Just a Swingin' Pt. 04

"Where the hell have you been, Blake?" asked Krystal.

Blake pulled out a chair and took a seat at their table for two.

"I went off-site today to get some culture," he said, flatly, "Didn't you get my note?"

"No, I did not," she said, slapping her menu down, "You missed a great day at the pool - lots of activities."

"Well I'm sorry, Krystal, if you think the ancient ruins of Tulum don't measure up to the hairiest chest challenge or the belly-flop contest."

Blake snapped his white napkin and laid it on his lap.

"And you slept through the Meet-n-Greet last night!" she added.

"How did that work out?" he asked, perusing the menu, deciding not to mention his surreptitious witness of Bruce's kissing between her hips.

"I'll have the linguine with clam sauce and a glass of Kendall Jackson Chardonnay," she said to the waiter, and then quickly modified her order.

"On second thought, bring the bottle."

"I'll have the seafood salad and a glass of sparkling water," said Blake.

"Anyway, I met the perfect couple - the Doolittles," said Krystal, leaning in, "They're about our age, second time around for both of them, and they've been swinging since they married twenty years ago. Cassandra is a hoot, and Little Dickie is a doll."

Blake raised an eyebrow.

"Little Dickie?"

"It's his nickname," said Krystal, "I guess he's a little light in the knickers, but who cares? He's handsome, and charming, and funny too. He said it's not the size of the pencil; it's how you sign your name."

She giggled.

The waiter opened the bottle of Chardonnay and poured a quarter-inch in Krystal's glass, prompting her to perform the perfunctory swirling, sniffing, sipping, and accepting. Having consumed a case of it every week for as long as Kendall Jackson was a thing, there was no surprise.

"I showed them your picture," she said, "Told them you were hung like a horse."

Blake frowned.

"Jesus Krystal. That's none of their business."

"None of their business? Are you aware we're at a swinger's resort, and I'm trying to hook us up?!"

"Acutely," he answered, moving the seafood around his salad, which had just arrived, "So, what happened after that?"

"I ran into Bruce," said Krystal, shrugging, and Blake knew by her demeanor she had no intention of disclosing the particulars, "His wife is still sick - poor thing."

Blake put his cutlery down, just so, and placed his palms on the table.

"There is no Mrs. Bruce, Krystal. He's a fucking liar."

Krystal reached across the table and squeezed Blake's forearm.

"Listen, I don't know what's going on with you, Blake, but you need to snap the hell out of it. Now, we're going to finish this lovely dinner, then head to the disco, and if the stars align, we're going to pair up with the Doolittles."

Blake raised his hand and the waiter approached.

"Would you bring me a wine glass, please?"

And whether it was his brewing envy of Bruce, or Krystal's force feeding of full swap, something had crawled under Blake's skin, and for the first time in many years, he was going to scratch the itch with a drink in his hand.

********

Dickie Doolittle perched his spit-shined, size-8, Florsheim shoe on the barstool footrest as he made small talk with Krystal. He was markedly shorter than she was, as many men are when she's wearing her fuck-me stilettos, but he was a hearty, happy-go-lucky guy - a perfectly fine fellow. His wife, Cassandra, was medium in most ways - medium looks, medium build, and medium brown hair, which was medium length, but she was exceedingly confident and entertaining, and that amped her attractiveness quotient. They were, in fact, just as Krystal had described them - the ideal couple to help escort she and Blake through swing territory. As far as the mission at hand went, the Doolittles weren't overly aggressive, but they didn't waste time either.

"May I dance with your wife," asked Dickie, putting his arm around Krystal's waist, and snugging her to him. She put her elbow on his shoulder, and bent the top of his balding head to peck it with her lips.

"Have at it," said Blake, raising his empty glass to send a message to the bartender and to Cassandra, that he was more interested in drinking than dancing, but 2 martinis later, his hands were on her hips and hers were on the floor, as she ground her rhythm section against his groin to the beat of Boogie Nights. Krystal and Dickie had been all in at the outset, glued together in an awkward embrace as they swayed out of step to the music - his head on her breast - his hands under her barely-there dress.

Then all of sudden the filthy stuff got the better of him, and Blake dizzied.

"I need to sit down," he said, stumbling to the bar and dropping his forehead onto it. He was half asleep when the half that wasn't heard a soft sensual voice - her melodious timbre accompanied by a gentle rub-a-dub between his legs.

"Are you going to be OK?"

