A/N: So many, many months ago, a certain cougar (SwingingCloud) and I thought to ourselves "hey, there aren't that many good BDSM fics out there". Naturally, being the lazy shits we are, we did nothing about it for a few months later until we started to throw ideas around. Eventually, after much sniping at each other and delays and generally being slow, this is the result. For a time frame, I think we started in like... March.
Because I'm posting it myself, whatever notes she'll have will be added on later, as well as whatever prompt this was from - because it was a prompt - and some Officer Safety thing about safe sex, because this is decidedly not-safe. But that's how we like it, right? Credits go to my grumpy old man, who gave my poor beta a break and edited this for me. Without him, it would be a lot less accurate. Thanks, Daddy.
General disclaimer: DO NOT TRY THIS SHIT YOURSELF. Seriously. I've made it as accurate as I possibly could, having someone in the lifestyle edit it, and because of that, things you will see in here are real. See them? Don't do them. Only do them if you're with somebody who knows what they're doing. I don't have enough money for a lawsuit. This fic contains (here we go): BDSM, toys, spanking, humiliation, dirty talk, exhibitionism, voyeurism(?), facefucking, anal, threesome (kind of), and more I've probably forgotten.
That's all for now, folks. Enjoy!
It was a dark and stormy night...
Hardly. It's one of those picturesque nights where perhaps a small sliver of moon is hidden by its incomplete tilt; a shy maiden hiding her face. It's a night for relaxation, for contemplation, for finally finishing that book to the sound of the gentle waves that lapped at the distant marina's shore - how Quinn ended up at the front door to some seedy fetish club she'll never know as she shields her eyes to the bright fluorescent sign.
Pedestal. How fitting.
Shaking her head, Quinn takes a moment to consider her options. She could leave the sketchy, dark entryway to a club she wasn't even sure was entirely legal - let alone safe - get on the train, and be back in New Haven (and, consequently, her book) in less than three hours, forgetting all about the fact that she lost a bet - after all, her friends didn't really expect her to-
Quinn stumbles as someone jostles her, making her pitch forward slightly, and she turns, ready to give the person a sharp piece of her mind. The individual barks out a meek apology, stilling Quinn's tirade about having some basic manners, and looks at her nervously before disappearing through the heavy door to the club.
Quinn swallows. A large part of her is ready to turn on her heel and head back to her warm bed, her gentle waves lapping at the docks in the distance, and her novel. But another part of her - a more substantial part - has already risen to the challenge. Quinn's never been a coward, never shied away from a dare, and no club, no matter how seamy, is going to crack the cool, composed person she chooses to project. She is going to walk into that club like she owns it and walk out, no big deal.
Right? Right.
(Okay, and maybe a tiny, tiny part of Quinn is a tiny, tiny bit intrigued, but she's not even going to admit that to herself, let alone her peers who got her into this situation to begin with, so that's not even a factor in why she's going through with this. Right? Whatever.)
Carefully, she approaches the door, biting her lip as she stares up at the burly man that has planted himself firmly in front of it. His muscles ripple under his shirt and his various piercings catch the flashing lights that leak through the cracks in the doorway, painting him in hues of blue and red and purple, burning the whites of his eyes in the dark. Quinn smiles slightly and rummages in her pocket for the colourful waivers given to her earlier, pressing them into his hand. Only precautions, her friend had said as she signed her rights away. Getting hurt, keeping her mouth shut and her hands to herself... the usual.
His eyes scan over the papers before he nods, pressing them back into her chest. "No touching the performers or the dungeon masters; no blood play or scat play... if you want to do breathplay, you have to ask one of the DM's first. No cameras or video recorders. Understood?" At her nod, he smiles, his teeth glinting in the lowlight.
"Then enjoy."
Taking a deep breath, Quinn steels herself and reaches for the door.
She's certainly surprised by what she finds (or doesn't find).
Its sleazy exterior that almost turned her away morphs into something that's... not quite classy, no, you couldn't give that title to a fetish club. Respectable, maybe? The whole open room is lit up in a deep purple glare with accents of red and blue peppering the space. Flashes of chain catch her eye, brilliant in the throbbing lights that refract off a million different surfaces; the bartop, the chairs, the poles (and most certainly the angry looking contraptions she doesn't even want to consider). Behind the bar is a man in a towering green mohawk that grins roguishly at passerby, a hint of metal visible from the briefest flick of his tongue, his hands weaving liquid magic as he prepares their drinks. Quinn swallows and heads directly for him - she's gonna need one.
He spots her almost automatically and sidles up with a grin; in this light she can see his hypnotizing tattoos, spiralling back under his sleeve and out of view. "What's it gonna be, darlin'?" he asks, casually mixing another drink without sparing a glance at it.
Well trained. Quinn muses, impressed.
"I'll, uh..." she trails off and squints at the menu, fighting back the blush at some of the more obscene names. The Quinn from a few years ago would've simply shook her head and walked away with a superiour sway of her ponytail, but that Quinn is hidden and long since defeated under torturously earned self-worth. "I'll have a Gimp," she says instead, meeting his amused gaze with a defined challenge. He simply chuckles and slides his earlier drink to the thirsty customer.
"First time here, huh?" She keeps her glare on him for all of a few seconds before it dissolves into a sigh.
"It's that easy to tell?" she asks, glancing around at the crowd too busy crowded around the large stage to pay much attention to the bar. She sees a flash of leather in a gap of the throng but it's swallowed again, quicker than her inhibitions when she tastes her drink. God, that's good.
The bartender grabs a rag and leans back against the glowing rail of the bar, water from the fresh glasses making abstract patterns along the bartop as they absorb the glow from overhead. "You look a little bit lost when you fiddle with your collar."
Quinn pulls her leather jacket tighter around her shoulders and shrugs. At least her roommates had managed to convince her not to wear the sundress she had initially picked out.
Taking a moment to relax, she allows her eyes to roam over the establishment. The people leaning against walls or having drinks or even showcasing various pieces of equipment are all dressed in varying degrees of normalcy; most wear some piece of leather with form fitting jeans and shirts, both neatly kept or deliberately ragged. Some have pins attached to their clothing in colourful arrays that match their wild hair, and a select few (older, she notices) have leather caps perched upon their head. She spies a few wearing what she would assume to be plentiful in a fetish club - latex here, corset there - but it doesn't seem to be plentiful. Interspersed between are watchful eyes of the Dungeon Masters, peering through the crowd to spot potential trouble.
