The Enchanted Whip, © 2000 by J.Z. Sharpe
Note from the author: Yes, there really is a J, and this story is for Him.
Once upon a time, there lived a man who wished to be a Master. For the purpose of our story, we shall call him J.
For many years, J held a series of secret fantasies close to his heart, fantasies that he confessed to only a very few. Even when he dared to share his dreams, those with whom he chose to share often found those dreams shocking. Whips? Gags? Spreader bars? Nipple clamps? Some even called him sick, perverted and suggested that he seek help for his "condition" - but J refused to listen. "This is who I am," he said. "Why should I run away from something that feels so right to me?"
With the hope that he might find like-minded souls, he joined The Oak Street Conservancy, a private club that specialized in such activities. They offered a complete calendar of discussion groups, social events, and play parties, where attendees could live out their fantasies under the eyes of others who watched or might even be compelled to join in the action.
J wasn't sure if he wanted to attend such a party right away. After all, it's one thing to fantasize about such activities - and quite another to do them! Besides, he wanted to get to know the other members of the club first. So he signed up for a discussion group instead, one called "So You Want to be a Dom/me?" It sounded like the perfect place to begin.
However, when J walked into the meeting room that night, he wasn't so sure. There were only four other people beside him, all men, and two of them were the group facilitators. A rather aloof fellow sat off to the side, and after some probing, he admitted that he wasn't into any of this "nonsense". "I'm writing a doctoral thesis on sadomasochism, and this is part of my research," he said, sounding painfully bored by the whole thing. The other attendee was a chubby Oriental man who said not a word, and left without explanation after the first ten minutes.
J sighed as the man let the door fall shut behind him. "I can't believe that I'm the only person in the world with fantasies like these," he said to the others.
"Maybe the others are too shy," said the first facilitator, a slender blonde man wearing jeans and a Stanford University sweatshirt.
"Maybe the others already have subs," mused the second facilitator, his chair straining under his weight (he was a rather chunky fellow, dressed in black with a 5 o'clock shadow to match).
"I just want to know how to get started." J sighed again. "There has to be a woman out there who will serve as my submissive. How will I ever find her?"
"Why don't you come to the play party this Saturday night?" the second facilitator suggested. "Great place to meet people."
"I'm not sure I'm ready for that yet. I'm not into the public scene."
"Some people just watch," said the first facilitator. "We do everything we can to make everyone comfortable."
"Especially the first timers," his colleague chimed in.
J shrugged and looked at the clock over the door. "I think I'd better go," he said. "I took the train into the city, and they don't run all that often this late at night."
As he trudged to the station through a misty drizzle, he weighed the pros and cons of attending that party after all. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad. But J didn't want to just watch - he already lived the life of a spectator, with his large collection of bondage videos and an even larger one of magazines and pictures. Not to mention the bookmarks in his Internet browser, too -- hundreds of them! "I'm not going to sit on the sidelines anymore," he said aloud to the streetlights and parked cars. "I have to find my submissive. She's waiting for me, I know she is! I just have to find her!"
As J spoke these words, he looked across the street and noticed a narrow storefront with its lights still on, even though it was almost midnight and most of the other businesses on this block had been closed for hours. From a distance, the window appeared to contain an antique wooden armchair, but as J came closer, he saw that it was not just any chair, but one modified for the activities he'd always dreamt about. Cuffs and chains on the arms and legs held a naked mannequin firmly in place. The dummy's face was hidden by a blindfold; an elaborate bit gag had been strapped around its head. The name of the establishment, The Enchanted Whip, graced the shop door in feathery script. "Just my kind of place!" J said with a smile as he opened that door.
Indeed, he was not disappointed. Racks on the walls held dozens of whips and masks, spreader bars and riding crops. A narrow glass case contained a variety of clamps, vibrators, and other small goods, and along the back wall, magazines and video tapes lined shelves that reached all the way to the ceiling.
"May I help you?" asked a deep voice. Behind the counter, J saw a tall man with steel gray hair brushed straight back from a broad forehead and watchful, calm brown eyes. "Do you see something to your liking?"
"Well, I've got to admit, you do have a wide selection."
"Thank you," the man replied. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Maximilian Bach, the proprietor of this establishment. If you are looking for something specific, perhaps I can help."
J smiled. "I don't know if what I want can necessarily be purchased."
"All the stuff here is great." J picked up a gag that lay on the counter and turned it over in his hands. "Unusually good quality."
"Thank you. That's very high praise."
