A Picture in Black and White

"Of course," I said, wondering whether I really had a choice.

He took Brigitte's hand, as though her opinion didn't matter, and led her out onto the dance floor. I noticed she followed him without hesitation.

The music suddenly slowed, to a romantic '60's tune I knew well. Brigitte's dance partner drew her into him, sliding both arms around her. Charles and I watched closely.

His hands slowly caressed her back, and she nestled her head into his shoulder. Then, he slowly slid his hands down, past her waist, until he was cupping her firm buttocks. He didn't ask for permission, or assume that anyone would say no. He just began, simply, to caress my wife's ass. I notice Brigitte snuggling into him a little more closely.

He wasted no time. He slid his hands down further, to gently grab the hem of her leather skirt. And slowly, in rhythm to the music, he slid it up.

Up past her stocking tops. Up past her garter belt. To her waist. Her tiny panties revealed everything as they danced.

And, just as deftly, her found the clasp on the waistband of her skirt and undid it. It came off in his hands easily, and he tossed it to the side. My wife danced with him clad only in her sheer blouse and sheer panties.

Then he reached up and began unbuttoning her blouse, one button at a time, slowly, to the music. In what seemed like a heartbeat, it was undone, and he slid it, without resistance, from her shoulders. That, too, he tossed aside.

Brigitte now danced with him in her tiny, revealing bra and panties. I could see her dark bush and erect nipples, even from where I sat. Effectively, she was naked.

I saw her snuggle up even closer to him, and, to my chagrin, press her hips firmly against his, sliding them back and forth to the gentle beat of the slow dance tune. He leaned down, and lifted her face to his, and gave her a long kiss. I could see his tongue slide into her mouth. She did not resist. She leaned up eagerly to him, and took it into her mouth hungrily.

And then, finally, after what seemed like minutes, the kiss was over. Brigitte laid her head on his shoulder. Without missing a beat, he slowly reached down and undid his belt and unzipped his pants. Brigitte swayed against him, rocking to the music. His pants slid down, revealing a pair of white, silk bikini briefs. He pressed his hips – his hardening cock – against my wife's soft thighs. She pressed against him.

Then, with one deft move, he pulled the black leather belt from his pants as they slid to the floor. He kicked them away. They danced slowly in circles for several minutes. But then, eventually – finally – he guided her over toward the banquette, his head on her shoulder, one hand around her back.

His other hand grasped the belt.

He whispered in her ear. She looked up at him, momentarily surprised, but nodded. Gently he guided her hands to the seat of the banquette, and had her place them there, side by side. Then she leaned her head down, close to the red leather – so close that she placed her left cheek on it. The movement forced her to arch her back, and to push her bottom up and out, her legs stretched and taut. She looked magnificent in her tiny, revealing panties, lace garter belt and heels.

He leaned down, looked over at us, and grasped the waistband of her black, sheer bikini panties. He pulled them down slowly, almost to her knees. Her firm, white ass was naked and ready.

He whispered in her ear again, and she moved her legs apart as far as she could, exposing herself completely.

With that, he stood up and looked over at us again briefly. The black leather belt dangled in his hand ominously. He turned back to Brigitte and held it up to her bottom, slowly, teasingly, trailing it between the cleft of her cheeks, back and forth.

The contrast between the dark leather and her white skin was startling – both pleasing and terrifying. He looked over at the two of us.

"What shall I do with this lovely white bottom?" he asked, a wicked, bright grin creasing his face.

Chapter XXXV

I swung round in my seat and stood up. This had gone too far, too fast. But before I could step over to intervene, Charles grabbed my arm.

"Wait," he implored, adding in a whisper, "This is just for show. He's not going to do anything; take my word. We talked about this in advance."

I looked hard at him. "You talked about this in advance?" The surprise and annoyance must have shown on my face.

Charles chuckled. "Are you saying you don't find all this, um, somewhat interesting?" he asked with a small smile.

I wasn't sure whether I should dignify his question with an answer. But he knew he had me. I was as aroused as he was about the prospect of my wife's spanking – just a lot more confused and embarrassed about admitting the fact.

Charles continued. "No, this is just to sort of set the mood."

I relaxed a bit, relieved.