Away from the main stage are several other platforms where some of the crowd has gathered. Quinn can see glimpses of performances and demonstrations, the closest a man sat in a chair while another presses what looks like a wand into him - he jolts at the contact, giggling uncontrollably, and those gathered laugh with him. The others are further away, out of her sight.
Murmurings of approval rise from the thicker crowd at the front and she tilts her head to the noise, straining subtly to see over their weaving heads. There's another glimpse of tight leather followed by something arcing through the air - a moment later there's a sharp crack and somebody cries out, high and desperate. Quinn turns to him in alarm, but he simply waves her off with a grin.
"There's a whipping scene going on," he elaborates at her raised eyebrow. "Two of our favourite performers are on tonight, a Dominant and her sub."
Quinn takes a slow, contemplative sip of her drink, processing the new information as she savours the sour sting. She's not exactly what one would call fluent in the lingo, but she's not completely clueless, either. Even though the bartender has already pegged her as an outsider to the scene, she doesn't want to come off as the obnoxious, ignorant type.
She finally decides on a careful nod of acknowledgement and offers the bartender her trademark smile. "Seems I've picked the perfect night to come, then."
The bartender doesn't bother to hide his wicked smirk, and Quinn backtracks over her words quickly before realizing her slip. Trying not to appear flustered, she chances a glance towards the stage to determine if she can spot anything. She didn't come here just to drink, after all. The commotion near the stage suddenly lowers to a less deafening roar, and Quinn's ears perk in curiosity. She strains to hear something that might give away what's actually happening, since she can't see, and catches snatches of a voice. Quinn listens harder; the voice almost sounds-
"You're never gonna see anything from that stool," the bartender says matter-of-factly, pausing with the rag poised in his hand. Quinn shoots him an annoyed look at the interruption, but it fades quickly when she realizes he's right, and she's stalling. As if to give one last push, the bartender raises his eyebrows meaningfully - go look - and Quinn takes a deep breath.
She gives him a last smile, tipping her glass towards him in thanks before sliding off her stool and meandering towards where she hopes the stage is. She can't see much through the tightly-packed bodies, so the only thing she has to guide her are the high-pitched cries and crowd cheering it on.
If there was one thing that Quinn learned to keep from her high school years, it was parting a group of people like the sea. With her shoulders drawn back she exudes a sort of confidence that has people stepping away despite the fact she's almost shaking inside, clenching her fists together to stop the tremble. Near the stage the music isn't quite as loud, almost a backdrop; it's easier to hear the distinct sound of the thing that whistles through the air before coming down with a mighty snap, followed almost immediately by a cry that sounds as pleased as it is pained. She sees a brief flash of red leather arc through the air as it readies for its next mark.
An actual whip? Quinn thinks in disbelief, scolding herself the second after. It is a whipping scene after all, what does she expect? Bare hands? Maybe a nice soft as-seen-on-TV whip that's prettier than it is practical?
"Begging your pardon, ma'am, but I'd like to introduce myself," a man whispers to her, obviously mistaking her thought for awe. He wears nothing but a cage on his genitals and a tight leather mask - she has difficulty keeping her eyes from drifting downwards to better inspect it. Despite her lack of response, he continues on. "I'm Carter - I don't believe we've met. May I have your name?"
She swallows and glances at him, making the mistakes of looking down before snapping her eyes back up. He seems unbothered, his eyes curious from under his mask. "I'm Quinn," she responds, almost going for a handshake. Is that what people do here? "This is my first night, so it's no wonder you haven't seen me around."
The mask shifts so that she believes he's smiling. "You've come at a great time, then, the two sceneing are some of the best we've had in a while."
Another crack, another cry.
"She keeps her so under control, even up on stage. You can see the trust between them if you're lucky to get close enough." After a few moments and a few more strikes, he lowers his voice conspiratorially. "I've heard that they met in high school. Can you imagine learning your kinks together at such a young age? No wonder their dynamic is so amazing."
Quinn nods absently, standing up on her toes for a better look. She catches nothing but more leather and the briefest flashes of long, blond hair. "The bartender said they're regulars?"
"Oh, yes," he gushes, rubbing his hands together, "Miss Brittany is one of the most respected Dommes at Pedestal. She's really kind though, as long as you don't get on the bad side of her paddle. She always gives you a second chance if you do wrong... by accident, of course. If you're being a brat you're in for it."
Something in Quinn's mind stalls for a moment, the nagging feeling at the back of her head growing into an ache. As the cries suddenly grow to a crescendo and she shifts, uncomfortably warm, she turns to the man. "You said they met in high school, right?" she asks slowly, already beginning to push her way through the crowd. At his nod, she licks her lips.
"And... what did you say the bott-er, the submissive's name was?"
He frowns at her, debating, wondering. "I never did. She only goes by S."
At his last word she nods, thanking him before carefully worming her way into the crowd. It couldn't be... surely there has to be more than one couple in the world with those circumstances and initials. But her doubt grows the further she forges, catching images of a slim, defined wrist holding the braided handle, a long leg with a high, leather boot, and a smile that never really left her memory, no matter how long it's been since they parted ways. As she finally touches the side of the stage, Quinn stares right up at Brittany Pierce; larger than life in her heels and leather corset and that infuriating grin on her face that always seems to be cute and seductive at once.
The stage protrudes into the club almost like a runway; the crowd gathers around the platform at the end of the narrow walk where the scene is being held, able to watch from all sides as Brittany flicks her whip in the air to make an ominous crack - thunder coming into town. The sight of her like this makes something in Quinn twitch, a feeling she thought she buried a long time ago when she traded in her cheer uniform for a Yale sweatshirt. She shifts again, uncomfortably aware of the flush that's spread over her cheeks and down to her collarbones, making the air just that bit too hot.
Brittany was always extremely... sexual. There was no other way around it. The gestures she would make would seem innocent, but at their core, they were always flirty or friendly or both at once. It was confusing sometimes and she gained the reputation of being somewhat of a slut, but she didn't really seem to mind. But this...
