dildo_halowe (dildo_halowe) wrote in smut_club,
dildo_halowe
dildo_halowe
smut_club

Three days.

The party was intense, three days full of kinksters of all shapes and sizes, many of whom I already knew personally. But most of what happened was between me and my boy alone. My boy, my Sir; it varies and I reveled more than ever in our switchiness this weekend.

Night one: watching, chatting, planning, imagining: A woman and her husband playing wrestling games, her strong, smooth body dodging and whirling around him, his brute strength overwhelming her over and over, bodyslamming her comically to the mats. They bounced and pounced through the room of mattresses until we were tired from watching them and from laughter.

A perfectly-formed woman I know getting tied down and tickled, scratched, shocked with an electric fly swatter and otherwise tortured by four people, and all the while screaming and occasionally stopping to direct the scene. Difficult bottom, pushy bottom, but a form made of water and air, flowing legs and hair, breasts pointing impossibly skyward, mouth open in the 'o' of a whirlpool, endless in pleasure, her energy like the crackle of lightning between high clouds.

Near them, my boy and I played, and, unbeknownst to me, we were being watched as much as they were. I was face-down on the bed, my limbs slipped beneath the elaborate rope-bondage that had been placed there ahead of time, wishing that the ropes were really immobilizing me. Meanwhile, the boy gave me the treatment: hand-spanking, paddling, then flogging with the heavy-cow flogger, surprisingly stingy, that I'd bought about a month before. I remember little: screaming, him stopping always exactly at the right time, when I was ready to die if he didn't. Afterwards, everyone said how much they'd loved watching: my bottom's easy redness, my screams and writhings, the little whimpers I'd make when I needed to be hit again.

Later, in the mattress room, my boy and I made love, feeling the fun of voyeurism and exhibitionism both as the sounds and sights of sex all around us heated up the room. Now and then the feeling of being watched, the short burst of terror as I step outside myself and realize what I'm doing, here, in front of everyone. Then the audience blends in, becomes part of the thrill.

The thing about a three-day party is that you don't have to do everything in one night. You can stretch it out, plan, connive, even.

Saturday we went shopping for collars. I wanted a sub collar for him, something to lock him down in. He preferred the spiky ones and bought one that suited him; I bought a generic leather dog-collar and decided to keep them both around.

Later that afternoon, it was back to the party. He was tired, and my suggestion that I tie him up and do terrible things to him was welcome: he finds it relaxing. Somewhere in there he made a remark about the "second collar," though earlier he'd said quite clearly that he was uncomfortable going under in public. I took my chance.

A St. Andrews Cross was set up in one of the rooms, away from the main action. Folks were mostly meandering, eating dinner and chatting at this point, so I took the opportunity to do a scene less public. I laid out everything I would need, including a few doozies I borrowed from a friend: a small, plastic, birchlike tool of several narrow dowels in a bunch, and a fairly wide lucite cane with a little tail at the end for singletail-style whipping without the skill set.

I had him take off his shirt. He was jolly, looking forward to the beating, extraverted and dominant as ever.

Then I put the collar on him. And locked it.

He was down in an instant. His head dropped; his eyes closed, and I knew then that nothing would matter to him except what I told him would matter to him, until I unlocked him.

He works this way, snapping in and out of subspace as if it were on a lightswitch. I take my time, sometimes snapping in when my top demands it, but never snapping out, always swimming, rising slowly, gasping for air.

I told him he was to address me as "my lady," and that he wasn't to say anything unless I asked him a question or he needed to call his safeword. He's had trouble in the past; if he doesn't like something he'll snarl at me, snap out, and, if I continue (having, in my view, been issued a challenge), he'll turn the tables on me, or just get mad. I decided to establish yellow and red safewords - and to impress upon him that he must use them if necessary. The St. Andrews Cross helped me here; it wasn't that stable, and could fall if pulled on too much. I told him so, and that if he fell, the cross would go with him. He was docile and compliant after that.

I fastened him to the four points of the cross and started in with the banjo picks I bought for scratching. I scratched out a tic-tac-toe; I carved my name into his back. I had some fun making red scores on his white flesh. Then I went for the Wartenberg wheel.

Having been warmed up, he was ready for it; I was able to push harder with it than I have in the past. It's frightfully sharp, more so, I think, than the usual medical model. Over his scalp, down his neck, his spine, almost into the crevice of his ass, which I was beginning to ache to redden. Across his body; over the letters I'd scraped. Then, I was bored, and said so.

I paddled him, flogged him with a short, light, deerskin (and made it hurt), flogged him hard and long with the heavier-duty cow flogger (my pride and joy), and helped him discover new sensations with it. Finally, I played a bit with the birch and the cane/whip, alternating thuddy and stingy, administering varied sensations, enjoying his varied screams and moans.

At the last, I untied him, leashed him, and led him to a room with a bed, where I wrapped him in blankets. The moment I unlocked the collar, he was up and out and talking. Energized, and ready to go for the night. I, on the other hand, needed a nap.

He planned for us to play with another couple I'd been eyeing: a beautiful, shaved-headed femme and her long-blond-haired subby man, the kind with sparkly blue eyes with crinkly edges. They both had claws: one set with one point per finger, one with two, both quite sharp and concentrated. He collared me, but didn't lock it; I think that was a mistake. I was in that inbetween space that isn't quite subspace, where I wanted to be sure he was in control, but didn't know if he was. He kept asking me what I wanted; finally, I said, "I want you to have a plan."

Slam! Down I went on the mattress, my arm held behind my back, my ass given several sharp slaps as punctuation to his hissed command in my ear: "Don't you ever top from below."

Frazzled, sore and in perfect subspace now, I waited for his next command.

While he stroked me, went down on me, fingered me and otherwise ravished me, the beautiful couple sat on either side of me and scratched. At one point I needed a kiss, desperately, and asked for one: the woman gave it to me, full and sensual and lovely. Eventually they naturally stood aside, and the boy and I finished on our own, once again surrounded by the sounds of the other partygoers.

By this point, exhaustion had set in, and snow was falling furiously. We'd no way to get home, really, so we stayed, sleeping, and again loving, in one of the beds.

Sunday was an interesting conundrum: leaving the hotel continued to be, if not impossible, at least highly undesirable in the continuing blizzard. We ate a less-than-mediocre breakfast, then spent much of the afternoon planning and scheming as to how we would manage to either stay or go.

In the end, we stayed for the afterparty. I donned my claws once again and scratched my boy's back while he and another man scratched, nipple-tortured, and manually stimulated a petite lady in her 40s we'd all been admiring.

Later, the topic that had arisen late the night before, so late that we were too exhausted to do anything about it, resurfaced. One of the hosts wanted to do a scene with me and another woman. The other woman, the same electric-sparking perfect body and gorgeous mind from the other night, had done the scene before, and assured me of its pleasures.

It involved a double-ended dildo, two Magic Wand vibrators, and the host in the middle to turn the dildo.

A group gathered, in addition to those already sitting around; for this scene, we chose the most public space at the party. In front of everyone, with great encouragement, the two of us threw energy around and through one another, and came over and over again. My boy sat behind me, stroking me and holding my head; another friend of mine, currently breastfeeding, sat behind her, her occasional spontaneous lactation surprising me by adding to my excitement.

The party at last had reached its ultimate point for me; the major thing I'd been waiting for, the truly bombastic experience I had felt was missing, had occurred. And it was at last time to go home.
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