"Of course," he continued, "you realize that the operative word of this place is 'discipline'? I mean, you and Brigitte aren't confused about that, are you?" His eyes twinkled, and I tensed once more. He knew he had me again.

"How far is this going to go?" I asked him, sounding naïve even to myself as I said it.

"How far do you want it to go?"

"That's up to Brigitte."

"Is it?" he enquired, arching his eyebrows. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. You know that. Her decisions to make, not mine."

Charles smiled wisely again, but said nothing, as if in acknowledgement of a correct answer.

And then suddenly the scales fell from my eyes.

I understood. At last, I saw what Charles – and no doubt Brigitte – had wanted me to see all along. Everything I had missed. How ultimately self-absorbed I had been.

All the time during these last few weeks that I thought I was in control – the one with the power to give, or to withhold. How foolish and presumptuous, I now knew.

I was in charge of nothing but my own life and my own actions. My wife was free to conduct her life as she saw fit – to make her own decisions, notwithstanding the common courtesies of married life. To exercise free will, to be adventurous... irrespective of my attitude or posturing.

A distant memory came suddenly to mind: Brigitte teasing me about our wedding vows. "I'm supposed to love you; I didn't say anything about having to 'obey' you," she would occasionally tell me.

Besides, it didn't hurt that I had encouraged her in all of this, I reminded myself. I reflected that she wouldn't have gone this far without my approbation.

That realization, too, brought both wisdom and comfort.

Of course, none of this precluded the basic fact that a muscular black man stood poised before my wife's naked and upturned bottom, belt in hand, ready to give her a strapping. I dragged my eyes away from this lewd tableau and turned back to Charles.

"And so, it can go as far as she wants it to. I get that. But who, exactly, is in charge here?"

Damon, our host, suddenly seemed to have appeared at my elbow. Perhaps he'd been sitting there on the next stool all along. Too preoccupied with my wife's display, I wouldn't have noticed. "I'm in charge here." And then, perhaps in reference to my sudden epiphany, added, "After Brigitte, of course."

I looked at him steadily, appraising him. "So, what's next?"

Damon looked at me equally steadily. I think he appreciated the challenge. He looked over to the tall, dark man who was so obviously itching to strap my wife – the man who'd been flicking the tail of the leather belt lightly across her bare skin for the last few minutes, whispering in her ear the whole while.

"Alan, that's enough. You've proved your point. Nous avons d'autres chats à fouetté."

The French idiom and double-entendre nearly made me fall off my chair. We have other cats to whip. I marveled at the irony – and discovered a new-found respect for our host.

Damon continued without pause. "Bring her here."

Our tall, black stud, belt in hand, looked crestfallen. But he gently leant over, pulled up my wife's tiny panties, and then took Brigitte's wrist, leading her over to us. She blushed, looking down, knowing how we were all admiring her near-naked form. But Damon was all business, staring first at me, then at Charles, and finally at Brigitte.

"Brigitte's here for training – let's not forget that. Charles brought her here for discipline, with Bruce's approval." I looked him, and nodded almost imperceptibly. And then I turned back to look at him, waiting.

"Alan, show her the rooms, then take her to the theatre," he ordered. "Have Ellen dress her for her performance."

Chapter XXXVI

Performance? Even Charles looked impressed and intrigued at Damon's order. To judge from the look of anticipation on his face, some of this promised to be new even to him. I could feel my face flush at the prospect of what was to come. Brigitte – well, she merely looked nervous. No, I must be honest. I saw a trace of excited anticipation on her face, as well.

Alan, still crestfallen about his lost opportunity as disciplinarian, wasted no time in assuming as much control as possible – although it was clear that Damon was in charge. Alan was merely a lieutenant. A very powerful-looking lieutenant, it must be added, however.

"This way," he indicated, pointing us around the end of the bar to the right, toward a dim hallway. As he did, I saw him run his big hand over Brigitte's bikini-clad bottom, assessing and caressing it. He whispered something in her ear. She blushed, but made no move to remove his hand.

We followed his directions, proceeding down a plushly carpeted hall, softly illuminated by expensive-looking silver halogen sconces. I ran my finger briefly over the wall again, now unsurprised to discover that the wall covering even here was a dark tan suede.