Quinn watches in rapt fascination as she leans over her sub, one hand spread firmly on a hidden back, leaning down to whisper something unheard. The other grabs roughly at pliant flesh - the whimper of protest it creates is hidden in a moan. From here it's impossible to tell who it is, not with the crowd so close and so tight, but Quinn has a feeling that she doesn't know if she wants to come true. Brittany being here means that somebody who isn't her is on the receiving end.
That's ridiculous, she chides herself even as she pushes her way to the front of the stage, how many other people in the world have a name with S in it?
Yet, as she manages to weave through to the dead front of the stage where all is bared to see, she comes face to face with Santana Lopez.
At least, she thinks it's Santana Lopez. The figure, slumped perpendicularly over something that looks almost like a gymnast's vault horse, has their head down as they take a reprieve from the punishment their ass and back were receiving. Quinn looks over to her right and notices the rack of different whips and floggers hanging from their handles of all different colours; some look soft, some have bite, and some... well, Quinn wouldn't let anybody near her with one of them. Just below are a variety of toys that has a searing blush creeping once again up her cheeks. How can anybody take one of those? she thinks to herself as she eyes the massive dildo that has a distinctly Brittany-esque vibe. She doubts Santana would ever buy a rainbow sex toy.
Quinn swallows lowly, taking the opportunity the quiet crowd has given her. "Santana?" she whispers, leaning closer to the figure's bowed head. No response, not even the shift of the long, dark ponytail that trails down to the floor. "Santana," she tries again, refraining from touching. Still nothing. She spies Brittany shuffling around on stage, the burly men in tshirts temporarily distracted, and leans so close that she can hear the laboured breathing in front of her. "San?" With the flashing lights it can make it hard to see, but a purple gleam reflects something shiny at her neck - the woman is wearing a thick red and black collar with various loops built in; they are empty save for one, which has a black leash that leads down to the floor. The metal thing at the front of her neck is a name tag, which simply says 'S'.
She bites her lip, rocking from one foot to the other, steadfastly ignoring the beginnings of wetness she feels in her panties. If these are her friends, there are so many degrees of awkward to this whole situation right now that she's not sure if she even wants to be mortified or turned on.
"S?" she tries, almost leaping back in surprise when the epithet causes the figure to lift their head in confusion, and- Santana Lopez. Some part of her really isn't surprised, and the rest of her wishes she could be.
It takes a few moments after they lock gazes for recognition to set in, the cloud of arousal and something she doesn't know enough to identify shifting slightly to make way for confusion. Santana gapes at her openly, making no move to cover herself lest the rattle of chains sounds; she's been locked in place to the foot of the vault by the leather cuffs attached to her wrists, much like her ankles. Her feet don't even touch the ground. (As much as she tries, Quinn can't help but glance down at her breasts that swing free in such a position. Even with the clamps attached that make her nipples red and sore, they're something of a sight.)
"Quinn...?" she mumbles distractedly, squinting in a haze at the blob of blonde hair. "I think you went through the wrong door..."
Before she can answer another crack strikes; Santana cries out, completely unaware, her whole back arching as Brittany lays a solid stroke to her ass. Her voice sounds so raw and fucked out that Quinn clamps her thighs together, a flush of delicious arousal coursing through her until she senses the distinct throb of her clit through her panties. She grits her teeth, only fighting it more when Brittany's voice floats down over both of them.
"Did I tell you to speak, slut?" she asks sweetly, her fist winding in Santana's ponytail at the same time that she leans down and drapes herself over her sub, elbows pressing into the vault for leverage. Her hips fit seamlessly around Santana's ass and the rub of leather on her wounds is enough to make her whimper.
"N-no, Mistress," she manages to get out, huffing out a strained breath when one of Brittany's hands drifts between their bodies, her long fingers playing teasingly with her plugged entrance. "Please forgive me."
Brittany hums lowly in her ear, never taking her eyes off the way Santana's lips tremble knowingly.
"I'm not sure you mean it..." she trails off, tugging at the plug that she had pushed into her soaked hole early on in the night. Her sub bucks underneath her, the chains rattling as her whole body reacts to her Mistress and her manipulations. "I think you need to be punished. Isn't that right?"
Quinn's stomach drops; both at the word and at the jeers that rise up from the people pressed in around her. Voices shout out abuse at S - at Santana, her friend, Santana - or shout out praise to Brittany. Punish her, they say, and Quinn at least has the decency to feel slightly guilty for being the cause of the forthcoming discipline. After all, if she hadn't have spoken to Santana...
She should know better, Quinn argues with herself, trying to stop the guilt from spreading through her. She looks up at the stage where Santana currently has her eyes closed and head hung down appropriately in shame, in submission. Brittany's lips are moving by her ear, but Quinn can't make out the words over the rumbling consent of the crowd around her. When that impish half-grin slides over Brittany's features again, Quinn feels an involuntary shudder spread through her, anticipating, watching her sinuous movements.
She is clearly in command and in her element, using the crowd as a toy as surely as the whip by making sure they see every inch of S. She smiles at a large man hovering imposingly by the side of the stage in a familiar black tshirt; Mistress Brittany leans down and whispers something quiet in his ear to which he nods, then goes to sit back down.
As he departs and Mistress Brittany stands once again Quinn shifts her stance, uncomfortably aroused and uncomfortably anxious about what Mistress Brittany's punishment might entail. I mean, she's already being whipped, for fuck's sake. What could be worse than that?
All sorts of things, apparently, as she looks around the room at the various contraptions hanging proudly on the walls. How can people claim to love each other and then use such obviously brutal instruments?
And yet, as she stares up at her former friends on stage, she can't help but feel the love and trust and devotion between them. Quinn's fought Santana before - years ago - and she knows there's no way Santana would allow herself to be locked like she currently is unless she wanted it. Unless she consented to it. And even though Brittany tugs harshly on long, dark hair, snapping Santana's head up sharply, there is compassion behind it that even Quinn's not blind to.
"What shall your punishment be, hmm?" Brittany asks sweetly, still prodding at the toy between her sub's legs. She asks more for the crowd's benefit than for her submissive's- she is a performer, after all.
"Flog her pussy hard, Mistress!"
"Make her tease herself in front of the mirror!"