"You deserve it. But still, I'm afraid you don't have what I truly want - a submissive to hold in my command, someone who wants to surrender to me, who will share my interests in your wares."
"Ah, now that is harder to find, I agree." Bach took out a feather duster and began to run it over the videos. "But not impossible. As long as one has the right accessories, something with a certain amount of attraction." He glanced over his shoulder at J. "And I just so happen to stock such an accessory."
"Oh, yes. A magical whip. Would you like to see it?"
"Absolutely!" J scanned the racks, wondering which one Bach would bring down for him to examine.
But the proprietor disappeared behind a black velvet curtain, and returned with a long wooden box, which he placed on the counter with obvious reverence. "I would not let this go to just anyone, you know," he said, resting his long fingers on the lid. "It's quite unique." Bach grinned and lifted the lid.
J gasped. This whip was unlike any he'd ever seen, even on the Internet. Every inch of it conveyed power, from its red lacquered handle, carved in an oblong shape to fit perfectly in the hand, to its single strand of braided leather, as thick as his thumb and as black as the night outside. "May I try it?" J asked.
He was surprised by its substantial weight. Although he had a whip of his own, compared to the one he held now, that thing was just a plastic toy. He turned so he wouldn't disturb any of the other merchandise and gave it a couple of test cracks. It cut through the air with a satisfying snap. "Incredible!"
"Isn't it though? And when applied with some force, it leaves the loveliest red marks. Marks a true submissive would be proud to wear."
"I can't sell it to you."
"But you said -"
"The whip is not for sale. But I do rent it out."
Bach leaned over the counter and gently took the whip from J's hand. "You see, as I said before, it's magical. It retains its shape and appearance as a whip for only a certain period of time. When that time is up, it turns into something else."
J had never heard of such a thing outside a child's storybook. "And what exactly does it turn into? A toothbrush?"
"Close." Bach slipped it back into its box, but did not shut the lid just yet. "It turns into an ice scraper."
"An ice scraper?"
"A common object, found in automobiles all around the world, especially in cities like ours where the climate is so damnably cold?"
J scowled at him. "I know what an ice scraper is, thank you."
"So, are you interested?" Bach held the box in such a way that the light caught the smooth sheen of the handle. "I can rent it to you, one night for fifty dollars. And a five hundred dollar security deposit, which I will give back to you upon the whip's safe return."
"Sounds pretty reasonable."
"Be aware that you must return it to my shop before midnight. Otherwise, you will witness the moment when it turns back into the ice scraper. Under certain circumstances, that could be rather embarrassing, I'm sure you would agree. Not to mention tough on the wallet."
"Yes, indeed," J said, imagining how foolish he'd look, bringing down his hand on a trembling, naked submissive - only to find that he held a common tool for the removal of ice from one's windshield. "I'll get it back here long before midnight. Don't worry."
"Excellent." Bach closed the box and tucked it into a plain paper shopping bag. "Will that be cash or charge?"
* * * * *
J decided that he would not need the whip until Saturday, the day of the play party. He made arrangements to pick it up that afternoon, so he could practice a little beforehand. As he dressed for the affair in his favorite black turtleneck and jacket, he gave the whip a few practice cracks against his bed. He liked the way the mattress quivered at its touch, and he could not help but imagine a beautiful woman having the same reaction. How could this thing possibly turn into a common gas station giveaway? "Impossible!" J shouted as he gave the living room sofa a good thrashing on his way out the door.
The party was held at a private residence in the one of the city's high-rent districts. As J got off the subway and walked down the side street, he didn't need to study the house numbers in order to find the right one. A steady stream of people went up the front walk of a four-story brownstone, and from their dress - some discreet, others outrageous - he knew this had to be the place.
He showed his membership card to a bald-headed fellow at the door who waved him right in. Partygoers not only crammed the front hallway, but spilled into the parlor and up the stairs as well. At such an event, where does one begin? J decided that his first order of business would be to get a drink. For luck, he patted the whip, which he'd tucked into his belt, so only a bit of the red handle could be seen peeking from behind his jacket.
The cash bar was fully stocked and at this point in the evening, very popular. J patiently worked his way through the crowd, using this time to study the others in attendance. He thought he noticed the doctoral candidate from the discussion group, perched on a sofa, alone, no doubt taking notes. And the tall blonde guy, the facilitator from that same evening, appeared to also be one of the organizers, now standing by the stairs, greeting people and answering questions.
