tagBDSMAfter Party

After Party


I'm sitting in the center of a stranger's plush white couch. I have perfect posture, a function of the two corsets I'm wearing. The first is severely laced satin, the second a more decorative high shine buckled vinyl. Next to me is a semi-vanilla voyeur. What he and I and twenty or so others are watching is a very flexible blonde getting hogtied by a pseudo vampire. The voyeur leans in to whisper, "How do you know them?"

"I don't," I say, with a near polite smile.

There's something about being covered tits to toe in tight shiny black that makes me dismissive of any man near me. At times though, the insults grow boring, so I give in to the one in a latex suit with too much sparkle on his canines. I name him Frederick, and send him for more water.

The bondage, spanking and public humiliation scenes wind down. I notice the water kicking in, and sobriety coming on. The crowd begins to make its way towards the creeping morning.

Frederick wants my attention. "Let's light this room up," he says.

"Sure," I say, then look him straight in the face for the first time. He's clearly James Bond's evil twin, so I ask what he's got in mind.

"I've got a single tail in my bag. Would you like to use it on me?"

"Sure," I repeat. I look away. He waits.

"Go get your bag," I order. Fucking subs, I'm thinking. Do they always need constant direction?

"I'll be right back," he says.

In a few minutes, he's back at my feet.

"Where's your bag?" I ask.

"It's over there." He points to a black rubber messenger's bag against the wall. "But I only want you to do it if you really want to."

The statement is so ridiculous I can't answer. I put my hand out and he helps me up. I put my hand out again and say, "Give it to me."

Frederick uncoils a black leather single tail whip and hands it to me.

"Go over there," I say, pointing to a spot on the other side of the room a whip's length away. He goes.

The room has noticed. Conversations stumble and fade. Clusters of fetishists and admirers of pain turn their backs to the walls.

I walk over to Frederick.

"Are you going to take your pants down?" I say. It's not really a question.

"You'd like me to take my pants down?" he asks for effect.

"Yes," I say, and turn to walk back to my spot. When his latex pants are bunched around his ankles, he bends over, palms flat on the coffee table.

I react to the crowd's eyes. I smile, fondling the whip, then pause to examine my target.

My heart rate increases as I pull the length of the whip through my left hand. I pinch the tip between my fingers, and feel the rush coming. I'm ready.


The connections begin. My target sways, a deep pink welt rising low on his left ass cheek. His hands never leave the table.


Each time I connect, I draw the whip back through my left hand to its tip, and the motion becomes rhythmic.

My arm, my hands, his whip, his ass, the crowd. We all feel it the same way, because we all see the same thing: long shadows of blood coming close to the surface of Frederick's previously pale skin. We all know the pain; we all feel the exhilaration.

Black leather, rubber, vinyl. Skin, crimson, moist, flushed.

And now I'm changing. This started as sport, performance, a gift, to the house, to Frederick, to myself. But I'm changing, with intangible physicality. It invades logic.


The connections continue. I am swelling. I am erect. The marks on his ass and thighs multiply, turn purple; my fingerprints. With each connection I feel him, and it's evident that he feels me back. He sways to the left, then centers. To the right, then centers. Never a sound, never a movement outside of the rhythm of our exchange. Now my smile is sincere, and my pussy is wet.

Everything inside me is bursting against the casing of my skin. I pause to breathe deeply, to look around, to stop time.


I begin to hear. The comments from the crowd come into focus, begin to make sense.

"Did you get his balls yet?" someone from the couch asks.

"Oh yeah she did," someone from the left wall answers for me.

"What about his right side? You got him more on the left," someone else points out.

Everyone's a critic.

This is my cue to launch into our final act. My smile turns to snarl, and I answer the crowd but address his ass.

CRACK CRACK CRACK CRACK CRACK...faster, harder now, in time with berations:

"You mean here? How about here? Or here? Is that better?"

I lean in, faster, harder.


I stop.

It's not enough, but it's time.

I smile again, and Frederick straightens. He pulls his pants up, then turns to me as I walk towards him. I look in his face. It glows, his eyes gleaming. I lay my palm on his cheek.

"You're good, aren't you?" It's not really a question. "Thank you," I say.

I hand him his whip, and walk away from him to the door.

Back home in my twisted sheets, tiny vibrator buzzing against my clit, insisting that I come, I do. I'm shaking, but I want more. I want to feel him again, to examine the marks. I head for the shower. The water is too hot, and behind my eyelids, I'm back there, sitting in the center of a stranger's plush white couch.

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