"Piss on her!"
Quinn feels her cheeks heating at the filthy suggestions flying from the people around her, some of them making her cringe inwardly, though she keeps her face devoid of emotion - she doesn't want to upset the people pressing in on all sides of her.
(She can feel sweaty skin and rough leather brushing against her every so often, and the sensation makes her edgy, brought on by the realization that she craves more.)
The crowd continues to call out obscenities, and the whole club hums slightly in excitement. Brittany - no, Mistress Brittany - smiles a pleased, commanding smile at them. Her face, though completely familiar to Quinn, is completely different, somehow. It exudes power, confidence, control. It makes Quinn's clit throb all the more harder, and she stands, the anticipation eating at her stomach, as she waits for whatever punishment will befall Santana.
Eventually, it seems like Mistress Brittany decides, for her eyes turn this wicked, calculating shade of blue. "I think you have to be reminded what a dirty little slut you are. Don't you?" She looks out over the hollering crowd and locks eyes with somebody just behind Quinn. "Carter!" she calls out, running her whip through her fingers. "Come up here, pet. I have a job for you."
The man from before with the genital cage and the mask comes running up the stage, almost skidding to his knees before Brittany. "Anything you need, ma'am!" he says eagerly; she notes that his eyes are cast down to the floor.
Mistress Brittany smiles fondly and runs her hand over his mask, curling her fingers around the back and pulling until she throws it down to the floor. Underneath his hood is a messy mop of brown hair and a young face, no older than twenty. He bites his lip nervously as she winds her fist into his hair. "You're going to be a good boy and help me, right?" she asks sweetly, and he nods his head the best he can in her grasp.
"Of course, ma'am." he exclaims, scrambling when he's yanked to his feet.
"Good." she purrs with a smirk, dragging him to where Santana still lays prone. "S has been a bad little slut and she needs to be punished, but I think she's liking her whipping too much." Her palm presses down on the plug and Santana jolts, groaning low in her throat as it's pressed deeper into her. "See?" Mistress Brittany shows her hand to the crowd; Quinn notes uncomfortably that it's shiny and wet, covered in juices. Her center throbs as she brings her slick palm up to Carter's face and he eagerly laps the wetness from her skin.
Like an obedient puppy, Quinn thinks, watching the display in much the same manner that she might watch a train wreck unfold. She can't look away. Something in her has been snagged - seized - and despite the foreign unexpectedness of the display taking place right before her, she's riveted, craving the unknown.
"Carter here is going to prepare S for her punishment," she smirks, aware of how Santana's head jerks up in alarm, "since my fingers would make her slutty pussy come before I touched it." The club howls in laughter and even Santana's dark skin can't hide the flush of shame that creeps over her cheeks.
Quinn's mouth goes dry, her mind racing with a million possibilities of what Mistress Brittany's words could mean, but none of them accurately predict Mistress Brittany roughly and unceremoniously tugging the large plug from Santana's soaked entrance, causing the submissive girl to release a groan. The plug slides out easily, and, Quinn notes uncomfortably, is not really as big as she expected - well, not in comparison to the rainbow-colored dildo perched ominously on the toy rack.
Still bigger than what I could take, she thinks before she can stop herself. She feels a flush rising to her cheeks as a brief image of herself bent over the vault horse, locked into place like a slave, flashes in her mind, and her pulse throbs between her legs before she can stifle the idea. Fuck. Is she really getting off to this?
The answer, as Carter moves to his knees behind Santana per Mistress Brittany's instructions, is a resounding yes, and Quinn hopes her face isn't showing her utterly confusing mixture of emotions. She watches, aroused and horrified, as Carter slips long, thick fingers into Santana; are these her friends? The Santana and Brittany she knew back in high school would no sooner allow someone else to touch their significant other than she would stand up on a table in the cafeteria and announce to the student body that she was pregnant.
But despite looking obviously uncomfortable and humiliated at the unfamiliar intrusion on her most intimate place (Intimate, Quinn scoffs - her whole body is on display!), Santana makes no move to resist as Carter's fingers work inside her, his brow furrowing in concentration as he focuses on his task: pleasing his Mistress. Quinn's eyes rise to find the Domme in question - Mistress Brittany is standing, proud and arrogant, watching the display unfold. When she speaks, Quinn feels a warm shiver pass through her like an electric current.
"Such a good boy, Carter," she purrs. "Stretch her good, so I can fill her up."
Quinn swallows hard, barely hearing Carter's low, obedient answer over the pounding of her own heart in her ears. Her hazel eyes flick to Santana's face, which has contorted into a reluctant, ashamed expression of pleasure. Low, raspy groans have begun to make their way up from deep in her throat, despite Santana's obvious attempt to stifle them, if her biting her lip is any indication. The chains locking Santana in place rattle slightly with her small, squirming movements, and Quinn watches in fascination, trying to discern what Santana's feeling. In a strictly clinical way, she reasons.
But as Quinn fully takes in the scene before her, it becomes apparent - Santana's job is, quite obviously, to please her Mistress, and the smug expression on Mistress Brittany's face as she continues to watch her sub is definitely pleased.
"How wet is she, Carter?"
"Dripping, ma'am."
"Dripping," she repeats, raising her eyebrows as if surprised, but the knowing, taunting smirk on her face belies the sentiment. The crowd hisses in response, scornful, shaming Santana, but all Quinn can hear is the way the word dripping rolls off of Mistress Brittany's tongue, and how accurately it applies to her own current state. She fidgets, debating crossing her arms just to give her suddenly itching hands something to do, but doesn't want to draw attention to herself. She's right in plain view of the stage, and she doesn't want to even begin to sort out how she would feel if Mistress Brittany recognized her, called her out, or worse - demanded she climb on stage to replace Carter. Her heart jackhammers, stomach fluttering at the thought, fearful and excited. She clutches tightly at the hem of her leather jacket- she's too afraid of where her hands might go otherwise... especially since Mistress Brittany is not done demeaning Santana.
She takes slow, deliberate steps, and her heels tap against the wooden stage. Quinn feels each step reverberate through her. "Is she tight around your fingers, Carter?"
"No, ma'am," Carter replies, subdued, still focused on his job. Santana's squirms have become more noticeable, her low groans of pleasure not-so-easily suppressed.
