by Ashley Hind
Much of this party will inevitably end up in the pool. Some females will be forced at cutlass point to walk the plank - or “diving board” to give it its more common name. This will lead to see-through, clingy clothes. Some might even shed an item of top layering to avoid getting it soaked. Ganders will be up, smouldering looks will be given, bodies will get closer and reticence will give way to daring. But, however much the temperature rises, it will never get beyond this. It will never become a fuck-fest because that is not what Pippa is about. There is sin in this house but it will never be allowed to flourish as I want it to. Whatever secret hopes exist, the collective will won’t ever be sounded out to make it happen. It will just fizzle out.
Right now I need to be in a place where it won’t. I need to see real swords being used to slash clothes open and force cocks to be wanked hard for my delectation. I need to open doors and discover bound bitches behind them, down on all fours and being stuffed hard and remorselessly by fuck machines. I need to see studs in gimp masks with cuffed hands and straining erections, aimed and ready for my command to ravish the tied bitches’ tight arse holes. I need to wipe the lecherous smile off the faces of all these husbands who would love secretly to spurt inside me and have me scuttle off in mute acceptance with their secret intact. I need gushing and stickiness, screams and nastiness. I need a drink.
Two imported palm trees in pots flank a makeshift bar in the corner of the diving board end. I aim straight between them.
‘I want a cocktail,’ I say to the footman serving.
‘Certainly, Madam,’ he says to me. ‘Which one can I make for you?’
I look at him as if he has just uttered the stupidest thing possible.
‘The nicest one, of course,’ I say.
Samson has tracked me and I don’t make it out of there.
‘Well now, my luscious hussy,’ he whispers, the lecherous grin back again. I can almost feel the pulse in his prick through his leather breeches. ‘You might not be free but I can be, anytime, should you want. We could sail away for an afternoon perhaps, get ourselves a cabin somewhere. I’ve certainly got some pieces of eight I want to share with you.’
What the fuck? Is he talking gold or implying that he’s got eight inches stashed away down there? He hasn’t, because Heidi would surely have told me long ago. He doesn’t look anywhere near pissed enough to be this brazen, so what’s his excuse?
‘Why on earth would we do that?’ I ask. He smirks and then raises his eyebrows, his gaze firmly on my cleavage.
‘Well, because it might be lovely and you are a woman who no doubt has needs, judging by your outfit tonight. I am a man who thinks he could give you what you want. I know you have always liked me, Anoushka, and you definitely know that I like you. Plus I’ve got one hell of a timber you might like to shiver.’
He is chuckling as he says this but my blood is rising. How dare he remind me of the hateful part of my system that attracts me to this kind of assured arrogance?
‘Is that so? And do you think your wife would be fine with this?’
He literally doesn’t give a flying horse of a fuck. He thinks he is doing me a favour, running to my desperate pussy’s aid now I have no husband to see to me. He thinks me easy meat and him too good - too rich - to resist. It doesn’t bother him that the one he wants to betray is also one of my few friends. It is just so easy for him; no moral problem whatsoever. He surely can’t have a prick that big, can he? Heidi would have told me.
‘I was thinking of making it our little secret,’ he says, those eyebrows popping upwards again. ‘That’s a tasty looking cocktail you have there - what’s it called?’
The fire is in my stomach but I don’t let it bubble through me. I’m too good a player for that. This conceited shit; this would-be cheat. This is how my husband would have done it too, how every husband here does it.
‘It’s called “The Pant-Wetter”,’ I reply, keeping my cool. He thinks it’s an in. I can see the brightness of triumph in the eyes.
‘Oh really? And why is it called that?’
I take another slow sip, looking right into his cheaty bastard eyes, and then casually toss the remaining contents onto his crotch. He gasps but still takes the glass as I hand it to him. I push past without further comment. It won’t faze him anyway. He won’t even have to explain it. Few saw and he will just leap into the pool to cover the evidence. Then he will put it all behind him and start on someone else. He won’t bat an eyelid about this when he next sees me. It is all so shallow and I need to be gone from here. I leave and get into my car. In the darkness off comes the hat, the patch and the pain in the arse sleeves. I knew the party wouldn’t keep me long, so I came prepared. I swap my lacy skirt for a tight one in black leather and my bodice for one to match. I don’t want to be recognised and that pirate outfit is a one-off. You have to be scrupulous. It’s the smallest details that will jump up to bite you.
One good thing I learned from Madam Destiny was where to go to get what I need. The club is nearly an hour’s drive from Pippa’s but it is apparently worth it. It seems a little incongruous away from the main cities but suburbia hides just as many sexual deviants, which is how my erstwhile bondage instructor has managed to build up such a successful business there. Tonight the club is running its theme night entitled “Houses of the Holy” and I have a thing for convent-themed filth. Best of all, the club has viewing galleries and private rooms, so you can observe in isolation before deciding when and with whom you wish to take the plunge. It is fine watching films and taking a lesson, but I need to see the workings of this black world in the flesh, up close.