As we made our way down the hall, which appeared at least several hundred feet in length, and whose walls were interrupted only by the occasional closed door, it appeared as though the lighting was getting dimmer. Alan seemed suddenly to be able to read my thoughts. "Watch your step," he cautioned us. "It's not your eyes. It is getting darker in here. You'll see why in a moment." I saw his grin flash white in the dark as he said it.

Some 20 or 30 steps later he stopped, just before a door on the left-hand side. It was closed tightly, with no indication of what might lay beyond – or even how to open it. He turned to us.

"This is one of the pleasures of our little establishment," he began. "A sort of 'window on the inner soul,'" he added with a chuckle, obviously pleased at his own wit. I looked over at Charles, to see if his face gave away what was to come, but he volunteered nothing more than a small smile. Brigitte looked merely expectant.

With that, he pressed a tiny, discreet button to the left of the doorframe. Suddenly, the very wall before us began to slide quietly to the left. Within just two or three seconds, and marked only by a mere hum and a click, a glass window easily measuring four feet by five had opened right before us.

"Observe Training Room 2," Alan said dryly.

The scene before us took our breath away

Chapter XXXVII

As we stood staring, Alan began to explain. "Interesting little tableau, don't you think?" He grinned broadly, his smile bright in the dim light. "Ah yes, such understatement." He smiled again. "Let me describe what you see before you," he went on. We couldn't decide whether to look at him, or the scene before us. The scene before us won out, but we hung on every word of his explanation.

"Diane got married today – to David, whom you see there as well. And what, pray tell, are they doing here, tonight, you wonder. Well, it's a good question." He chuckled again, knowing we'd wait until the end of time to hear this.

"Well..." he continued, teasing us. "It's like this. Several months ago, David came to us – I can't remember how he heard about the club, though – asking us about our 'services'. Apparently he had friends in the right place, so he knew roughly what kind of establishment we are." He grinned again, pausing for dramatic effect.

"It seems as though his fiancé, the woman you see before you, had been making discreet inquiries about her bridal shower – bachelorette party, whatever. I think she was eager to have a last fling before her wedding day, and was asking her girlfriends about how to organize it. Well... David was fine with that. It's a new century and all that, and old habits just don't have much place in this day and age. David didn't care. In fact," he added, "he made his initial, discreet inquiries here."

We looked at him, curious, growing more fascinated by the second.

"So, we were sort of prepared for her, in a way," he chuckled. Then his tone changed slightly. "But she, um, sort of transgressed, shall we say – at least in David's eyes."

We were all ears.

"Yes. You see, although she had her last little fling – here, in fact, and it was a very pleasurable interlude, I can assure you – it didn't seem to be enough. In fact, David discovered her this afternoon, during the reception, in an upstairs bedroom, making love to two of the wedding party. Both of them good friends of his. You can imagine his chagrin upon discovering her."

I caught my breath.

He looked thoughtful and paused for a moment again, then said, "'Making love' is perhaps painting too fine a picture of it, though. In truth, it was bit more, ah, 'basic'. She was sucking one of the usher's cocks, while the best man was sodomizing her." He paused again. "Then, they would switch places – back and forth. I guess David watched for some time before he interrupted.

"Can you imagine that?" he added, incredulous. "On her wedding day!"

We looked at him, but it seemed that was all he was going to say. We turned back to the scene before us, both renewed and appreciative of the discipline being exacted upon her.

Poor Diane had been positioned on a leather bench, at a 45-degree angle to us, so that we could see all of her. She'd been placed on hands and knees, with both wrists and ankles strapped to the bench by silk-padded metal cuffs. She wore her wedding gown and her veil still – although I am taking liberties by saying she was still 'wearing' it.

In fact, the floor-length skirt had been pulled up around her waist, and the ruched, lace bodice pulled down, effectively revealing all of her. She was – had been? – wearing a white silk basque, but that, too, had been pulled down, such that it exposed her full, pendulous breasts in their entirety. While the basque remained untouched below her waist – still supporting her garter straps and the nude silk stockings she wore, not to mention the white heels, nothing remained sacrosanct, even on this special day of hers. Her tiny, white lace g-string had been pulled down to her knees, revealing the full, dark curls of her generous bush, and even a brief glimpse of the tiny roseate of her puckered anus. She knelt before her masters and her spectators, resplendent in all her womanly glory.