To J, the women were fascinating, every one. They came in all shapes, sizes, ages and colors, a much more diverse group than he'd ever remembered seeing in an ordinary singles bar. Some wore outfits that caused heads to turn, even in this city, where most people were pretty jaded, having seen it all (just about). But he found himself drawn to the more conservative ones, for they had an air of mystery about them. In particular, he admired a petite lass in a wine-colored turtleneck and black leather miniskirt, an outfit that would look perfectly appropriate in an uptown art gallery or even a corporate office. As he delighted in her long brown hair and gentle eyes, lowered submissively behind wire-rimmed glasses, he wondered who she was outside this place. Did she live the same kind of secret life that J had known for so long? Did she long for a Master? His curiosity increased when he finally made it to the bar, received his drink, and turned to see her staring back at him. Their eyes met, then she turned away.
And then, miraculously, she was standing right next to him, almost as if she'd flown over the huge crowd to be at his side. "Hello there," he said with a smile.
"Hello," she replied, her gaze still bashful. "How may I serve you, Sir?"
"Well, I don't know... shall we go to a quieter corner, where we can talk a little? Get to know each other?"
But she didn't answer, and it was entirely possible that she hadn't even heard his question, for she had dropped to her knees and now rested a hand on his belt. Her eyes widened as the whip came into view. "Oh, my!" he thought he heard her exclaim, although over the noise of the room, he couldn't be sure.
He took out the whip and let her touch. "I just got it. What do you think?"
"It's beautiful," she said, still on her knees. "I've never seen one quite like it."
"Perhaps we might go somewhere and try it out?"
Once again, she didn't seem to have heard him. Instead, her tiny fingers worked at his fly, and in seconds, his cock (which had been steadily rising all evening) sprang forth for all to see - but for only a second. It then disappeared into the moist warmth of his new friend's ruby-red mouth.
Now it was J's turn to be surprised. "Oh, my god!" he cried. "Wait - what are you doing?"
Her answer came from her insistent tongue, which danced round and round the head of his erection, while her equally insistent fingers found their way to his balls, which she massaged with the gentle skill of an angel. J stared as his cock slipped further into her mouth with each stroke, until the entire thing had disappeared, and her pretty nose nestled in his pubic hair.
"Incredible," he whispered.
Most incredible, though, was the reaction of the bystanders - or, perhaps to be more accurate, the non-reaction. Yes, a few glanced their way, and even smiled a little upon noticing the obvious pleasure on both their faces. But no one stopped to stare, no one pointed a finger and shouted, "Hey, look at that girl giving that guy some pretty intense head!" In this crowd, it was perfectly acceptable.
Soon J felt a shakiness in his knees, a rumbling heat start to build in his testicles - the unmistakable signs of imminent orgasm. He tapped the woman on the shoulder and she pulled away, her eyes wide with surprise. "Did I do something wrong, Sir?" she asked.
"No, no! Not at all!" J pointed toward a row of curtained alcoves, where people had been disappearing all night. "I - I just thought you might like to go somewhere with a little more privacy. I know I would."
"Oh, I see," she said, getting to her feet. "Well, okay."
Only one alcove remained free, so J gave the woman a polite little push inside and closed the curtain behind them. After enduring the swirling, chaotic crowds of people, the plush, candlelit privacy was delicious. J opened his mouth to ask this wonderful creature her name - but she met his lips with her own, her tongue now engaged with his in a salacious dance. He allowed himself to enjoy this for a moment, then, very gently so she would not think it a rejection, he pulled away.
"You are so eager!" he said.
She lowered her eyes, and J thought he saw the beginnings of a smile. "Thank you, Sir."
"Please, believe me, this is great, fantastic, but give me a minute to catch my breath, okay?"
"All right," she said, her eyes following the whip as he laid on the little table, next to his drink.
"What's your name?" At first, she seemed hesitant, and J remembered that club members often used fictitious names. "I mean, the one you use around here, of course."
"Precious," she replied.
"Precious! What a wonderful name. It seems to suit you so well."
"Thank you." It was too dark to tell for sure, but from the sound of her voice, J wondered if she was blushing. "What's yours?"
"You may simply call me J."
"All right," she said, and advanced to kiss him again.
J held up his hands. "Wait! First, since we're alone now, I want you to undress."
"Yes, Sir," she said, sounding pleased that he'd finally asked. As she stepped out of her skirt, she nodded toward the whip. "Are you going to use that on me?"
"Is it something you would be comfortable with?"