Just being in the night gives me comfort. People think that darkness is a place for bad deeds, for fright and uncertainty. For me it is the only place where one’s true self can be fully revealed. The party I just left had light. It had fun and smiles and a veneer of sexiness, but beneath this it reeked of superficiality and sterility. Drugs and alcohol were used as the mask to let the guard down, but it could not defeat the innate need for pretence at moral decency, for arrogance, flashiness, judgement and falseness. Everyone was playing a part beyond either pirate or whore. Under the fun was an air of edginess and desperation. Cut the power and that party would have given them what they all secretly wanted. In the cloaking black those half-exposed tits would have been groped and sucked; cocks would have been grasped by unknown hands. Darkness is a place for truth. It is a place for venting one’s real desires without shame, of giving your all at last. I want people who are willing to part with their soul to show their passion, and these people come out where darkness reigns.
I feel the pull of it; a gnawing urgency. I am driving fast through unlit back roads. There are no tail lights ahead to help show the turns and breaking points. There are lights behind, the same ones that seem to have been following me since I left Pippa’s. I had the amusing notion that it might be Samson, driven blue-balled to chase me into the night and beg for one last effort at seduction. The champagne has me under its effects but if it was a policeman, with the way I’m driving, he would have pulled me over by now. It’s lucky for them that they haven’t. With how I’m feeling right now, any male stepping into my path is likely to get way more than they bargained for, especially in this pitch blackness.
On the seat beside me my phone lights up and vibrates to indicate a message received. It will be Pippa, wondering why I’ve left the party she threw for my benefit. I flip the cover and see it is actually from an unrecognised number. The fizz starts in my belly. I feel my chest tighten. I feel the involuntary tingling pulse. The last three times an unsolicited text has been sent to my phone, the message has left me shocked by its abrupt dirtiness. Accidents occur at these speeds, especially when the driver’s eyes are not on the road, but still I risk opening the message to view it. The screen glares bright, framing the single short sentence. It says:
I want my fingers in
your cunt.
The jolt has me quickly needing to right my steering. My teeth clamp and I feel the heat inside. It is surely there through anger; self-righteous disgust at this sinister, perverse invasion of my privacy. Just possibly it is caused by something else, because my thighs are squeezing tight together. The throb is there between them. The face coming to mind is Samson’s. I see that arrogant leer. I picture him locked in the toilet firing off his nasty text, or maybe risking death to type it as he chases in the car behind, all because I brushed him aside and left him with his cock pulsing for me. I think of his mindset: the thrill of opportunity; the desire rising before my husband’s body was barely cold. I snap the phone cover back shut.
‘You presumptuous, thoughtless shit-bag,’ I hiss into the darkness, but the throb is still there and I’m driving even faster.
Madam Destiny told me you wouldn’t even know the club was there. It is shoehorned between and spread above other businesses. The door is nondescript wood with a coded button entry. Fortunately for my bondage tutor she gave up this code without a fuss. I don my mask: a feline one in black leather with diamante and fur. Then I press the number six three times, and hear the click of the door latch being released. I try to remember that I don’t do nerves. My host greets me and quickly sets up an account for my night. He asks me what name I would like to go under, for ordering drinks and so forth. It seems a little contrived, since my real name is right there on my credit card, but I like the effort to let the guests immerse themselves in anonymity.
‘Black Widow,’ I tell him. It is a little lame but he has caught me on the hop. There is no pretence that money doesn’t talk here, but plenty of it has gone back into the place. It feels sophisticated, classy even. It feels somehow less clichéd than the fancy dress bash I was just at. He enquires if I have any special requirements for the evening. He is efficient and slick. He looks a little like Detective Stark, with his sharpness and quick eyes. There is nothing seedy about him, nothing to suggest he runs a place for perverts. He is unashamed, non-judgemental - except perhaps when it comes to those who do not see the thrill of his world.
‘I wish to watch for now,’ I say, with as much assurance as I can find. I’m trying to sound like I know exactly what goes on here but not knowing the rules will frustrate me. I hate not being in control. I am shown to some stairs and a well-built hunk of maleness beneath full-length rubber is summoned over to assist my assent in these heels. I am led up onto a gallery with a clear glass floor. Two horizontal chrome bars prevent anyone pitching down into the main area below. There is a line of bistro-style table and chair sets in the shadows on the back wall. A few have occupants, all in fetish wear, who eye me up and down, gauging instantly that I am a goddess and not a slave. The hunk gimp signals an empty table and pulls the chair out for me. He then hands me the bar menu and points at the sleek phone set into the black resin table top before promptly leaving me.
Looking down through the glass floor I can see the tops of heads of those on a large open area primarily for dancing, but also, it seems, for the humiliation of slaves. Some writhe and grind to bassy techo music whilst amongst them a masked man on all fours is getting the naked arse cheeks poking out of apertures in his rubber trousers spanked by a teetering dominatrix. I see others being guided around by leashes or crucifixes on chains around their neck. Fetish wear is compulsory here. The outfits are eye-popping and many have dressed to the theme. Rubber seems to be the in-thing for naughty nuns and kinky Mother Superiors. Best of all, there seems to be as many females present as men. Who knows how many are paying guests and how many employed by our host, Mr Slick?
