A fetish party in the city

Master tells Francesca to wear her shortest skirt to the party, and no underwear.

Before they leave, just as she has applied lipstick and sprayed perfume to the inside of her wrists, inhaling deeply the scent of raspberry and vanilla -- her Master's favourite -- he points to the living room door. 'In there, now,' he says. She obeys, curious. Has she forgotten something?

But when they walk in, he just pulls her towards the sofa and bends her over the back of it. 'Lift your skirt up,' he says. She does as she's told. In the next instance, she can hear the rustling of clothes and realises he's undoing his trousers. Before she can say anything -- she wants to protest, because she's perfectly preened and groomed and ready for the party -- he has opened her legs and his cock is inside her, stiff like a rod. She closes her eyes. God, it feels good. She doesn't care about the party, suddenly. So what if her make up smears? She can fix it. She pushes her hips against her Master's, feeling his cock press deeper into the soft walls of her pussy. He thrusts once, twice, deeply. His hands are on her hips, his fingers digging into her. She doesn't want him to stop, the thought of getting in the car and driving for an hour just to go to the house of some people she's never met -- it's not appealing at all. Can't they just stay at home and make their own party?

Master stops thrusting and pulls his cock out of her. She can feel her pussy juices run down the inside of her thigh. She wants more. 'Please, Sir,' she says.

'We have to go,' he says. 'Don't worry. You'll get fucked a lot more at the party. And not just by me, either.'

The party is in the city, in a once-grand townhouse somewhere north of the river. The people who own the house are both lawyers, working in large corporations and leaving their respectable public exteriors on weekends while they host hedonistic gatherings in their home. They have two teenage daughters who'll be away at a sleepover. The house is old and sturdy, with thick walls which will insulate the sounds of moaning in ecstasy or pain, both of which Master promises to Francesca in abundance.

When they arrive at the address Master had put into the GPS, Francesca looks around and wonders what kind of people live here. This isn't a place like Francesca's own neighbourhood, a family-oriented suburbia where on weekends husbands fire up the barbeques while the wives take the children to swimming lessons and ballet. This is a two-income, both-spouses-highly-educated sort of area, where neither person had been wiling to give up their career for kids and family; life here revolves around nannies and tutors and cleaners and other kinds of domestic help to make the family life manageable despite both parents working sixty-hour weeks. Instead of visits to garden centres and watching family movies on Saturday evening, these people dine at The Ivy and watch new plays at the Royal Court, read Financial Times and have accountants who review their small but profitable investment portfolios. But behind the façade of money, success and middle-class respectability, what secrets do they hide? In how many of these houses are there wardrobes containing leather and latex or bedside drawers hiding handcuffs and dildos bought on Lovehoney?

Everyone has secrets. Francesca has learnt that much.

They ring the doorbell and wait. Inside, there are muffled sounds of music and laughter, footsteps and someone yelling I'll get it. A moment later, the door swings open and a smiling man with grey hair, probably in his sixties, beckons them in. They've been instructed to wear outer clothing that looks inconspicuous, whatever they might decide to wear underneath. Francesca now passes her long coat to the host, much to his delight. He compliments her outfit, a pleated schoolgirl skirt and a see-through top stopping just above mid-rift.

He offers to show them around the house. On the ground floor, he explains, all the rooms are open to entertainment. He takes them to a make-shift dungeon, with several spanking benches, still unoccupied. Next to it there is a kitchen with a breakfast bar, each bar stool occupied by a guest wearing some kind of fetish outfit and sipping champagne with the poise of someone at a wedding reception.

There are two toilets, a porn room with two enormous sofas and a large-screen TV with porn on a loop, a two-sided mirror room where people can fuck and know that they're being watch from the other side. A cloakroom where the guests can change and leave their things.

'It's very safe here,' the host tells them. 'Don't worry about your possessions. I personally know everyone.'

Francesca considers that there isn't much that could be stolen from her, except her phone, as all she has brought is just her coat and the clothes she is wearing. But it's good to know the people here are trustworthy, she thinks. That could become quite important, depending on how the night develops.

Upstairs the man shows them to a number of bedrooms. Some are dark and completely occupied by large beds or, in one room, mattresses on the floor. 'This is for the swingers,' he explains. Other rooms are brightly lit and already full of people playing. Francesca sees a woman sitting on a dildo machine, her minidress bunched up around her waist and her pussy looking completely impaled on the plastic penis, enthusiastically operated by a man watching her from a few feet away, playing with himself. There are women lying down on beds with their legs spread, being pleasured by vibrators passed from one person to the next. A completely naked couple are making love in one of the bedrooms, slowly and with gentle intimacy as if they were in their own marital bed. In another room, a woman dressed just in stockings is bent over the back of chair, while a man is hitting her with a belt. Next to them, a dark-haired teenager is on her knees, giving oral sex to two guys sitting on the edge of the bed. Francesca can't take her eyes off the girl's face, her open mouth sliding down the shaft of first one cock, then the other. One of the men has got a hand in her hair and is pushing her head down onto his cock with a lot of force. Every few seconds, the girl seems to gag but she doesn't stop the up and down motion on the man's penis, until the other man beckons her over to his own shiny, rock-hard cock.

The host motions for Francesca to move along.

'It's important to be discreet,' the host says. 'If a door is closed, it means whoever is inside doesn't want you to go in. If it's wide open, you're free to enter and watch. Always ask politely if you wish to join in. Don't stand too close and never touch anyone without their permission. If the lights are turned off, don't turn them on without asking. If you want to play with yourself, it's usually okay but it's nice to check if anyone minds, first.'

Francesca feels like she's Alice in Wonderland. She's never seen anything like it. The scenes are surreal and yet, also, banal. There is a lot of nudity, and yet every naked person looks the same, Francesca thinks, the more nakedness one sees the less strange it is. Everywhere she looks there are erect penises and glistening pussies. The music is soft and mixes with sounds of pain and pleasure. It doesn't feel real. She struggles to imagine that in a little while she will also, like those women, be naked, writhing in ecstasy and agony, in front of everyone.