Naked now, Precious straightened up, a movement of courage. "Yes, Sir, it is something that I crave."
"As do I," said J, his smile widening. "As do I."
The evening broadened into a glorious exploration, one of those moments where J finally discovered how fantasy could be so pale next to reality. Who was this lovely Precious? Every time he tried to temper her extraordinary eagerness, tried to probe into her own fantasies and dreams, she simply presented herself instead, like a gift - her naked body, with its delicate breasts, gently rounded belly, and oh, so tempting derriere, just begging for the sting of that magical whip. J decided to leave that for last, and toyed with her nipples instead, stretching them until they jutted out like plump fingers, bright red with arousal. He stepped back to admire them in the candlelight. "Aren't they lovely!" he said. "I've never met anyone like you, my dear."
Precious only sighed, smiled a little, and looked down at the floor.
J sorted through her clothing, on the chair where she had tossed it, until he found her panties. He held them up to glory in the fragility of the icy blue satin, the way they seemed so small and insignificant when tangled in his long fingers. "Here," he said, approaching her. "Open your mouth." Obediently (of course!) she did so, and made a tiny squeal of surprise as he stuffed the satiny nothings between her lips. "There," he said. "I should tell you that I have a fetish for gags. And you are quite becoming in that state, my dear. Please, kneel for me, and let's find out what this whip can do." She did as she was told, her only reaction another muffled cry of surprise.
Maximilian Bach had been right. The magical whip did leave the most exquisite marks, feathery red blazes across Precious's lovely buttocks and thighs. J found that he could wield the whip in several ways he could strike lightly, which would leave no evidence, but still make her moan, or he could come down with more force, which caused poor Precious to let out a sharp cry. "I'm sorry, my dear, did that hurt too much?" She shook her head. "We really should have decided on a safeword, you know?" But she shook her head again, and waved her hand in a dismissive motion. Apparently she had no need for such things (J made a note to take this up with her later).
At last, he stopped, in reaction to a little twinge in his elbow. He set the whip down on the table again and took the panties from Precious's pretty mouth. "I hope I didn't go too far, my dear."
"No, you didn't, Sir..." she whispered. "Not at all."
"Is there a mirror around here? You should see the marks I've made."
She glanced over her shoulder, holding her left leg so she could see the back of her thigh. "I can see from here, Sir - they're gorgeous! I hope they never fade." Then Precious looked into his eyes. "Please, Sir - just a little more? Please?"
"More?" Precious nodded. "If you wish, my eager darling."
Later, when J recalled this moment, he had only one regret - that he did not have the presence of mind to glance at his watch. For if he had, he would have seen how quickly time flew that evening (as it always does when people have fun). It was now less than a minute before midnight.
But in this woman's presence, there was no time or space, just the eternal now of pain and pleasure. Precious took her position, so J could brandish the whip once more, raising it and bringing it down for a last, memorable blow across her sweet ass. Only as it crested the arc that would have created its stinging force, something felt odd to him. J looked at his hand, and realized he no longer held the whip at all, but a bright red ice scraper, with the words "Big Daddy's Spanking Clean Car Wash" written in black on the handle.
"No!" he cried.
The scraper bounced as it hit the floor and landed by Precious's right knee. J stared for a moment, refusing to believe what he saw. Then, avoiding her astonished eyes, he grabbed his jacket and ran out of the room, out of the club, down to the subway without looking back.
* * * * *
The next morning, J awoke to the torture of a ferocious headache. He switched on his answering machine and resolved to spend the rest of the day in bed. At twelve noon, the telephone rang, and from under his pillow, he could hear the deep voice of Maximilian Bach. "I am calling about the whip. I kept my shop open until 130 last night, but you never came by. Needless to say, I am concerned, and I will be unable to refund your deposit. Thank you."
After Bach hung up, J rewound the tape and listened to the message again. What could he possibly do now? He stared at the long box, sitting on his bureau where he'd opened it so carefully the night before. Now it was all he had. He didn't even have the presence of mind to pick up the ice scraper and take it with him - heaven only knew what became of it! What would he tell Maximilian Bach? One thing was for sure - he would never see his deposit again. And he'd probably never see Precious, either. "Now you've done it, you bastard," J said to his weary face as he brushed his teeth.
He managed to pull on a pair of old sweats and downed a vile cup of reheated coffee, then took the crosstown subway to The Enchanted Whip. On the way, J replayed various excuses in his mind, looking for the one that Bach would believe. When his stop was finally called, J realized that the only plausible story was the truth.
