After surveying my wardrobe choice my best friend threw up her hands in resignation and wailed, “I thought I told you to wear something sexy tonight?” I’m not surprised that she disapproves of my outfit. I went for comfortable and casual, a simple blouse and jeans. Nothing says sexy like understated simplicity. Right?
Cassandra obviously had something a bit more daring in mind for me to wear to tonight’s outing. “Is this really the best you can do?” she asked out of sheer desperation.
I shrugged my shoulders unapologetically and earned an exaggerated eye roll in response.
A woman on a mission, Cassandra wasn’t about to be deterred by my feeble attempt at an apology. Sashaying through my one bedroom apartment with the flare of a runway fashion model, her lecture began. “It’s a fetish party, Amy. Fetish. Party. You can’t go dressed like that. You look like somebody’s mom.”
Her tone is one of utter exasperation that grates me to the core. “As a matter of fact, I am somebody’s mom,” I grump in response. I’m trying very hard not to take her tirade too personally. She doesn’t mean to insult me. She is just young and far too eager to take a trip down the rabbit hole. I only wish she wasn’t so determined to drag me down with her. Cassandra is ready to meet Mr. Right and settle down. Somehow, I don’t think Mr. Right is going to be found at any fetish party. Not that I managed to convince her of it.
She lives for the attention her particular brand of drama attracts. Her wardrobe choice will definitely achieve her goal. Tonight she wears a form fitting leather corset and barely there hip hugger lace skirt. She is all boobs, long legs, and curves. On her, the outfit works. I can’t imagine myself wearing something like that. Ever.
I like to be anonymous, just another face in the crowd, a wallflower, and the hodgepodge assortment of clothing in my closet make my goal pretty easy to achieve. Cassandra growls in sheer annoyance at my wardrobe and tosses another pair of faded, worn out scrub pants into the growing pile on the floor. “There’s got to be something in here,” she mutters to herself.
In protest, I grumble, “I really don’t want to go.”
“I heard that,” she snaps. Cassandra pauses her desperate pawing through my clothes long enough to glare me into silent submission before resuming the task. I’m fairly confident that she won’t find what she’s looking for in there. I don’t own anything sexy. Certainly not anything she’d deem fit for a fetish party.
I’d rather spend a rare Saturday night off in my pajamas curled up on the couch with a good book or maybe, if I wanted to live on the wild side, a DVD. But not Cassandra, to her a quiet Saturday night spent at home alone would be a waste. Life is too short is her modus operandi. I suppose she’s right. I do need to get out there and live a little. However, a fetish party wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.
I told her to go for it when she first mentioned the party. I just didn’t think she’d be so hell bent on dragging me along with her. Cassandra is a pack animal at heart. I’m definitely a loner. It’s not that I don’t like people. I just prefer my own company to that of others. I thought the age difference between the two of us would have been enough to force her seek out the company of her pack rather than that of a battle weary lone wolf like me for tonight’s adventure. But, she has made dragging me along to this damned party her top priority and I can tell by the determined gleam in her eye. I’m not getting out of it.
Sometimes, I don’t know why Cassandra and I are friends. Opposites attract? I’m a recluse. She’s a social butterfly. I’m reserved and careful. She’s energetic and reckless. I follow the rules to the letter. She is determined to break every one of them. Sometimes, I think she forgets that I’m over twenty years her senior. I’ve literally got underwear older than she is. She’s a vivacious twenty-three year old single and I’m a jaded forty-six year old survivor of my own life.
My plan is to build a new life for myself. Cassandra has made it priority number one to help me do it. The only thing is, she’s going about it the wrong way. She’s too young and naïve to realize that men aren’t a necessity. They’re a luxury. A luxury I really don’t want to risk at this juncture.
Cassandra squeals in delight over something she found stashed in the back of my closet. “Oh…this is nice,” she says in hesitant reserved appreciation. “A sexy little black dress, hmmm…perfect.” She holds the dress to my shoulders and fingers the plunging neckline. “MILF…yeah, that’s it. We’ll go for a classy, chic, illusive MILF look tonight.”
Cassandra chuckles and winks at me as she tosses the mass of her long blonde curls over a bare, lean, perfectly tanned shoulder with a flick of her dainty wrist. “Mom I’d like to fuck,” she explains with the patience one would use while speaking to a small child.
