“Eric, I think I am ready to let you spank me.”
I didn’t believe it. Heather has the greatest ass in the dungeon, and the number of people who have actually spanked it can be counted on one hand.
“You’d let me spank your ass?”
“You could spank it, if …”
She had my full attention. “If?”
“If you knew the seven-strike paddle technique, I’d let you spank me for as long as you wanted,” she said. “Hell, for a chance to feel the seven strikes, I’d let you fuck my ass, too.”
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She told me this on Friday, and that is why on Sunday, I’m in an Asian supermarket owned by a Korean family. I’m the only white man here, which means I’m towering over everyone and sticking out like a Mennonite in a porn store. The aisles are too narrow, and the concept of personal space is apparently considered a Western fetish. Old ladies put their hands on my ass as they squeeze by, while small children give me dirty looks for being in their store.
At the back of the store, past the duck butcher and the fish tanks, there’s a door that isn’t locked. It doesn’t need to be locked because people here don’t go where they are not supposed to. Manners are better than stone walls in a place like this. A white guy like me, though, I walk right in.
Past rows and rows of bags of miso soup and boxes of Pocky, I come across another door. This one has a single strip of black duct tape stuck to it. It’s both a warning and a sign to the supermarket employees to leave this place alone. All it means to me is that I am in the right store.
As soon as I open the door, I hear the familiar sound of a spanking. Accompanying each spank is a high-pitched squeal of pain and maybe a little arousal. The smell of leather hits me next, and I breathe it in. Dungeons smell and sound the same no matter the culture of their denizens. I can feel the tension leaving me as I keep walking. Compared to the mannered foreign chaos outside, the order of a dungeon is like coming home.
I turn the corner and enter the dungeon proper. A naked woman is bent over a small stool. Behind her, a man is swinging a paddle. He’s dressed in a t-shirt and jeans. It makes me smile. I’ll bet Heather would have expected a kimono or a gi.
“Who the fuck are you?” the man asks. He doesn’t look at me; he just keeps looking at the woman’s ass as he spanks it.
“Pardon my intrusion,” I say. “My name is Eric Werner, and I’m here looking for a Jong Soh.”
He pauses in mid-swing. “I saw you once. You were demonstrating New York backhands. What do you want with me?”
“I would just like ten minutes of your time, if you can spare it,” I say. “I have an offer I’d like to make you.”
Then he looks at me. The guy is a little younger than me, but that doesn’t mean anything. It’s only the senior-citizen dominants who want you to think that age is important. What does strike me is how angry his eyes look and how his body language is that of a pissed-off dude. Not that I blame him, of course. I walked into his play space uninvited and asked to interrupt his afternoon. I’m lucky he’s even talking to me.
“Sit here,” he says. Jong points at two chairs over by a small coffee table. He sits in the chair on the right. The girl on the stool gets down on all fours and crawled over beside him. She looks Korean and in no more than her early 20s. I move to sit on the left, but he holds up his hand.
“Take off your pants first,” he says.
“Sorry, I don’t play with guys,” I say.
He smirks. “Neither do I, but if you are going to interrupt my time, then you can at least assist in training my slave. Remove your pants and underwear, please.”
Seems reasonable. I do as he asks and sit down. As soon as my ass hits the seat, his slave crawls over to me and gets between my legs. She leans forward, takes my cock in her mouth and sucks away like her ass depends on it.
“Oh, shit!” I say, because damn, she’s good.
“We can talk as long as you don’t climax,” Jong says. “Once you come, you must go.”
“You got a deal,” I say. “Who is this woman?”
“She’s my sister,” Jong says, as simply as you might tell me you had waffles for breakfast.
I look down at the woman whose lips are around my cock.
“Bullshit,” I say. “Look, I might forget the differences between Chinese and Vietnamese noodles, but I can tell when two Koreans don’t even have a family resemblance. Besides, isn’t sister-fucking something we white people prefer to do?”
For the first time since I got here, Jong’s face relaxes. The anger is gone, and I know I actually have a shot at what I want.
“Forgive my little joke, Eric,” he says. “Please, tell me how you learned of my dungeon.”
His slave does something wonderful with her tongue, and I am tempted to put my hand on her glossy black hair, but I stop myself. A dom doesn’t touch another dom’s slave, even when his cock is touching her tonsils. I keep my hands on the armrests and try to remember Jong’s question.
“Oh, Min Kim told me,” I say. “I asked around, and she told me about this place you had set up. She said the market belonged to your brother, but he lets you have this space.”
Jong scowls. “I can’t believe Min told someone where I play. The fact that I let her go as a slave is no reason to betray my trust.”
I nod in sympathy. “If it makes you feel any better, she told me only because I bribed her.”
He keeps scowling. “What did you offer her?”
I look down at the woman sucking my cock. “Funnily enough, I offered to let her do what your slave is doing now.”
“That cockslut,” Jong says. “Oh, well, I guess I trained her too well.”
I don’t understand that, but I nod, anyway. The slave is humming, and I am awfully tempted to climax right there. I know my time is going to be limited.
