It was a private, invitation only BDSM party at our favorite club. The dungeon that’s on the second floor. The dungeon where anything goes as long as you clean up after yourselves.
I’ve spent too long living in the online BDSM world.
I almost worked myself up into thinking that it would be naked, kinky fuckery from the moment we arrived until the moment we left. As if I forgot that the normal rules wouldn’t exist. The private party, in my mind, was different from the typical open-club party. I assumed that this was a kinky fuck-fest – and I was nervous. Maybe I’ve just read too much BDSM erotica.
It was a typical gathering of kinksters. We talked. We nibbled on vegetables, crackers, and whatever else had been set out. We laughed – a lot. The Doms (my own included) pulled out their toy bags and compared
implements of torture toys. More than one sub had their ass thwapped as a Dom tried out someone’s favorite paddle or pervertable (stores aren’t safe from people like us). Every time Daddy decided to test something on me, I made a nervous face and then stuck my ass out and smiled a little.
I’m making friends in this world. Not go-to-coffee-discuss-life friends (although I admit I could use some of that). But the kind you get excited to see, enjoy their vibes, and can just bullshit with – about anything, vanilla and kink.
I, wrongly, assumed since the party was private it was all about the play. No, our friend, a very cool Domme, just wanted to host the people she really likes instead of the “masses” of kinksters. Daddy and I were honored to be invited – honored enough that getting a babysitter wasn’t a question, it was just a matter of making it happen.
I’m no voyeur.
I freely admit I’m a bit of an exhibitionist. I enjoy (in a nervous, nauseous way) taking my clothes off at the club, getting spanked or flogged, and then hanging out while I recover in nothing but a blanket that barely covers all the important parts. I like knowing eyes are on me. I want them to desire me or at least desire what’s happening to me. I have fantasies of someone approaching Daddy after such a moment, wanting to take part, play, whatever.
But I’m not a voyeur. Watching doesn’t turn me on. There have been times it’s almost been a turn off instead. But that night I learned it does fascinate my writer brain.
Two of our newest friends are a Domme and sub “couple”. She’s a Domme with many years in the lifestyle. He’s a gay man who happens to be her slave – with a contract, House name, and all (very old school BDSM). None of their play is sexual. It fulfills needs they both have, though. Her need to control and to give pain. His need to submit, receive pain – and let that pain wash away the worries and stresses.
We watched them play for the first time since we’d met. She worked him over. A switch they both know joined in. The flogging, spanking, ass-beating went on for 45 minutes. He would have taken more from her, but she finally gave him a good enough smack with a toy that he went to his knees and admitted he was done. Prior to that, no matter what she did, every time she checked in with him, he’d call out, “Green!” (Green means go, yellow means slow down, and red means stop everything – in case you wondered.) She kept looking at her audience in disbelief.
I watched her use claws, paddles, cords, canes, floggers of all materials. She used straps, ice, wax, and a roller she made that looks like a Wartenburg wheel on steroids. I watched his back turn fiery red. I watched him sway from side to side in a trance. I watched his leg shake the same way a puppy does when you find their sweet spot. I watched and watched…and filed it away. It was fascinating, but I wasn’t turned on.
Then it was our turn.
When they finished, everyone was ready to go downstairs and take a break. Everyone but Daddy and I. Once it quieted down, we were ready to amp it up. We kissed. He rubbed my clit through my dress and my panties. I wrapped my arms around his neck and held on for dear life. I was ready. He was ready.
Draped like a complete wanton over the spanking bench is one of my favorite positions. My ass is open (minus a small amount covered by the scrap of fabric I called underwear), my pussy pressed into the bench. I’m laid bare and made vulnerable for whatever strikes his fancy.
As the one who put out all the toys, I know what he had to choose from for the night. The cane, three types of floggers, three types of paddles, the crop, and even a piece of thin tubing that felt similar to the cane (ouch!).
I had just watched my submissive friend go for 45 minutes and still want more. I didn’t know if he’d be part of the audience, but I wasn’t going to let him beat me. (Yes, I know, it isn’t a competition, but I wanted to show how much I could take – to the audience and to myself.)
I can’t really tell you what order anything happened. Not now. The endorphins swamped me quickly, and all I could do was ride the waves of pain and pleasure. Smacks from his hand, thuds from his paddle, stingy bites from the floggers. My thighs, ass, and back felt it all.
When he wanted to push me, he struck hard and fast. My body arched up, my head thrown back. Sometimes I squealed. Sometimes I made no sound at all as the very breath was knocked from my body.
Each time he checked in, I gave a version of green. We went from a strong “Green!” all the way to a “yellow-y green” meaning don’t stop a thing, but maybe stop what you’re doing with that one toy, can I go back to 30 seconds ago? That’s what I meant, but I was never capable of saying it that clearly. Each time he stopped, each time I was forced to come back to myself, my body shook uncontrollably. The moment he let me go and continued, whether I sank into the spanking bench in total bliss or tightened every muscle with my back arched, I stopped shaking.
Whenever he found the just-right rhythm, my hips would gyrate on the bench. My body was pulsing with need. It would only have taken a single spark and I would have burned the place down. We weren’t there for fucking and orgasms, but my body didn’t care. I moved in time with the music, silently calling and pleading to anyone who could see me to grant me release.
By the time he was done, I was a mess. Wild hair, red marks, bruises forming (we saw them when we came home). He’d finished with panache, and continued to rain hard, powerful blows down on my ass until I was nearly crawling off the bench to get away from the pain.
He gathered me into his arms, held me close while we waited for my brain to function with my body again. I nearly fell asleep once or twice. I was incapable of speech, but I gave goofy grins and thumbs-up when asked how I was doing. Eventually, I put my clothes on, ate a few bites, and joined the land of the living.
Cock, balls, and growling
I put my glasses back on my face just in time to watch a man, a total stranger, take off his boxers. Just as I was blinking and getting my bearings, I looked ahead and five feet away from me was cock and balls. A decent cock, heavy balls, and a vulnerability he hadn’t possessed when he’d arrived earlier in the night.
When I first saw him, he had this air about him that turned me off. Cocky was my first impression (from a distance – I never spoke to him). Once he was naked in front of all of us with the Domme who’d just done 45 minutes on her own slave, the only thing cocky was his groin. He was quiet, subdued, and clearly nervous.
She worked him over with wax and ice. Until he began to growl. Growl and snarl. I don’t mean grunts that could be considered growls. I don’t even mean short growls used to punctuate moans and groans. The man growled. He was still growling when Daddy and I left the club 45 minutes later.
While we watched, I was fascinated at the way the muscles of ass clenched and moved. I stared at his feet as he flexed them with each drop of wax. His growls were sensuous at times – growls of pain and pleasure combined. I wasn’t turned on, but I wasn’t turned off, either. I was filing it all away.
In one evening, I went from laughing and joking to analyzing to losing myself completely and back to analyzing (this time through a hazy mental fog and a completely relaxed body). By the end of it all, the idea of a kinky fuck-fest (the result of an overactive imagination) didn’t make me nervous anymore…and the idea of watching didn’t turn me off anymore, either.