"Oh Krystal," he moaned, "You... you know... you KNOW I want you."

"Mmmmmmm, show me," she murmured, as her arm wrapped his slumped shoulders, and the palming of his pants intensified.

"Not here, Krysssssstal. You have to ssssssstop," he slurred, attempting to lift his head and open his eyes, "Cuzzzzzzzat's going to make me cum."

"I don't want to stop," she hummed, the vibration tickling his ear, the relentless rolfing rock-hardening him.

"Imeeeenit, Krysssssstal," he said, urgency gripping his groin, "IMEEEENNIT!"

And shortly thereafter...

KABOOM!!!!!!

********

"Ughhhhhhh," he groaned, as the blinding light of day filtered through the uneven curtains, bringing him back from the dead against his will. He fumbled around for his phone, and found himself in selfie mode.

"I look even worse than I feel," he said, pressing his fingers to his face in an attempt to smooth the sleep creases, "Why did you let me drink?"

"I am not the boss of you, Blake," said Krystal, as she brushed her hair up into a ponytail, "and I thought it might lighten your miserable mood. Didn't you have a good time last night?"

"I'll let you know when I remember it?" he said, returning his attention to his phone, "I got a text from Barb," he added, "Nothing earth shattering - just her standard 'I miss you.'"

"I got a text from Ken too," said Krystal, "He wanted to know how my sister and I are getting along, and get this: He wants to pick me up at the airport, take me to a nice dinner, and talk about his plan to go back to work. It's so strange - he always hated his job. On a more exciting note, what did you think?"

"About what?"

"About Cassandra, silly. It looked like you two really connected. First the dirty dancing, and then the handy under the bar. She said she could revive you and boy did she ever."

"That was Cassandra?" he asked, the Texas dry rub coming to the fore of his misty memory, "I thought that was-"

"You don't remember? Dickie and I weren't there for your ah... big finish, but we could hear the whole bar cheering you on."

"Jesus, not again."

Krystal laughed then yanked her sleepshirt up and over her head, prompting Blake to dash to the patio to avoid her. She'd become quite comfortable unclothed, particularly around him, but he'd found it damnably difficult to remain relaxed in her unveiled vicinity, not just because of his naturally reserved disposition, but because of his ever-growing attraction to her.

"You didn't really dance the Forbidden Polka with Little Dickie, did you?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder, and happy to see she had dressed for a run on the beach. She sat on the chair and bent to tie her shoes.

"No, just some third-basing, but tonight's the night," she said, rising then lunging into a runner's stretch, "Me and Dickie, you and Cassandra... full swap; that's what we came here for."

Blake knitted his brows.

"We did NOT come here to full swap," he said, irritated, "I didn't even know what the hell that was, until you told me."

Blake marched back to his bed, feeling the need to take cover in it before finally saying what needed to be said.

"Look, I'm happy to be your wingman, Krystal, but don't drag me into your fantasies. I have interests of my own, and watching you have sex with another man isn't one of them. By now you should understand why that is!"

He rolled away from her and jerked the sheet up over his shoulders.

Krystal cocked her head in confusion, and walked to his side of the bed. He could feel the weight of her curiosity bearing down on him.

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?" she asked.

"What I'm saying, Krystal, is that... that... that-"

"That WHAT!"

But he couldn't follow through.

"That I won't be around after dinner tonight; I have a date."

"A date?" she said, pressing her palm down into his shoulder, and rotating him to face her, "With whom, may I ask?"

"We'll talk later," he said, feigning a yawn, "Right now I need to sleep this off."

********

Blake took measure of himself in the full-length mirror. It was 10 pm and the gym locker room was empty, providing a perfectly private venue to adorn himself in his BDSM kinkwear. He'd worn it before, but having just barbered his balls and chest, and polished himself with posing oil, the black vinyl pants and red harness suspenders looked and felt exceptionally dreamy. And although the hood obscured his vision and made it harder to breathe when breathing harder, it had been absolutely indispensable in the protection of his privacy when playing online. Tonight, in this relatively safe space, he may have done without it, but he wasn't yet ready to fully reveal himself to Krystal, so he adjusted the holes over his eyes and mouth, and buckled it at the back of his neck.

The disco was in full swing, with a large contingent of attendees representing in black - the official hue of the taboo. The alpha females were accented with the accoutrements one would expect - whips and handcuffs mostly, and as they teased their willing submissives via interpretative dance, Blake realized for the first time, the old 80's favorite by Depeche Mode was BDSM-inspired.

