Lights glittered between tendrils of fog. It was night in the city, and the sound of a heavy bass beat tugged like a siren’s call, insisting that heartbeat shift to match that pulse. The club was packed wall to wall, bodies writhing against one another as they obeyed the savage rhythms. Teeth flashed white in the night as those in the mating dance vied for each other’s attention. The room was hot and thick with the scent of humanity, sickly and sweet, and wearing too much cologne.
At the edge of the floor, the fabric of reality trembled…and then a new dancer emerged, pouring into existence in the span of one of those heartbeats. The dancers parted to accept her like a new child to a crowded womb. Like many of those that shared the floor with her, she was dressed in black…but her attire was more suited to a bedroom than a cutting edge club. The nightgown was fashioned of silk that hissed over her skin with each movement, adding a subtle, sibilant punctuation to the DJ’s carefully planned art. Slits at the sides parted with each gyration of her hips to reveal soft thighs, pale against the black of the nightgown. The garment was short, dusting the midpoint of her thighs and offering tantalizing glimpses of the shadows that lay above, just out of sight, and was held in place by the thinnest span of silk over the white curve of her shoulders. Her hair was as black as the nightgown, long and soft and swinging against her shoulders, a bedroom tumble of dark, fragrant curls. The pale grey of her eyes took in those around her with a half lidded gaze, sultry and dangerous above a smile that promised mischief.

Again, the fabric of reality shivered, this time in a shadowed corner of the club. The nightmare poured into existence, taking its favored form of The Mistress. Raven haired and pale, but for the gleam of crimson lips, she was wrapped in shining black leather fashioned into a pair of opera gloves, a corset and thigh-high boots with heels that gleamed steel and promised a sharp, quick death. A pair of thong panties scarcely covered her sex, and left exposed the firm, round globes of her ass. Her eyes shone like a cat’s, pale grey and narrow in the dark, crowded room as she searched. It took her only seconds to find her quarry, her silk nightgown shimmering oil slick through the gyrating bodies. A cold, cruel smile curved its way onto her sinful mouth, and she pushed her way into the crowd, stalking her prey. Naomi caught sight of her as she began to move, and her own eyes, so similar in hue to those of the Mistress, grew wide with an expression that was equal parts fear and anticipation. She began to push through the crowd too, seeking escape, even though she knew she would never get away in time. The other dancers pushed back against her, but for the Mistress, they parted ranks. They had no choice. She was unnaturally strong, and those that didn’t move quickly enough for her liking were shoved by a leather covered palm, or swatted with the riding crop that she held with such casual ease in her other hand.

Soon there were only a few dancers between them, and then none, as the last of the club’s visitors scurried out of the way. They formed a loose circle around the pair, blocking the dream-girl’s retreat, framing the scene with their bodies and their breathless fascination. The Mistress raked her eyes down over Naomi’s body, and when she raised them again, it was with the arch of a brow and a downward glance that sent the trembling girl to her knees. Naomi crawled to her, belly low to the floor, her eyes lingering with longing on the crop that she held. But it wasn’t the crop that brought the first, sweet burst of pain. It was the harsh curl of the Mistress’ fingers in her hair, pulling hard, forcing her head back and her mouth open into a soft, nearly breathless cry. Her hand rose to curl loosely around the Mistress’ wrist, and her eyes shut tight, but she could still feel the woman’s movement, see the shadow of her lowering, and knew that if she dared to open her eyes she would see that lovely face hovering above her own.

“Tsk, tsk, little one. I told you to stay. Where did you think you were going? Out for a little dance? Hmm?” The Mistress’ eyes lifted, taking in the crowd, most of who were watching with rapt attention, and then returned her full attention to Naomi, who was just beginning to tremble. “You’ve caused quite a scene, pet. But if you really want to dance…perhaps we should show all of these lovely people the moves you know best.” Her hand lifted in the air, and from the ceiling clattered a length of chain, a hook on its end, descending towards her outstretched hand as though the heavens itself had stretched down to provide this tool for her pleasure. Without warning, she then hooked fingers in the back of the dream-girl’s nightgown, and pulled, tearing the silk from her skin with a single downward tug. Naomi squirmed as the crowd gawked at her nakedness, and ducked her head, trying to cover herself. Behind the curls that fell into her face, the shine of her eyes could be seen, as she devoured the reactions from the crowd. Lust, scorn, admiration, jealousy…all these emotions she could see in the faces of those that watched. And while she observed those that observed her, the Mistress tore the silk of her gown into strips, and then reached for her wrist. Naomi jerked out of her reach, a hint of mischief dancing at one corner of her mouth, a subtle communication of her needs. The Mistress obliged, bringing the end of the crop down harshly against her arms, and then her thighs, opening her to the crowd. As the girl cried out and her limbs flailed to escape the sting of the crop, the Mistress caught one wrist, and looped a length of silk around it. The other wrist was soon captured as well, and the length of silk between found a home in the curl of the dangling hook. With a wave of her hand, the Mistress shortened the length of chain by inches at a time, until Naomi was drawn up from her knees to her feet, and from her feet to the very tips of her toes. She twisted a little, struggling to find purchase against the floor, stretching her body long until the pads of her largest toes settled on the floor. While she struggled, the Mistress stalked, circling her, devouring her movements with that cold, grey gaze above a crimson smile that promised agony.

Your turn: What should the Mistress use first on her little trussed up pet (keeping in mind that this is fantasy, not realistic fiction, and health issues are not a concern):
A: A crop. Heck, she's already holding it.
B: A paddle. One with the words "pain slut" carved out of it.
C: A flogger. All that pretty leather kissing skin is fun!
D: A whip. After all, it would go so well with her outfit.
E: A cane. Why sugar coat it?
F: A knife. Sharp edges are pretty!
F: A strap-on dildo. Make her beg for the pain she wants.
G: She should hit her with the nearest person in the crowd. Then they can both feel pain!

Voting for this portion of the story will end on May 2nd. Vote through comments, or in a message to me. As before, write in suggestions are welcome. Enjoy!