I examine the drinks menu. There is similar to what you would find in any good bar but there seems to be an extra one on the front of the price tag. I choose a glass of champagne and lift the phone handset. There is a low ringtone followed by a short silence, and then a polite male voice addresses me.
‘Good evening, Mistress Black Widow,’ it says. ‘How may I serve you?’
Well, that’s pretty fucking neat. I guess the phone tells them which table is making the call and the gimp knew which table he put me at. I’m still impressed.
‘A glass of champagne,’ I say, not bothering with any other pleasantries because I’m a goddess and they don’t concern themselves with such things. ‘Have you not got anything better than Pommery?’
There is another short pause.
‘A glass of Dom Perignon will be with you directly, Mistress,’ the voice cuts in again, ‘if that pleases you.’
It certainly does. The atmosphere is one of excitement, anticipation and collective confidence that anything could happen here tonight and most surely will. Nearly everyone wears full or partial masks or such heavy make-up it renders identity impossible. Ages and physiques are not easy to gauge under the costumes but it certainly isn’t all fat baldies. I think there is more than a fair share of beauties of both sexes here. Subs and doms are easily distinguishable. The grey area for me is working out if they come together or meet here. Are couples here just to enjoy the thrill of the place, to drink and dance amongst like-minded people and get turned on by the costume and eroticism, or are they seeking others to swing with? Do singletons hunt here, or come to be picked up and made use of? They come here to smile, that is for sure. High spirits pervade because they are all in this together. There is no posturing or falseness or desperation to impress. All is cool.
A waitress dressed as a nun delivers my champagne. Her skin-tight latex habit has two holes cut to leave her breasts protruding and bare but for the crosses of tape over her nipples. I want to fuck her and I don’t even know her. The potential is making my pussy wet and my insides wrench. The red mist of desire is gathering behind my eyes again. There is so much I want to do but I cannot get a focus on it. One of my first memories comes to mind: that of me in a sweet shop with my father there besides me.
‘Can’t you just choose something, you horrible specimen?’ he said, his patience lost as I dithered to ensure the right choice. I didn’t get any sweets that day because he dragged me out to teach me to be quicker in future. I never really did know why I was so besotted by him. I guess it was just in the genes. A grown-up version of that sweet shop feast for the eyes is now before me but I am stuck to my seat. I want to go down there now and pluck one of those slaves and have them serve me, but I don’t want to do anything that sees me looking less than the best. I don’t want to do anything that earns me scorn from the other doms, since I’m unsure of the etiquette and still not clear exactly what to do with any slave I do pick. I need to see it in action but I have a feeling I won’t see it all tonight. I think too much will be done behind closed doors, which makes the frustration bubble harder through my body.
The handset in my table buzzes and I pick up. The voice from before informs me that a show is about to begin in The Cell should I wish to watch it. I say I do and the hunk gimp comes to show me along to a small, dimly lit cubicle not much larger than a confessional. There is a chair facing a wall with a little letterbox-style hatch in it, plus a ledge for my drink and for another phone and menu to sit upon. I peruse the latter and find that, as well as prices for drinks, it also has prices for the show. They are kindly giving us the introduction for free but after that each five minute section gets increasingly costly, presumably as the action heats. The phone has a button next to it. Pressing the button will indicate to the management a desire to watch more of the show.
The light in my cubicle dims right down and the hatch snaps open to give me a view of The Cell. It is maybe twelve feet square but it’s hard to know for certain as the lighting is concentrated on the centre of the room and the rest of it merges into shadow. What is easy to see is a block like a foam mattress on the floor, with a male form lying face up upon it, legs straight and arms out to the side to form a crucifix shape. Both the male and the mattress are completely covered in black latex, shrink-wrapped over him so tigh
tly to the mattress that you can make out the muscle definition on his enswathed body. He has holes for his eyes and also one for his nose, so that he can still breathe with his mouth fully covered. Best of all he has a hole for his genitals, and the thickest piece of gorgeously naked dormant male meat I have ever seen languishes upon his thigh.
The mattress is upon a larger, flat, circular board fixed to the floor, which very slowly rotates to give me a view of every angle of him. The balls are big and tightly swollen due to being tied off with lace. They look almost as good to suck as that cock of his. In fact, all is good except for the copious bush of dark pubic hair, but to my delight I think that this is going to be addressed, since sat on his chest and glinting under the lights is an open cut-throat silver razor, the mere sight of which has my heart banging. I have no idea how many are getting this view. I passed three cubicles similar to mine and there were perhaps two more beyond it. Maybe each side of the cell has similar. However, I doubt any other of the occupants are as excited as I am now.
I hear a door swing open and heels upon the solid floor, and then a naughty nun in a latex habit barely long enough to cover her backside steps into view. She slowly circles the mattress and prostrate form, in the opposite direction to its spin, building my tension until I almost want to throttle her. Then she goes to a metal stand only partially in my view and comes back holding a can of shaving foam. She circles him again, the hateful little tease, then steps onto the circular board and squats down at his crotch, sticking her backside straight out, which yawns open and makes me gasp because it is completely bare under her dress. That’s when the hatch snaps shut again. I decide that this tedious show is all a bit tame for me and enough is enough.