"There's a new game we like to play, you see

A game with added reality

You treat me like a dog, get me down on my knees

We call it master and servant

We call it master and servant"

He scanned the room. There was no sign of Krystal or Kenya, but Tina was there - not in typical FEMDOM attire - but choosing to assert some authority, while reinforcing her youthful countenance, by donning a candy striper garter dress, complete with a nurses cap and a rubber stethoscope. Blake tapped her bony shoulder; it felt as fragile as a number 2 pencil.

"It's me," he whispered in her ear, then put his index finger to his lips in a preemptive Ssshhhhh.

"Hey, you look smashing!" she said, "Kenya will be real pleased."

Blake blushed under the hood.

"Is your wife coming?" she asked.

"I sure hope not," he answered, and Tina nodded, taking his meaning.

"Hey, there she is!"

Blake turned to look behind him, expecting to see Krystal and prepared to avoid her, but it was Kenya, dressed as an African Queen - gold fabric and finery playing off her carbon black skin like precious metal resting on a newly tarred roadway. She was the manifestation of breeding, grace, and majesty, her golden robe hanging from her broad shoulders like a curtain on a 3-foot rod. As she made her way to him, deliberate but detached, the lights on the disco ball glanced off the bling on her tiara and the jeweled eyes of the snake-head atop her regal staff. The sea of merrymakers parted for her, smiling, waving, bowing, and Blake swelled with pride, knowing every man in the room would give his left nut to be owned by her, to worship her, but tonight it was he who had been chosen as her love slave. With all eyes on them, he expected her to address him, admire him, anoint him, but instead, she floated by him.

"Better follow her, Mr. C.," said Tina, with a friendly shove.

Blake stepped quickly to catch up to Kenya as the crowd closed the gap around him. She rounded a corner and opened the ladies room door.

"Get up there," she said, pointing to a teak bench along the back wall.

"What are you going to do?" asked Blake, stepping up on the bench and turning to face her.

"I'm going to inspect you," she said, yanking his zipper down, "and then I'm going to-"

Blake jumped when the door flew open and slammed the wall behind it.

"Well well well," interrupted the Superhero, hands on her heart-shaped hips, "What do we have here?"

She was the spitting image of Lynda Carter as she had appeared on the poster taped to his college dorm room wall. The surprising exception was the Supercups in her Superbra which were absent - her Supertits made manifest, providing her with two additional Superpowers.

"This is tonight's contestant, Cher," said Kenya, working Blake's slim black trousers over his hips to his knees. Paradoxically embarrassed and elated, his flaccid flag unfolded then began to beat a rhythm against his inner thigh.

"Now that's what I call potential," said Cher, "May I?" she added reaching for him.

"No," said Kenya, slapping Cher's hand away, "He needs to stay limp for this."

"For what?" asked Blake, his eyebrows knitting with concern.

"Stop asking questions, Sub. It's irritating," she said.

Kenya reached into her gold leather bag. There was the sound of clinking and clanging as she drew out the handful of metal. Familiar with its purpose, but having never had the pleasure of accommodating the contraption, Blake closed his eyes and breathed deeply while Kenya maneuvered the base ring of the chastity cage over his semi-erect penis and testicles, and aligned the opening at the tip with his urethra. She took a golden key hanging from a long chain around her neck and locked it.

"Good boy," she said, patting his bare ass, and Blake almost swooned with her approval.

"How much for him?" asked Cher, crossing her arms and resting back against the counter.

"This slave is not for sale," said Kenya, zipping him up.

"How about a nipple-O?" Cher asked, "50 bucks."

"You insult me," said Kenya, helping Blake down off the bench.

"Seventy-five then," said Cher, hoisting her butt up onto the countertop between the two sinks, "Come on Kenya - if he's any good, it won't take long."

Blake listened to the negotiations with mixed feelings. On the one hand, he'd come there tonight to be with Kenya - to be her submissive. On the other hand, what could be more submissive than having your Mistress hire you out to another, and lucky enough for it to be Wonder Woman.

"One hundred for 10 minutes," said Kenya, her palm extended. Cher smiled and dug around in her Superpocket, presumably for cash, but when she handed Kenya a piece of beige paper, Blake noticed it was monopoly money.

"She is paying for a nipple orgasm - nothing more," said Kenya, "You are not to stimulate her in any other manner. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mistress, but-"

"Hush, Sub. I will return in 10 minutes. Remember what I said."