He found the shop open but deserted, although he knew Bach had to be somewhere because he could hear his voice in the back room, apparently on the telephone. "Of course you may come by, my dear. I would be delighted to see you... No, there's no harm done... Did you have a good time last night? You did? Oh, excellent, excellent! ...All right then, I'll see you in a few minutes." J took a deep breath as the phone was hung up, convinced that Bach would be right out - but he heard a door close, farther in the back, and after a minute or so, a toilet flushed. He amused himself in the meantime by browsing through the diverse selection of merchandise, although he was sure that after last night, his dream to be a Master would never come true now. He would never gain the respect of a beautiful submissive after making a fool of himself like that. J sighed and flipped through a book of photographs depicting a masked Master in a well-equipped dungeon, exercising complete command over several lovely women (in some instances, two or three at the same time). "I'll never be like that," J sighed.
"Ah, it's you." Bach had returned and now leaned against the cash register. "I wondered if I might see you today. Did you get my message?"
"Yes, I did." J put down the magazine and pointed at the empty box, where he'd left it on the counter. "Listen, I'm sorry about the whip, I really am."
"It's not in here?" Bach lifted the lid. "You're quite right. It's not here."
"I - I totally lost track of the time. I had it after midnight. And then, to make things worse, not only did it change shape, but I lost it. God, I'm so sorry, I really am."
"I'm afraid I can't refund your deposit."
"I realize that, but I was hoping that maybe, if I explained to you what happened, and if I -"
"Five hundred dollars down the drain. That's why I charge a deposit, now isn't it?" As he stored the box under the counter, the door opened again, and Bach looked up and grinned. "Aha, look who's here!"
J swung around - and nearly fainted.
In the light of day, Precious was even lovelier, bundled in a heavy black winter coat which swung open as she came toward him, revealing slender legs in black tights. She walked up to J and smiled. "I believe I have something that belongs to you."
Then she reached into her pocket, took out a bright red ice scraper, and laid it on the counter, right next to the long wooden box.
"So, I guess you two were having fun," Bach said.
"Yes, we were," J replied. "We lost track of the time." He turned to Precious. "I never thought I'd see you again!"
"I never thought I'd see you again either," she said softly. "But when the whip changed shape, and you ran out of the room, I was so happy because I knew how I'd find you. I was so thrilled. You see - this was not my first encounter with the enchanted whip."
"Oh, no. As Mr. Bach already knows, I've been searching for a long time, looking for a Master who will accept me, someone who take me in His command and truly teach me, be my guide. Be someone to whom I can dedicate my life. I thought I'd never find him - until I saw you."
"But you hardly know me!"
Precious touched his arm and looked up at him. "You don't understand. When a submissive sees her true Master, she knows." She glanced over at Bach. "Isn't that right?"
"Yes, it's true. In my line of work, I've seen it happen many times." He winked. "Forget about the deposit. I was just having a little fun. Please forgive me, I'll write you a check. And I don't mean to rush matters along, but if and when you two are ready, I have a lovely selection of collars. I'm sure we can find something that would be perfect for this one's neck."
"It doesn't turn into a length of garden hose at midnight, does it?" J asked him. "Or something like that?"
Bach threw back his head for a long laugh. "No, I can assure you that none of my collars are magical! And of the whips, that's the only one." He glanced around his shop. "However, as for some of the other items in my inventory..."
* * * * *
Of course, now the reader will want to know - did Precious and J live happily ever after? Did Precious surrender herself to J, did he take her under his loving command? I cannot tell you, for I don't know for sure. But this is a fairy tale (of sorts, anyway), and such tales must always have a happy ending, and so we will give it one. Let's leave our characters where we last saw them, holding hands and exploring the merchandise at The Enchanted Whip. Perhaps J will point to some item, hanging on the wall, and whisper in Precious's ear - notice how deeply she blushes! Or perhaps Precious will open a picture book and sigh over a photograph of a young woman, much like herself, bound in some creative fashion. "I'm envious," she might say to her new Master.
"Then we must try that ourselves," he might reply.
And in the meantime, dusting his wares and floating in the background like a benign ghost, Maximilian Bach watches the two and thinks about his sales, and how they will most certainly improve in the months to come. Yes, it is a happy ending - for all concerned.
© copyright 2000, J.Z. Sharpe firstname.lastname@example.org . All rights reserved. Not to be reproduced, redistributed in any form whatsoever without express written consent. This means you.