"No?" Mistress Brittany clarifies. She shakes her head disapprovingly. "Such a dirty, loose whore." Santana hangs her head, trying to hide her face as she visibly shudders. Mistress Brittany strokes rough fingers through Carter's brown hair, and Carter's light brown eyes take on a slightly dreamy expression. "Don't stop, pet. Keep stretching her pussy for me - although since she's such a disobedient little slut, she could probably take all of me, even without your help."
The crowd laughs in response and she smirks, reaching to stroke fingers down her sub's cheeks. Santana leans into the touch, and then Mistress Brittany snatches her chin roughly. Santana's eyes remain averted as her Mistress tugs her face up, so the crowd can see. "Aren't you?" she demands, her voice commanding and firm. "Look at me, pet."
Santana raises her eyes obediently. "Yes, Mistress."
"Yes, Mistress, what? Tell me."
"I'm a disobedient slut."
Quinn can hear Mistress Brittany's hum of approval, and it makes her nerves tingle. She has no otherworldly clue as to why she's finding this whole scene so hot, but the fog of arousal that's settled over her brain has long since made her stop caring as Mistress Brittany commands Santana to repeat herself, louder, to the crowd.
"I'm a disobedient slut," Santana whimpers, her voice raspy and trembling in a way Quinn's never heard before, but sounds incredibly so carnal that it sends a hard throb of pleasure straight through her core. She can feel herself clenching, and she's become increasingly overheated in her jacket, but she dares not take it off - it's currently the only thing anchoring her hands, which are shaking as they clutch at the material so tightly her knuckles are white.
"Very good," Mistress Brittany purrs, releasing Santana's chin and instead winding her fingers around her long, dark trail of hair. "And how does my disobedient slut like to be fucked?"
"Hard, Mistress," Santana whimpers.
She tugs the tail sharply. "Louder, pet."
"Hard, Mistress!" she says in a rush, eager to please her Dominant and get relief from the demeaning indignity she's receiving - Carter's still inside her, his fingers so much rougher, so much thicker than what she's used to. She clenches involuntarily around them, shuddering and ashamed at the repulsing jolt of pleasure that reverberates through her body.
Her movements do not go unnoticed by her Domme, who laughs mockingly at her. "Do you like Carter's fingers inside you, S?"
"No, Mistress," Santana gasps, her cheeks on fire.
"No?" Mistress Brittany yanks her harder harder. "Don't lie to me, pet," she chastises harshly. "I'm going to give you one more chance to answer: do you like his fingers inside you, stretching your loose, slutty pussy?"
"Yes, Mistress," Santana admits in a tiny, wavering whimper. "If it pleases you."
"Mm, such a good girl," Mistress Brittany breathes, petting over Santana's back. Santana arches into the touch, desperate for reward. Without looking, she calls, "Carter, that's enough, pet. She's ready."
"Yes, ma'am." Carter halts his movement and bows his head, awaiting further orders.
Still reeling from the entire exchange, Quinn feels as if she's awaiting further orders as well. The club seems to hold its breath as Mistress Brittany sinks down to eye level with her sub, stroking at her long ponytail. "Get me the rope," she says abruptly, her lips twisting into a smirk as Santana's breathing hitches. Carter scurries off to do her bidding, and in the lull it creates, Quinn sees Mistress Brittany lean in so her lips are hovering close to Santana's ear.
"You remember our safe word, baby?" she breathes and in that moment she is just Brittany, the first who was always there to help either of them if they fell. It is too quiet for anybody not pressed close to them to hear, but Quinn would have to be blind not to see the way Santana's eyes go impossibly soft and her mouth pulls into a warm smile.
"I can do this," she mutters back, making eye contact for a brief second, "I can do anything for you."
Brittany presses her lips together momentarily as she nods, stroking a strand of sweaty hair from her forehead before Carter returns with the rope between his teeth; the change is startling, the way her face falls smoothly and seamlessly back into Mistress and Santana bows her head, submissive again. The leather-clad Domme winds her fingers around the rope, pleased with its resistance. "This will do just fine," she announces to the crowd with a wicked grin, "go sit by the table, Carter. You've been a good boy." She pats his ass as he moves away, smiling at the delighted giggle he lets out. Her finger traces along Santana's jaw, debating.
"You, however..." Mistress Brittany muses, trailing her nails down Santana's exposed throat, "still haven't learned. You're making a puddle on this nice floor."
The crowd laughs and Santana's cheeks flame, her body involuntarily shuddering as she remembers the mess she's made of her thighs. From the mirror set up at the top of the stage, Quinn can see how her pussy gapes slightly, clenching around nothing and aching to be filled. The lips are swollen, her engorged clit poking out from its protective folds and begging to be licked. She ignores the sudden impulsive urge to touch it and watches curiously as Mistress Brittany gathers up handfuls of Santana's beautiful, dark hair, winding it with the strong rope until they are hopelessly connected. Her hands are gentle and caring, never pulling too hard on the fragile connection to her sub's neck, and in these movements Quinn sees a lifetime of trust. "Carter," she calls, standing up and running her right hand down the arch of Santana's spine, "give me the hook."
He scrambles back with what Quinn initially mistakes as a large fishing hook; it's not curved enough and too thick, but most strikingly, there's a large metal ball on the end. She sees Santana's breathing audibly hitch at the mention, though that could partly be from the way Mistress Brittany's right hand has started to play with the pucker of her asshole.
"Loose whores get their holes stuffed until they're full," Mistress Brittany taunts, delivering a firm slap to her dripping pussy and smirking when she jolts, the wet noise sending a ripple of arousal through Quinn's body. She's given up on denying how turned on she is, her clit aching and nipples stiff under her shirt. If she could get away and be alone even for a minute she's sure she could relieve this tension, but she's frozen so close to the scene, enraptured and wishing to know how it ends. (Some part of her already knows.)
A cap opens with a snap and Mistress Brittany dribbles thick lube onto her fingers, smearing it around Santana's entrance and teasingly dipping her fingers into her weeping, open hole. "I don't even need lube, do I, slut? You're so wet for me that I could just use this juice to lube you up. But you'd like that too much, my fingers so deep in your cunt... you'd come all over my hand, wouldn't you? Squirt until you soaked your legs and it looked like you pissed yourself like a little disobedient dog."