But that was not all. Oh, no. That was just the beginning. Her black masters had determined to teach her a lesson – that much was clear.

Chapter XXXVIII

One of them stood beside her – completely naked, his tall, tightly-muscled body oiled and glistening in the light. His long, thick shaft bobbed in front of him, betraying his enthusiasm for the private discipline he administered.

"Evan is an expert at this, you'll see," Alan said by way of introduction to the stern taskmaster before us.

And discipline indeed it was. To her heavy, hanging breasts he had fastened a pair of silver clamps. Their tiny sharp teeth pinched her tender pink nipples outrageously. The erect flesh stood out swollen and proud, a full ¾ of an inch out beyond where the sharp teeth were fastened.

But that was nothing.

Unlike a conventional set, each clamp was connected to a second pair by a fine silver chain. The chains led down across her belly – down between her spread legs. And as we watched – as though he had been waiting for us to appear – her naked black master gently but firmly took the first of her swollen labia and pinched it between his fingers.

Brigitte gasped as she watched, surely in empathy of the tremors that must be coursing through poor Diane's body. I looked over at her – to see, with no small shock, that the gasps emanated not from empathy, but from Alan's teasing fingers. Standing directly behind her, he had parted her legs, and was at this very moment pinching my wife's own labia between his fingers. He used both hands, pulling the soft pink flesh apart and open, gently tugging and twisting the tender skin. Brigitte moaned in response.

I couldn't decide which sight held more appeal – but I turned back; the lewd scene in the window proved even more irresistible than Alan's ministrations on Brigitte.

The tender folds of Diane's outer pussy lips were ideally suited for holding the clamps' sharp silver teeth. Without any further ado, her black master squeezed the tiny jaws open of the first one, pinched the pink, swollen flesh for her labia between his fingers, and closed the evil-looking clamp onto her most private part. "AAAahhhhhhhhhh!" she groaned. Her master smiled.

Then he took the second clamp and fastened it, likewise, to the other side. "Aaaiiiiieeeeeee!! Diane yelled, this time even more loudly. The tiny teeth pinched the tender folds of her skin unmercifully. Evan smiled even more broadly, his thick, hard shaft standing out proudly in front of him, betraying the pleasure and excitement of his task.

Then he moved aside slightly, to give us a better view of the two pairs of clamps fastened with the fine silver chain. We sucked in our breath once more at the sight: her pink nipples pinched fiercely, her swollen pussy lips standing out proudly – all festooned with the wicked silver clamps. What was even more intriguing, however – if that was indeed possible – was the small spring-loaded lever, maybe three inches long, that I noticed. It was positioned on the chain halfway between both sets of clamps. It had been invisible to us until Evan had moved aside to afford us a better view.

As though on cue, he reached down and took hold of it – looking back over his shoulder at us pointedly as he did so. "Diane, my love, let's show our friends what this does, shall we?" he whispered loudly. The microphones in the room picked up the sound clearly, relaying it through the speakers set into the wall on either side of the viewing window.

"Noooo...." she moaned. "Please, no."

"Ah, but yes," he answered simply, and with that he took the small lever and began to ratchet it back and forth. "Nooo..." whined Diane again, more plaintively. Her disciplinarian ignored her entreaties.

It took no time to see what the ratchet was doing. It was designed to tighten both ends of the fine silver chain simultaneously, winding the tiny links neatly into a central spool with each levering of the small metal handle. It was a wicked and ingenious little instrument, the physical testament of a dark mind. That said, I looked around and noticed we were all staring, fascinated – even my lovely wife – at the evil mechanism and the punishment it was beginning to exact on Diane's body.

With each crank of the lever, a quarter-inch or so of chain was wound in. At first there was little discernible change – merely the slack being taken up. But very quickly, the chain began to tighten at both ends. Very suddenly, all the slack was taken up. And then began Diane's true discipline. The teeth began to tug sharply at both nipples and labia. Slowly, as her master kept moving the lever, Diane's nipples began to be tugged downward. Her swollen cunt lips, pinched bright pink by the tiny jaws, were pulled up, and out. Diane moaned, whispering, 'No,' and closed her eyes, shaking her head back and forth. Evan smiled – and kept working the lever back and forth.