“How about I stay home and live vicariously though you,” I counter. Of büyükçekmece escort course, she isn’t having it. Before she can begin to strip me out of my clothes. I shove her out of my bedroom and slam the door in her face. “Mom I’d like to fuck,” I grumble to myself. “Great, that’s just what I need some post adolescent male with mommy issues following me around like a damned puppy.”
I pull off my clothes and toss them into the heap piled on my bedroom floor. Standing naked in front of the mirror and cramming my generous body into a spandex shaper reminds me of just exactly how many years separate Cassandra and I. She’s still young enough to be firm in all the right places. As for myself, birthing two babies, the insanity of the years afterwards, and middle age has definitely taken their toll.
Cursing the day I splurged and bought the dress and matching shoes. I wobble precariously in the spiked pumps and tug self-consciously at the short hemline. All of the important things are completely covered, but I still feel naked.
The stretchy black knit of the dress clings to what curves the shaper underneath manages to create and drapes gracefully in folds of soft fabric to hide my more obvious flaws. The plunging neckline accentuated in bits of lace and strips of satin hints at cleavage I truly haven’t got and never ever had to begin with. Studying my reflection, I begrudgingly admit that the overall effect isn’t half bad. I look respectably nice. I don’t quite manage to pull off elegant and refined though. The illusive Mrs. Robinson look Cassandra was going for is utterly lost on me.
Cassandra hasn’t attacked my makeup job yet, but I’m sure it’s coming. I’m nervous enough about wearing the stiletto heels and such a revealing dress in public. I’m eager to avoid another lecture that will only serve to add to my anxiety. I apply a bit more lipstick to my lips and a quick pass of the blusher brush over the tops of my breasts. In truth I’m hiding, not ready to go out into the world. But, Cassandra, much like my daughter, Janie, has the impatient zeal of the young and won’t wait forever.
I don’t worry with trying to do something with my hair. Cassandra won’t dare to mention it. She knows better. My hair is off limits and a battle she will never win. I’ve earned every silver strand invading my natural dark brown color. I love my hair long and full and have paid no heed to Cassandra’s nagging reminders that the eighties are history. I don’t care if a cut and dye job would make me look younger. I don’t want to look like every other middle age mother of two grown children. I want to look like me and that’s non-negotiable.
My lack of enthusiasm for tonight’s adventure shows in my expression and I try to replace the frown with a smile. I truly have nothing invested and absolutely nothing to lose except for a couple of hours of my time. In my mind’s eye I imagine scantily clad bodies and leather collars, whips and chains, and all sorts of nefarious implements intended to invoke pain and pleasure. Games intended for the young and beautiful and definitely not for someone like me.
I rationalize and suppose that wouldn’t be much of a friend if I let Cassandra go to the party without me tagging along to keep her out of trouble. It really doesn’t matter if leather isn’t my thing. After all, I am sort of responsible for her interest in such things anyway. I never should have lent her that damned book in the first place. I thought she’d read it and we’d have a good laugh. I never intended to pique her curiosity.
Shyly, I emerge from the bedroom. Cassandra stops playing with Mooch, the haggard old tomcat that showed up on my doorstep one day and never left. Jokingly she wolf-whistles at my appearance. “Girlfriend, you are definitely going to get laid tonight.”
She quickly snakes out a hand and adjusts the neckline of my dress, flashing more cleavage than I’m comfortable with. “What if I don’t want to get laid tonight?” I hastily rearrange the dress and cover what little assets I’ve got. Cassandra has more than enough bare skin showing for the both of us.
I’m embarrassed and put out by her attempts to take care of me. People do what they’re good at and I’m good at taking care of people. Fortunately, there’s no shortage of people that need taken care of. Unfortunately, the only person I can’t quite seem to manage to take care of is myself. Now that I can put myself first for once in my life, I find that I lack the courage to do it. It’s easier to play the role of caregiver than it is to hand the reins over and let someone else take care of me.
Honestly, since the divorce and moving halfway across the state in the hopes of starting over again, my life has been a little empty. I need something that’s solely for me. I’m just not sure what though. I’m fairly certain that much like Cassandra isn’t going to find her Mr. Right at a fetish party. Whatever it is I need isn’t going to be found there either.
