talk mainly in bad puns. I’m sure it’s endearing.
“Indeed,” Indy smiled. He had that slight 5 o’clock shadow going on, dark, brooding eyes and square cut chin. He was fit and I’m sure I’d never met him before. I’d have noticed. “And I’m Doctor Jones, nice to meet you, Damsel.” He held out his hand for me to shake.
“Oh, the Doctor Jones!” I reached to take his hand in mine. “Your reputation proceeds you, I wonder if I’m jumping from the frying pan into the fire?”
“Depends how hot you like, it doll.”
“Pretty hot.” I squeaked. His grip was firm and confident, I wondered how his hands would feel on other parts of my body and immediately felt heat blossoming in my cheeks. Indy was warming me up already.
“Then you’re in the right place.” That quirky smile spread across his face once more. A little cocky and a whole lot suggestive. I didn’t know where things were going but to be fair, I’d probably eat monkey brain soup to see that smile again.
In my fluster, I looked down to the ground, eyes flicking from side to side in panic. Part of me was looking for the exits, just in case. As my eyes were darting around I noticed the whip hanging from his right hip.
When I’m nervous, I blurt out exactly what I’m thinking. It’s another endearing trait of mine that never, ever gets me into trouble.
“Is that whip for use or just for show?” I asked.
Indy quirked an eyebrow at me
“Yes, please.” I replied with a nervous smile, what was he going to do with it?
I followed him through to the playroom. I honestly tried really hard not to perv on his bottom but failed miserably. His sculptured hips and pert behind seemed perfect for gripping even through the thickness of his casual khakis. I wondered if he took his fedora off when he fucked.
When he reached the area in front of the whipping wall, he stopped and unhooked the whip from his belt. I moved to lean on the wall to the side of him, leaving several feet between myself, the evil weapon and the man wielding it.
He made the brown leather crack on the first flex. He knew how to use it all right. Crack and boom followed one after the other as he swayed silkenly, following through each strike with elegance and poise. I watched him, the movement through his shoulder and arm, the flick of his wrist offset by the gentle step and sway of his hips was mesmerising. I was hypnotized, each zip and boom of the whip filled me with a strange yearning.
“So, do you think it’s just for show?”
“No, Sir,” I replied, the honorific slipping through my lips, a verbal sign of my submissive desire. “I can see you know how to use it.”
“Would you like to feel it?”
He nodded towards the wall.
With a gulp I pulled off my dress and silken chemise below leaving me in just my knickers. The journey to the wooden whipping wall seemed to take forever. The cool air stroked my flesh and I tried hard not to think about being mostly naked in front of my Indiana Jones.
“Need to warm you up first,” His voice echoed, he must have been on the other side of the room, “I can’t go straight in with the whip.”
“Okay,” I squeaked in reply, licking my suddenly intensely dry lips.
His hand on my shoulder, a moment later, made me jump, his touch electric. I hadn’t heard him walk over.
“We’ll use traffic lights, right? If you say amber I’ll stop, talk to you and see where we go from there. Red if you just can’t take any more.”
“Sure, yeah, good.” I nodded jerkily. He squeezed my shoulder.
“Okay, face the wall and stay still. Make yourself comfortable.”
I could hear the smirk in his vice.
Comfortable. Yeah, right. I rested my hands on the wood in front of me. I didn’t need the support at that moment but something told me I soon would. I drew in a deep breath and closed my eyes in an attempt to quieten the blood pounding through my veins.
The first strike was a slapping burn, it was hot and stingy but not too harsh. The next impact spread the burn further, each additional hit with this shorter implement built the pain across the arch of my back. When I thought I’d gotten used to the rhythm and the heft, the next hit shifted and the lower curve of my bottom sparked with intense pain. He continued one butt cheek to the other, keeping to the flesh exposed around my high cut panties. My shoulders ached as my buttocks throbbed and I clenched up, holding on to the delicious tension building within me.
The hits ceased, the silence was deafening. I strained to hear what he was doing, to get a clue, something to carry me forward. All I could hear was the low hum of conversation from the other room. I knew I couldn’t turn, I might end up with a whip to the face. So impatiently I waited, flexing my fingers against the warmed pine beneath them.
The booming crack behind me came out of nowhere and I stiffened up. Nothing hit me at all, he was just flexing the whip. For any other reason than to shit me up, I couldn’t tell you. But that aim was well and truly met. The whip was in hand. I was going to feel it. My mouth once more was stupidly dry, the palms of my hands wet, my inner thighs sticky.
It hurt like nothing Id’ ever felt before. The first swish cut through me like a red hot laser, the next slash followed closely behind and I struggled to process the sting. So focused, the area beneath the whip screamed with pain.
Each successive strike added a new, searing layer of pain to the variant stinging throbs of the impacts that had come before. My back prickled with electric heat and each new hit forced a noise from my lips. Short squeaks, yells, moans and high pitched screams.
It was no easier when he changed the focus to my bottom and thighs. My back still hurt but that became the back drop to the new explosions of pain spattering my buttocks. I tried hard to focus on other things, the realness of the wood beneath my hands, the crack of the whip, the colours dancing behind my closed eyelids. But nothing could distract from the knee shaking pain that made me feel so completely alive.
And then it stopped and I laid my forehead on the cold wood before me, panting like I’d run for the bus, body alive with euphoria.
“You alright?” His voice pulled me out of the fuzz of pain and I slowly turned to face him. He had removed his leather jacket at some point, and rolled up his sleeves. Who knew forearms were so damn suggestive?
“Mmmhmmm,” I groaned, clearly the facility of speech had escaped me.
I leant into his open arms and he hugged me. Not delicately, with no regard for my poor whipped back. I moaned as his grip tightened. Holy fucking grail was I horny.
“Good girl.” He purred into my ear and I swear I melted into a puddle of goo then and there. “Wanna find a private room?”
Which anyone who has ever frequented any kind of sex club knows is an invitation to bone. I couldn’t reply quickly enough (my mind was still a slurry of post-beaten ecstasy and pain) but when I did, I kept in character.
“Oh, by Kali I do.”
Honestly, I don’t remember how I got from the whipping wall to the bed. I can remember how he kissed me with a rough, demanding power that I didn’t want to resist and how he pushed me down on the cold vinyl, unbuttoning shirt and trousers as the cold shock stung my back and butt. I’ll never forget his hands on me, from the gentle testing tug on my nipple to the rough ripping down of my knickers. The eager strokes against my clit that had me screaming between the pain of constant pressure on my bottom and unrelenting bliss from my tingling clit.
The laughter that sprung from our lips as his fedora tumbled to the floor, and the growl from his as I pulled him closer for the promised kiss, running my hands in his short, soft tussled hair. He was on me, he was in me, he was pulling and he was pushing. We flowed together. I danced between agony and ecstasy, squeezing and pawing and gasping for release from the rolling tide of pain fuelled orgasms.
We rolled over, he was on his back, I was riding him, each bump down to drive his cock deeper into me sent shockwaves through my scratches and forming bruises which made me clench all the harder. It was as he raked both hands like claws down my aching back that we came. Pain and pleasure in one all-consuming joy.
I lay beside him, head on his shoulder, his arm around my back, my thigh over his, gasping in breath and watching his chest heave in tandem with my own. I grinned so widely, I finally fucked my Indiana Jones. Sometimes it pays to be a Damsel in distress!
© Victoria Blisse