Santana whimpers as her Mistress spews these dirty things in a club full of strangers. She feels herself get spread apart so they can have a better look at her glistening sex, her asshole stretched tight and pretty around two of her Domme's fingers. The intrusion strokes something deep and carnal within her; Quinn sees her bite her lip hard in an effort not to come.
Mistress Brittany sees it too; she pulls her fingers away with a slick sound and an exaggerated noise of disappointment. "Is this too much for my little whore?" she says affectionately, reaching behind her. "It looks like you have to be reminded of a few things."
She reaches backwards and grabs at one of the floggers hanging on the large metal rack, running her finger along the braided handle before bringing it to her side. Mistress Brittany places the hook on the small of Santana's back and rubs the strangely beaded tails along the red and swollen cheeks of her ass, dancing them along her thighs and relishing in the full-body shiver it elicts from the prone figure underneath her. "If the hook falls, you'll be sorry," Mistress Brittany warns, adjusting her grip on the flogger, "count to ten."
The club ripples with nervous anticipation and Santana sucks in a deep breath, squeezing her eyes shut as she braces for the hit.
The first one still takes her by surprise. It always does.
Quinn watches her whole body jolt in a kind of morbid fascination, enraptured by the way her muscles clench and her brow knots as she attempts to hold her position. The tails scatter around her tender ass cheeks and create a sharp smacking noise; nowhere near as impressive as the violent crack of the earlier whip, but imposing in its own right. The purple tails are a flash in the gloom as they come down and leave stripes on her skin. Santana grunts out a one as her mistress readies for another. What Quinn assumes to be leather whistles through the air.
"Two!" Another hit, another cry. Spread open and exposed it's obvious how wet Santana is, dripping all over her thighs and stomach and vault. Her whole body curls in an effort not to move; the hook on her back wobbles slightly. "Three! Four! F-fuck- ma'am! Five!"
By the time they reach eight Santana's breath is hitching on the syllables, tears rolling down her cheeks and lips lacquered with hot saliva. Mistress Brittany coos encouraging words as she massages her aching cunt, stretching her hole and playing with her clit. It relaxes enough that she can choke out a nine, voice cracking so hoarsely on ten that it has Quinn swallowing a groan of her own. It's almost stupid how hot Santana looks, trembling, covered in her own fluids with her ass beaten raw and red. The hook wobbles precariously but doesn't fall, and the club sees pride bloom on Mistress Brittany's face as well as if they were the ones to have put it there.
"Such a good slut," she whispers fondly, stroking her hair, " you took those hits so well for me, didn't you? Your greedy ass just begged for more."
"Y-yes, Mistress," Santana sniffs through her tears, panting, "thank you, Mistress."
Mistress Brittany looks out to the club with a wry, predatory grin. "I think S redeemed herself, don't you?"
She asks and the resounding yes has her nodding along with them. Her sub deflates visibly in relief, but Mistress Brittany simply gives a dark chuckle and yanks her head back up. "Don't think this means it's over, pet. I still see a filthy little pussy that needs to be filled and a nice little asshole that just looks so lonely. Sluts need all their holes filled or else they get bratty. And what are you, S?"
"A slut, Mistress," she mumbles, face red, but it's not enough.
"I said, what are you?" In her tone is another threat and Santana visibly gulps, struggling to get the words through.
"A-a slut, Mistress. Your slut." The addition seems to please the Domme.
"Mm, that's right, my slut. You might not be a disobedient slut right now, but that's only after I flogged your ass until you cried. What will it take for you to do as you're told?"
More filthy suggestions come from the crowd, but the way blue, blue eyes have focused in on Santana's frame makes Quinn realize she wants her to say it. How could you do that to somebody else? Make them tell you how viciously they want to get fucked, how brutally they want to be humiliated? Her skin crawls at the thought; Santana seems to have understood this, as her head drops and she mumbles something incomprehensible.
Mistress Brittany tugs her head back up. "Say that to the nice people, S." she says sweetly, pinching one of Santana's swollen nipples in encouragement.
"F-fuck me until I can't forget I'm yours, Mistress!" Santana cries out, arching to both get more and get away from the stimulation. "Fuck me until you fill me a-and stretch me and own me," she begs, babbling now; a haze floats over her eyes... whether it's arousal or madness is impossible to tell, "I'll do anything for your fingers or your mouth or your cock, mistress. Just please fuck me and all my slutty holes until I cream all over the floor!"
The frank expression of desire makes something happen to Brittany; she becomes more focused, more frenzied. Her eyes darken and she licks her lips in vicious anticipation, stalking back behind Santana.
"Oh, but you've always been mine, pet," she growls, plunging her fingers into her slave's asshole, "and you've always known it."
Quinn has a feeling they're not just talking about the scene anymore - she remembers high school where Santana would do anything for Brittany, without question or deliberation. It seems that bond has only grown with time, expanding and taken on new meanings until this was inevitable. Santana whimpers in agreement at her Mistress and her truthful words, crying out as the forgotten hook is placed against her hole.
The Domme takes her time in working the large bulge into her tight channel, rotating it from side to side and using her fingers to help stretch against the intrusion. Santana's mouth falls open in harsh pants, her hips vibrating; her breath buffets Quinn's face and she groans lowly from the sensation. It eventually slips inside, pressing against her and sending shockwaves through her entire body when tugged. Mistress Brittany nods once in approval, taking the rope used earlier, finding the unbound end and threading it into the loop at the top.
"You need to remember to always look up," she explains as she works, joining Santana's hair and the hook together, "I want everybody to see your face as you come from me pounding your pussy so hard you won't be able to walk for days." Her sub groans, swallowing, the pressure of the rope and the hook forcing her head up where she looks out over the crowd. Mistress Brittany studies her position for a few moments before stooping down and unhooking her wrists from the bottom of the vault, bringing the limp appendages up to where she chains the to the restraints dangling from the ceiling. This way her back doesn't bow as awkwardly, and the hook is on a different angle, pulling more insistently. Even a slight movement tugs at it inside her asshole, causing such a mixture of pleasure and pain that she's unsure where one ends and the other begins. The rope wrapped around and into her ponytail holds secure and she's effectively trapped, looking right into Quinn's eyes as her body reacts traitorously to the eye contact.
