Saturday, November 27, 2004
Service: * * 1/2
Food: N/A
Ambience: * * * *
Babe Count: * * * * *
I’m finally wearing my skirt out. It’s one I bought at Truworth’s a lifetime or two ago with Jacqui. Had to dye it black, cos it was kinda beige, and was a bit see-through. Being black is kinda convenient now, cos it fits with the fetish theme of the party I’m at tonight.
I’m leaning forward at the moment, hands far apart, grasping a chair. My chin is up, and my head is back. My eyes are closed.
Pern is dangling the ends of her handmade leather flogger over my back, tickling my spine. Without warning, THWACK!, she brings the whip down on my back. Then gets into a slow rhythm of flogging me gently.
It stings a bit. Not really sore. It’s more the mystery of it that’s appealing.
This is my first proper play party. Never been to anything like this. And later tonight there’s going to be a major demonstration of advanced BDSM play. Kinda hardcore stuff.
Right now, bent over this chair like this, I’m submitting to being flogged because I’m keen to know what a sub feels. How do they get subspace out of this? I’m also doing it cos I want to learn how to flog people. When Pern strokes my neck and my cheeks and my lips with the whip, it feels damn scary. And I can only imagine that if she were seriously lashing me, I would really be trembling in serious fear.
But this is my first ever flogging, so she’s taking it very easy. And I’m thrilled to be receiving a lashing from a babe as nice as her. Pity she’s not available as a playmate! She is actually a submissive who is in a relationship with a Dom. As far as I understand it, she only gets to be played on by him. Sigh.
Now it’s Karen’s turn. I take the lash, and start giving her some gentle swipes. She’s instantly in subspace the moment the first stroke lands.
But there’s a reason for that. She’s been close to subspace since she came to my place to get dressed for the party. See, I’ve trussed her up in a Japanese bondage knot called a karada. It’s basically a full-torso harness, a bit like a corset, kinda like a fishnet around the entire body. It’s tight, and it looks spectacular. She’s wearing a skirt and top over it, but nothing else.
For me, knotsmanship is really good fun, and a huge turnon. I was a Boy Scout for three months when I was a kid, and knotting is what I really enjoyed. Still remember everything I learned there. So when I saw a karada in a picture on the web, I just HAD to replicate it.
I thought it would take about an hour to tie it, and I wasn’t certain how much rope I’d need. So I bought a few ten metre drops of pure cotton sash cord. Really neat stuff.
Turns out that trussing her only took a few minutes. And was a real turn on for both of us. So we got a little waylaid, and I had to untie her so we could both shower again before the party, and then retie her. Yummy.
The door opens to the demonstration area. All of the perverts file in, along with a few of the Goths, and one drunk oke who looks like he’s definitely not at the right party.
“Hey!” shouts the drunk oke. “You gunna have sex or something here? Fuckin hurry up then!”
Nobody shuts him up, and nobody chucks him out. Strike one against the management of this club.
The music is hyper creepy. It’s that vicious, bass-voiced numb stuff, the kinda stuff that makes your hair turn in at the roots. And the lights go dimmer. And suddenly three big guys pounce on this skinny, runty guy with a blonde quiff, and they force him to the ground. They drag him kicking and flailing to the table in the middle of the floor, and they strap him down, belly up.
At the same time, the most intensely beautiful pony girl, wearing a full head harness, gets led to a weird bondage platform near the wall. A very large guy wearing seriously ironic bondage gear arrives with a muthafucka of a bullwhip, and lashes her to the apparatus.
He sets a candle up between her legs, and sets himself the silly task of extinguishing the flame by cracking the bullwhip just inches above her leather-clad pussy. Each crack of the whip terrifies the girl, and she shudders grotesquely. But she keeps her feet together, and the candle stays where it was set. That’s cos her feet are completely immobile, and she wouldn’t be able to move them even if that whip cracked in her crack.
While the leatherman with the shoulder spikes is getting more and more frustrated at not hitting the candle, the dude tied to the table is still writhing. Until a dominatrix appears carrying candles, accompanied by her two acolytes. One is a beefy guy, naked except for a tiny pair of shorts and a pair of 8-inch stiletto shoes. The other is a petite girl with a slight paunch, and a weird flesh coloured stick-on bra and black panties.