Blake turned to face Cher; she was 'come hithering' him. Cautiously he approached her, then suddenly, like a spider, her long limber limbs shot round him and crushed him to her. She gripped the buckle on the back of his neck and trained her tawny nipple between his lips.

"Mmmmmmmm," she moaned, as he opened wider to suckle, "Did you know, little lamb, there are people in this world who can orgasm by nipple stimulation alone? And that I am one of those people?"

He didn't know that but was hoping it was a rhetorical question. Having been gagged with said nipple, he was unable to answer.

Cher rested back on her elbows, dragging Blake by the back of the neck. He anchored himself on the counter to keep from falling onto her, then embraced his mission, making love to her nipples with more zeal than wisdom, so when she planted her boot heels on the edge of the counter and stretched the gusset of her Superpanties to the side, he ALMOST forgot his place in the social order of things.

"Finger me," she whispered.

Almost.

"I can't," he burbled against her skin, "It's not allowed."

"I won't tell," she said, wrestling his hand between her legs, "Come on, lamby, I want a big finish. I'll tell Kenya what a good boy you were."

"NO!" he said, then took to the breast again, suckling, kneading, flicking, and nipping.

"I'm so close... SO CLOSE," she cried, twerking her twat against his torso, "Finger fuck me! PLEASE! I won't tell! I PROMISE! Ah... AH... AHHHHH!!!"

And then it was all over but the shouting, and Kenya appeared just in time to bear witness.

"Did you break him, Cher?" she asked.

Wonder Woman sighed, sat up, and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. Her hair moved.

"Nope," said Cher, straightening her wig, "He's as loyal as the day is long, and he's got a mouth on him like a high-priced whore."

"Wait!" he shouted, "This was a test?!"

"The first of three," said Kenya, "And you have demonstrated your loyalty, but if you speak again without permission, you will be punished."

"Punished how?" he asked, having completely missed the gist of the admonition.

"Help me get him over my knee."

"My pleasure," Cher answered, and a rush of adrenaline seized him as the women worked in concert to get his pants down around his upper thighs and bend him over Kenya's lap with his feet and hands on the floor.

"That will be all, Cher," said Kenya, dismissing her, "And as always, I thank you for your service."

SMACK!

Blake shook with the sharp staccato. It was the surprise of it - it didn't really hurt.

"You must do as I say, Sub."

SMACK!!

Harder than the first, but bearable.

"Do not disappoint me again. Understand?"

SMACK!!!

That one reddened him, and there was unexpected pleasure in it.

"Say 'Yes Mistress, I understand.'"

SMACK!!!!

FUCK! That one hurt!

And all of a sudden he felt so divinely vulnerable; it was excruciatingly arousing.

"Yes Mistress, I understand," he whimpered.

"One more and the punishment will be complete."

Blake braced for the incoming.

SMACK!!!!!!!!!!

And his incarcerated cobra wept a tear.

********

TO ALL YE MEN WHO ENTER,

STOP RESISTING, LET IT HAPPEN, LET GO.

So read the sign on the theme room door, warning the casual consumer what to expect on the other side of it.

Blake followed Kenya through the crowd to a dark corner and took a seat next to her in a semicircular leather booth. Tina skipped along behind, chatting up some friends along the way, then sat down - Sub sandwiching him tight to his Mistress. Before too long, the sights and sounds of the female sovereigns overlording their serfs, and the spicy scent of Kenya's sex lighting from between her legs, had Blake's senses reeling and his expectations soaring. He turned to look at Kenya, his eyes asking permission to kiss her. She read his mind and put her index finger to his lips.

"Tina first," she said, angling his head towards the teeny Tonto who was ready and willing, and after some sweet first-kiss variety kissing, she flung her twiggy leg over him, and they went at it. Tina wasn't his type of course, but man-o-man could she serve a purpose - this time her feather-light frame lap dancing on his caged crusader taking him back to that fateful night, 24 years ago, sitting on his couch in Cranbury with another nymphet bunny-hopping on him. Barb had stayed late at the Christmas party that evening and sent him home to relieve the babysitter. He relieved her all right - relieved her of the notion he was stupid enough to fuck his neighbor's 17-year old daughter, but not before she had mounted him, tore her teeshirt off, and ground out an orgasm against his Levi's 501 fly.

"I want you to make Tina cum for me, here at this table," said Kenya, bringing Blake back to the moment, "You have 10 minutes."