"But first," the Domme continues, her words barely reaching Quinn. Santana's brown eyes are glazed over with something foreign to her as they bore into her own, and she's not sure she even recognizes the quivering mess of a person who's literally spread wide open before her. She's also unsure whether that makes the entire situation hotter or not. She's given up trying to sort through her emotions paled as they are by the incessant pounding of her arousal through her body. She clenches her thighs, subtly trying to find some relief, and almost lets out a sigh at the very strong burst of pleasure from the action. She's not sure - having never tried it before, obviously- but she thinks she might be able to get off this way, and if her mind wasn't so foggy and her surroundings were different she might have the inclination to feel somewhat embarrassed... but currently watching her former best friend get fucked and degraded by her other former best friend, in a very public place, surrounded by people who apparently enjoy the demonstration on a regular basis, she really can't spare a single fuck.
When Mistress Brittany moves into Quinn's field of vision, sufficiently cutting off her eye contact with Santana, she snaps back to the scene, breaking her concentration on giving herself pleasure from the slight, rhythmic tightening of her muscles. Her eyes trace over Mistress Brittany's back, and she can't help but admire the way her ass looks in her leather skirt as she leans forward. Quinn raises her eyes to the mirror mounted on the ceiling, curious to know what's going on (since she missed the verbal explanation) and this time she does moan out loud as she spies the intimidating rainbow-colored dildo from earlier strapped to the other blonde's hips, the head of it already pushing past Santana's parted lips and into her waiting, eager mouth. Quinn's eyes drift to the mirror on the side of the stage for a better view, and between the two mirrors, she gets the full picture.
"I love fucking your filthy, hot mouth," Mistress Brittany sighs as she drives her hips forward. The angle of Santana's body thanks to the hook attached to her hair keeps her throat straight; Santana chokes at the initial and sudden invasion, but recovers quickly and takes the entire length as Mistress Brittany feeds it to her at an unrelenting pace. When her lower stomach presses against Santana's nose, Quinn groans lowly. Her darkened hazel eyes dart to the side mirror and she watches Santana's throat move as she swallows around the thick, multi-colored silicone.
Mistress Brittany's hips rotate slightly, the dildo still buried to the hilt down her sub's throat, and Quinn is impressed with Santana's ability to not only take the full length, but to do so without choking. She's not the only one, as Mistress Brittany sighs again with satisfaction, a low murmur of so good spilling from her lips.
Santana shivers as her Mistress winds firm fingers into her hair, then goes rigid when a sharp jolt of painful pleasure shoots through her, her Mistress's action having put slight pressure on the stainless steel buried in her ass. She does her best to hold her position, swallow all of her Mistress's rough thrusts, and somehow still breathe.
"You're such a greedy slut, taking every inch of me," Mistress Brittany murmurs, and Quinn watches the way Santana's throat works around the long, deep thrusts of her Domme. Being so close, she notices the slight trembling of Santana's muscles as she strains to hold her position, even while her Mistress fucks her throat relentlessly.
It's not slow or teasing, the way most blow jobs she's witnessed are (because she'd be lying if she said she's never watched porn before) and if it wasn't for the obvious affection in dark, blue eyes, or the willingness with which Santana swallows every thrust, Quinn might describe the display as brutal; it's so intense and rough that she forgets to focus on bringing herself to orgasm, and instead watches with rapt attention as Mistress Brittany's hips move.
"You like choking on my dick?" the Domme demands, bottoming out, filling Santana's tight throat. "You're such a slut, such a dirty slut for this cock-"
Santana can't answer- she can barely breathe, and nodding would put more pressure on the hook in her ass, so she just silently and obediently allows her Mistress to fuck her as she pleases.
The crowd of people mumble in approval and it cheers Mistress Brittany on, but Quinn can't tear her eyes away from the sight of the long, thick dildo disappearing into Santana's mouth over and over, from the way Santana's throat strains around it and her body shakes with arousal and tension from her held position. When Mistress Brittany finally pulls back, visibly trembling, Quinn wonders if she was actually getting physical pleasure from fucking Santana's throat. She's never worn a strap-on before, but she supposes the pleasure would feel good-
The sound of Santana's raspy panting is loud to Quinn's ears, deep and trembling as she struggles to calm herself down, the heat of it blowing strands of dark hair from her eyes. The rawness of her breathing reminds Quinn of what literally just occurred, and without thinking, she returns to tensing her thighs, instinctively causing herself pleasure. She's surprised at how much closer to orgasm she suddenly is, a feeling that's only facilitated when Mistress Brittany speaks, her commanding voice lower and more hoarse as she walks around her sub's splayed body, trailing her fingers down Santana's back as she goes.
"You've been such a good girl, S, so I think it's time for a reward. Don't you agree?" she asks the crowd, and at their consent, she moves behind her sub, her eyes trailing down her body and dropping to her gaping, dripping entrance. Quinn bites her lip in anticipation, her eyes once again finding Santana's. She's not sure how much more Santana can take - hell, she's not sure how much more she can take.
Mistress Brittany slides two fingers effortlessly into her open hole and begins to drive them deeper, stroking along her walls and grinning when she feels the slight bulge of the hook between the separation. Santana trembles in an effort to stay still, her body wanting nothing more than to push herself down on those fingers and ride them until she could finally find her release, but her clouded mind knows better. So instead she stays stationary, biting so hard on her lip it threatens to bleed, her legs spread open obediently for her Mistress.
"You ready, pet?" Mistress Brittany asks softly, using the wetness gathered to run it over her new appendage. The tip of it presses into the back of Santana's thigh and she groans at how close it is to where she wants it, her hips wiggling a little in desperation. Mistress Brittany smirks, landing an uphanded slap to her pussy; the slave yelps at the unsuspected sting and blushes at how her Mistress' hand comes back wet. "Use your words, S."
"So ready, Mistress," Santana whimpers instead, "so ready for your cock."
Obviously pleased, Mistress shuffles up slightly until the rigid length rests between Santana's spread legs, the tip of it pressing against her belly. Her hips begin to rut in long, lazy thrusts that drag the top of her cock through Santana's folds, her hard length sliding effortlessly against Santana's clit. Already, Santana's mouth hangs open, and Quinn swears she can feel her breath against her cheeks.