The dominatrix mounts the table, and spends a minute or two watching the man squirm beneath her. He looks like Flea from The Red Hot Chili Peppers. She looks like something out of a sex shop catalogue for bondage babes. She leans forward, and with great ceremony and ritual, nails him with a humungous backhand across the side of the head. He instantly falls silent, and she reverses the swing, and nails him on the other side of the face.
By this time, the big guy with the bullwhip is realllllly sweating. And the candle is still alight. He eventually darts up to it, blows it out, laughs, and bows to the audience. He has an assistant, and she looks like she bought her gear at a magician’s conference. She could be a Kempton Park version of Siegfried and Roy. Redhead. Huge breasts. Flames painted onto her red boots.
Now that the candle’s out, the leatherman and the big redhead untie the pony girl, shift her into a new position, and retie her. He then starts working on her with a smaller whip.
On the table, the dominatrix has just pulled on a latex glove. The guy beneath her is trembling. She gestures for the bloke in the highheels to step forward, and she ties a ball gag into his mouth. She whispers in his ear, and he kneels on the cold, hard floor, hands behind his back. Oh man. That’s gotta hurt.
She gestures the girl closer, kisses her firmly, open mouthed, whispers in her ear. The girl steps back, then forward again, this time leaning over the blonde male submissive. She kisses him long, hard, grindingly, and he arches his back to kiss her as passionately.
The dominatrix makes a gesture, and the girl steps back. A razor blade appears. And then the carnage starts. She slowly runs the blade over the man’s chest, drawing a gash following the shape of his collar bone. Then the other side. Then she gestures, and the girl brings up a goblet filled with red wine. Which she smears into the wounds, rubbing them so that the blood smears all over his chest.
The drunk straight guy who should have been chucked out starts shouting, “When are you gunna fuck?? Come on! Fuck already!”
And eventually someone asks him to leave, which he does, piloted as he is by an enormous fat guy with ginger hair. The drunk is shouting at the top of his voice all the way, “You’re all fucking pussies, man! Boring! When are you gunna fuck!!!???”
But he’s got a point. This IS boring. Esoteric and hardcore as it is, essentially, BDSM is NOT a public thing. It’s a headspace thing happening in the minds of the participants. Sure, there’s a grim fascination in seeing a dude having his chest carved up. But would I wanna do that? Nah. Would anyone wanna watch it? I dunno. As for the whipping folks with the pony girl, she’s clearly too petrified to actually have any hardcore flogging going on.
Show’s over. We mill out of the room. Someone tells me that the pony girl is actually a professional model, and that she has never had a BDSM encounter in her life before this. Turns out she was supposed to be totally mummified in rope, but that she was freaking out so badly that all they did was light stroking with the whip.
Karen and I decide to leave. But not before I show off my karada. A couple of my new BDSM buddies are here, as well as a dude known to readers of this site as MMM. We go into the performance room, and I tell Karen to take her clothes off. “No,” she whispers. I fix my dom stare on her, and she immediately takes off her top. Then her skirt. Totally naked now apart from ten metres of rope webbing, in front of about nine strangers and anyone who cares to enter the room.
MMM looks at the knotting. “Mind if I touch?” he asks. I nod. He starts figuring out the knots. “Wow, man. Awesome,” he says.
“I’ve got another rope here,” I say. “I’ll show you how to do it.”
His girlfriend takes off her clothes, leaving her bra and panties on. And I start the knot, explaining each step, while MMM makes mental notes.
Karen’s still standing there, in her karada. When I’m finished with MMM’s girlfriend, I ask Karen if she’d like to be untied. “Yes please,” she says.
So I unlace her, while everyone watches.
She puts her clothes back on, and we leave.
“Hey!” says a young Gothic chick at the door. “Where’d you get the skirt???”
It’s a cargo skirt, with about six pockets dotted all over, ideal for a dude who carries gadgets around with him.
“Truworth’s,” I say, “about two seasons ago.”
“Cool!” she says. “I also do all my shopping at Truworth’s. But Truworth’s Man.” She gets up, and she’s wearing a pair of gents trousers. And she’s got four little bars threaded through her skin, just above her breasts.
“Jesus!” I say. “Doesn’t that hurt?”
“It did,” she says. “But it’s fine now.”
“Can I touch them?” I ask.
She lifts her breasts a little, and I touch the bars, feeling the ridge of skin above the submerged part. Very eerie. “Cool,” I say, not entirely knowing whether or not I mean it.
“Your skirt rocks, dude,” she says, and I get a minor boner as Karen and I walk to my car.
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