I fatih escort pack the essentials into a small black satin clutch. Cassandra frowns at my collage of the barest of necessities and pulls a condom out of her massive purse. She gives me a knowing wink and tucks it into my bag. “Honey, give the energizer bunny the night off. Everyone wants to get laid and if you can get a little spank and tickle while you’re at it, why not?”
With a massive shove she forces me out of the safe haven of my apartment and into her car. I glare at her and she flashes me a brilliant smile. The type of perfect smile only a couple of thousand dollars in orthodontist bills can buy. I should know. My son Jack has that same type of overpriced smile.
She thinks tonight is a night where anything is possible and maybe, it is. Maybe, it isn’t. Either way, I have a feeling that after this little excursion down the rabbit hole, we’re both going to be just a little bit wiser about the world.
It isn’t easy running an empire. Not that I’d describe the club I built from the ground up as an empire, but it certainly isn’t a shabby dive either. BDSM is not a warm and fuzzy past time. The world of ropes, and leather, and whips, of submission and dominance is anything but hearts and flowers and definitely not for the meek or weak kneed. BDSM is a lifestyle of pain and pleasure and one not entered into lightly. What I provide in this little club of mine is a community service. A place to test limits in safety. A sanctuary where people can be whoever and whatever they truly are without judgment or ridicule.
I’ve seen the deep longing for acceptance and understanding etched into too many desperate faces. I’ve seen too many scars marring both body and mind. Remnants of countless scenes that went too far or were carried out by inexperienced and sometimes cruel hands. Finding love isn’t always easy and too often the price is simply more than anyone should pay. I’ve trained the harshest of dominants and broken the most stubborn of submissives. But, I’ve done it the right way, the safe way, and never without limits.
Tonight, we are the public face of BDSM in our community. Tonight, we’ve opened the doors to our kingdom for the curious and bold to explore. Some will shyly watch from the sidelines. A brave few will test the gentle taps of a paddle applied in just the right way. Those fearless and open to possibilities might find themselves a place to belong. But, no matter what happens. We’ll be on our best behavior. We’ll be the poster children for SSC, safe, sane, and consensual. I’ll make sure of it. I’m the master of this little kingdom of kink and whatever happens under this roof does so because I’ve allowed it.
Being so in control is just a side effect of my dominant nature. It’s as easy as breathing to a man like me. I issue commands and my submissives scamper to please me. And please me, they do. No matter if they fail at the task I’ve set them to do or not, in punishing them I find the truest and purest form of pleasure.
The other dominants in the club yield to my whims out of respect. I am the king of this empire they take for granted. Unfortunately, I’m not getting any younger. They know the time is coming for me to crown a successor to the throne. So, they behave themselves. After all, who doesn’t want to be a king?
Tonight, I wear the requisite attire. Snug and stifling the black leather pants and form fitting silk shirt cling to my lean body. I’m generally a faded Levis and t-shirt kind of guy, but the public has certain expectations and I feel obliged to meet them. I do like the menacing sound the heels of my boots make on the weathered wooden floorboards as I walk across the length of the dungeon. Perhaps, next time I set the stage for my own purposes instead of a public exposition, I’ll wear them.
We haven’t opened the doors to the waiting masses gathered outside. It’s cold tonight and I’m content to leave them out there to shiver for a while longer. Perhaps, it’s a bit sadistic of me given the wind chill and plummeting temperatures. But, I do derive my pleasure from pain, after all.
I crack my neck and relax my shoulders before selecting a whip from my personal collection. It’s a bit like having my cock on display, showing off my assortment of whips, floggers, paddles, and canes. It’s a very personal, private, and intimate thing. I’ve brought out the implements I use for training purposes and that have been handled by dozens of unskilled hands in the hopes of mastering the art of dominance. The few that are my favorites for inflicting pain are tucked away out of the public eye where, like my cock, they belong.
Thanks to the success of a recent movie our membership is in no danger of dwindling to a trickle anytime soon. The downside to such misguided publicity is that we’ve had to be more selective than usual about whom we allow into our inner sanctum. A dungeon is no place for fools and posers. It’s esenyurt escort my job to weed them out. I am very picky about the type of person I let into the fold. I have to be. Neither end of a flogger is safer than the other. BDSM is a beautiful thing when done right. But when done wrong, it’s a truly ugly sight to behold. I hide the scars to prove it.