“Anyway, Jong, the reason I came is that I’ve heard stories about you,” I say.
“Yes, the white BDSM community would talk about me, I guess.”
“Right, they said you had some sort of new paddling technique,” I say. “Something called the seven-strike paddle. I was wondering if you could teach it to me.”
He doesn’t say anything, but I can tell I fucked up. I don’t know how I fucked up, but I can tell by his body language that I did. He’s pissed, and he regrets that his slave’s mouth is on my cock. I am glad it is, though: It will discourage him from taking a swing at me.
“Why do you want to learn?” he asks.
The slave sucks faster, but I choose my words carefully. Somehow, I don’t think he would be sympathetic about the wonder that is Heather’s ass. “Look, I’m always looking to be better at what I do. I’ve learned Italian flogging techniques, English-style crop swinging and a whole mess of other styles. Some people collect ropes and paddles; I like to learn methods. A friend told me you were paddling your girl at Roy’s place, and you did something that blew their minds. I’d like to learn it if you’d teach me. If you like, I can teach you any skill I have in exchange.”
He sits there glaring at me. I try to match his stare in a respectful but firm manner. I am doing a pretty good job till his slave deep-throats me, and her tongue slips out to lap my balls. My eyes roll into the back of my head, and I groan pretty damn loud.
“Do you know how hard it is to be an Asian in a white BDSM community?” he asks.
“Like being a white man at an Asian supermarket, I’d guess.”
He blinks. “Yes. But it’s different, too People expect me to have ancient secrets. They’re too damned ignorant to realize I’m just a dom like them. Took me six months to convince them I don’t know shit about Japanese rope bondage. Six fucking months! If I were Japanese, I still wouldn’t know about it!”
His slave licks one ball and then the other. I am doubling over with pure pleasure. I can still listen, though.
“That is really unfair,” I say. “It’d be like expecting a white guy to know how to ride a horse or throw a lasso.”
“Exactly!” he yells. He stands up and starts pacing. “Fucking bigots! It’s hard enough finding a BDSM community, much less one that doesn’t think an Asian man is there to teach them some sort of sexual martial arts!”
I nod in sympathy. His slave nods, too, but I think that’s just part of her technique.
“I have been going to that dungeon for a year,” Jong rants. “And not once has someone asked me why my slaves are so obedient or how I teach them to become addicted to cock-sucking. Instead, all they ask me is why anime has so many schoolgirls and where they can buy black kimonos!”
“It’s a damn shame,” I say. “So, uh — oh, fuck, that’s nice — how did this whole seven-strike paddle thing start?”
He storms over to the paddle and picks it up. “I was spanking my slave, and I decided to just fuck around a little. You have to change up your pattern every once in a while; every dom knows that. I was distracted and started hitting her ass in time with the music. They were playing Enigma, I think. I was smacking her ass, thinking about what I was going to wear to Mom’s house the next night, and someone asked me what special method that was that I was using.”
I laugh and then stop myself. To my relief, Jong laughs, too.
“I know, stupid fuck,” he says. “So I told him it was the seven-strike paddle technique. A half-hour later, I had to leave because all the assholes kept bugging me to teach it to them.”
The slave applies a higher degree of suction to my cock, and I feel both legs tremble. “Yeah, I can see how that would piss you off.”
Jong sits back down. He’s fuming.
“Look, Jong,” I say. “Here’s the thing. This BDSM thing is a mystery to people of any race. We have books claiming to teach the one true way of domination, Web sites swearing to make your submissive as loyal as a Tennessee bloodhound and stuck-up doms giving lectures on the best way to make up a long pretentious title for yourself. BDSM people are stupid because there are a lot of people trying to make them feel stupid for not buying their bullshit.”
“Dumb-asses,” he says with a particular Southern twang.
“Yeah, but you know, they have to learn different, and they are not going to until people like you explain it to them. The seven-strike paddle technique, that’s pretty funny, but you can’t sell them a line of bullshit like that and then get mad that you’re such a good liar.”
He closes his eyes and considers what I said. I close my eyes, too, and try to think of my grocery list to keep from coming. The sexy Korean woman between my legs just keeps sucking.
“You’re right,” Jong says. “Thank you, Eric, I’m glad you came today.”
“Hold on,” I say. I open my eyes and look down at the slave. Her head is bobbing along as though evolution has created the perfect cocksucker. Her lips are tight, her eyes look up at me with sexual serenity, and her hair never once gets in front of her face. She is a work of art, and I shout my approval as I came in her mouth.
“All right, now I came today. Well, I guess I should be going now,” I said. His slave keeps suckling as my cock wilts.
“Feel free to drop by whenever,” Jong says. “I have a feeling we could learn a lot from each other.”
“Now that you mention it,” I say, “how do you teach a slave to be addicted to cock-sucking?
He laughs. “Can you teach me English crop swinging?”
I think of Heather and the promises she made. “Would you mind if I told people you taught me the seven strikes?”
He shrugs. “Sure. Who knows? You might get some ass out of it.”