Mistress Brittany continues her slow gyrating, reaching forward to pinch one of her slave's swollen nipples. "Do you think she's earned her reward?" It takes a moment for Quinn to realize she's asking the crowd and not just her; they give their approval and Mistress Brittany smirks her agreement, pushing her right hand between their hips on her next thrust and gripping the base of her cock. She steadies herself for a moment, bending her knees to accommodate for the height difference, before allowing the tip of her appendage to press lightly against Santana's abused hole. The sub whimpers but attempts to thrust her hips back, squeaking when her Mistress pulls at the rope ties to her hair.
"Don't be greedy," Mistress purrs, pushing forward until the imposing head pops through Santana's entrance. "You know I always give my little whore what she wants."
The rest of the room melts away as she slowly works her hips deeper, driving her cock further into Santana's core. Her hands press against her swollen cheeks, spreading her open to watch as her thick length sinks easily into Santana's hole. Quinn glances up to the ceiling to watch the same thing; to her left a few onlookers have begun to touch themselves at the erotic sight and she aches to do the same, glancing at Santana's oblivious face before squeezing her thighs shut in denial.
Almost to the base, Mistress Brittany pauses as she sees her slave's hips twitch in discomfort. It is a mere flicker across her bod but they have always been in tune with each other in ways that nobody else ever was; she drapes herself over Santana's back and hooks one long arm under her shoulder, crossing her collar to grip at the other side of her neck. Her body pulls at the rope and Santana whines at the feeling, overwhelmed with the thick, heavy girth inside her and the metal that tugs insistently when she moves. "I know you can take it," Mistress whispers into her ear, pulling her hips back only to slide them forward and starting a rhythm that jostles them both - Santana groans as she feels her Domme's presence within her, demanding. "You can always take whatever I ask, remember? Always. Can you feel me stretching you?"
A breathy 'uh huh' bows breath across Quinn's face and she daren't move lest Mistress draw her attention elsewhere. In between the filthy mutterings into Santana's ear, Mistress Brittany works her hips further and further until, with a sudden stillness, her hips press flush against Santana's backside.
"Such a good whore," she praises fondly, drawing back to her full height. Santana pants around the intrusion and sighs herself when her Mistress begins to move between her thighs, pulling her impressive length out only to push it back in, the large head dragging along her walls and sending sparks through her whole body. Everything is so hot and thick and she feels like she can barely breathe, feeling Mistress Brittany's touch everywhere in her body. Her swollen and neglected clit throbs so desperately for any kind of touch but it is denied, and instead she tries to focus on the insistent push and pull from deep inside of her.
Quinn watches Santana's eyes glaze over with a sort of morbid fascination; every thrust jolts her body forwards the slightest bit, her breasts swaying with the movement, the clamps on her nipples twisting and pulling. With the bruises and bitemarks she looks absolutely wrecked, her jaw hanging open as her Mistress pounds into her at an increasingly brutal pace. The wet sounds coming from between her thighs increase as she drives into her, the sinful sound as their hips meet something that will stay in Quinn's ears long after she leaves the club.
Mistress Brittany's eyes rake down Santana's trembling frame, her nails dragging hard over her ribs, clinging onto the vault for balance as her powerful thighs tense with every thrust. She feels it, she knows it's close, but the crowd needs to know that S is hers and hers alone, that nobody can make her come like this… that nobody ever could.
"Do you want to come, slut?" Mistress huffs between thrusts, her breasts almost heaving out of her corset. "Huh? Is that what you want?"
Santana cries out as Mistress grinds her hips into her core, pushing down onto her swollen clit. Everything is humming, vibrating; her own name sounds foreign as her body betrays her and coils so tight that all she can focus on is the imposing, demanding girth between her legs. It's almost unbearable now, the heat prickling all along her skin and over her scalp.
"Come now, S," Mistress demands, pressing hard on her abused rear as she parts the cheeks for a better look, "come on my cock."
Quinn watches in disbelief as Santana's eyes roll back in her head a moment before she moans in a way that sounds more like a whimper, spasming in her bindings, her breath rushing hot over Quinn's face. Mistress Brittany smirks - a pleased, triumphant thing - before bending herself over her slave's writhing body and continuing to pound her, pressing her forward so their noses almost brush. The stimulation is too much, and the crowd howls as a clear liquid gushes from where their hips join and soaks Mistress Brittany's skirts.
Her pace becomes more jagged as she focuses on chasing her own release, her grip strong and firm as she holds Santana's torso up. The slave has gone slightly limp from her climax, helpless to do anything but be used as her Mistress searches for her own personal satisfaction. Her world is buzzing and her ears are ringing furiously but everything feels so good in a tortured way that she can't help but groan as Mistress jams her hips in deep, obviously finding what she was searching for. She clamps around her cock again, her body giving into the pleasure of being abused for the gain of another, and slumps over the vault as the world blurs out of focus.
When Santana's head droops Quinn panics momentarily, but the blissed-out smile on her lips stops her from feeling any guilt as she clenches her thighs one last time and quakes through her own release to the time of Mistress Brittany's languid thrusting in her slave's stretched hole, eventually letting the heavy weight simply rest inside her. Sweat beading on her brow, Quinn goes to turn away from the scene, but can't help but take one last look. (One for the road.)
It turns out to be her biggest mistake of the night.
When she flicks her eyes upwards to search for the mirror on the ceiling, she instead comes into contact with Mistress Brittany's intense, smouldering stare, curving at the edges as she smirks. Still draped over Santana's body, she wiggles her fingers in a wave and mouths 'hi, Quinn' as she presses her hips in, making Santana groan nearly by her ear.
Blood rushing to both her face and her groin, Quinn nearly leaps out of the spot she's been occupying, shouldering her way through the crowd and stumbling into the fresh night air with a shuddering gasp. She feels dirty, somehow, getting off to her friends in a crowd full of strangers. But, she realizes, it's a kind of dirty she could get used to if she isn't careful.
Swallowing hard, she lifts her chin up higher and marches for the bus, steadfastly ignoring the ache between her thighs. And, well, if she did have the urge to look back, who would know?