Though there is but one master of this dungeon. Everyone pays dues to keep the wheels turning and therefore, has a vote. Some accuse me of being too selective in the choosing of new members. If they had seen some of the things I had, they’d be picky too.
Regrettably, everything in life costs money and the dungeon is no exception. The club is in the black, for now. But, as close as I am to handing over my whip to the next generation, I want to leave my legacy in good condition. We need new members.
I restored the building the club calls home out of my private stash, but I’m hardly a millionaire. I just happen to be good with my hands and my money. It also helped that one of my star submissives is a real estate broker that managed to snag the dilapidated church for a fraction of its actual worth during the city’s economic downturn.
The irony that we house a BDSM club in a former house of God isn’t lost on anybody. The wide openness of the place suits our purposes well. The stained glass windows shield us from prying eyes. There are plenty of rooms off the main play area for private encounters. Parking is more than ample. The high ceilings and thick oak beams are perfect for suspension play. And what better place is there for a king to oversee his kingdom than from a raised pulpit?
Tonight will pad the nest egg of the next in line to rule quite well. Oh yes, if the public wants to take a tour of the wild side, they’re going to compensate us for our time. The entry fee is completely unnecessary though. I’d train anyone for free if it meant keeping someone else safe. But, considering I’m thinking about hanging up my whip, at least publicly, I have my successor to think about.
I don’t regret the choices in my past that have led me down this path. It’s just been a lonely walk. It isn’t that I haven’t had serious relationships before. I consider every submissive I’ve ever shackled and flogged as serious. But, the allure of the smoke and mirrors of the game has finally worn thin.
My subjects love me for what they think I am, for the pleasure/pain I deliver, and the dreamy state of bliss I send them to afterwards. But, none of them have ever loved the man behind the whip. Not even those who know and love me best have ever seen the real me. They see what I want them to see. The dominant. They’ve never met the man trapped on the other side of a slowly decaying façade of complete control, the man searching for something more, something real, and something, for once, without limits.
I’ll be turning fifty this July. Fucking fifty years old, I still can’t believe it. I’ve been flogging, whipping, and caning bare asses since I was a freshman in college. Oh, I didn’t start out being a dominant. That came later. I earned the right to be a master the hard way, on the receiving end of a sadist’s cruelty.
I rule my kingdom with a just but heavy hand. I take care of my people. Though we’re a club and everyone gets a vote, everyone knows who has absolute control. I make sure my people are safe and cared for. Nobody dares to step out of line. Nobody wants to feel the full extent of my wrath. I’ve never shared with anyone why I’m so rigid in adhering to the rules. They just assume it’s how I am. I’ve never shown my scars to anybody.
I’m warmed up and ready to put on one hell of a good demonstration for the public. I love to teach, but showmanship for the masses isn’t really my style. Tonight, I’ll make a rare exception. I want to show the world what we are and what we are not. I want them to see the reality of this little universe of ours. Educate them about pain and pleasure and the thin veil between the two. I won’t be warm and fuzzy about it. I don’t do warm and fuzzy. Ever. I’ll be honest. I show them the side of this lifestyle that’s not romanticized in books and movies. I’ll teach them what I wish someone had taught me. That nobody has the right to push another person beyond their limits.
“Master?” Ginger stands at the open doors leading to the vestibule eagerly bouncing on her heels. She’s a submissive, a damn good one, perhaps the best in our little clandestine world. But, of course, she would be. I trained her and I don’t do anything half-assed.
I crack my whip. I love the effect the sound of the leather tip striking well-aged wood has on her. She shivers in her tight corset and sucks in a breath, licking her lips as her mind goes exactly where I want it. She would be a good one to hand off my scepter to, if she weren’t so damned eager to please. I simply can’t do it. The dominants would eat her alive. It’d be cruel, like dropping a cute, cuddly kitten into a pen of hungry Dobermans. I’m dominant, maybe even heartless at times, but I’m not a Sadist.
I take a deep breath and wind my whip into a coil around my fist. I cast a warning glare at the people geared up in full pet play regalia. The last thing our little community needs is a scandal. Such as one of our unsuspecting admission paying visitors getting humped by an upstanding member of society.