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The online diary of an ethical pervert.

Tuesday, 12 August 2008

The swing of things

I've never had much contact with swingers before so was not particularly sure what to expect when The Photographer and I visited The F Club. The evening itself had a masked theme so started well with me amusing myself with dress up. Once done, the pair of us looked rather spiffing: him in vintage dress suit with tails and me in corset and costume jewellery. On arrival I was pleasantly surprised by the organisation and decor, lockers for all that unnecessary clothing that one has to travel in and a lovely gentleman who showed us around.

The dungeon was fairly spacious with a good amount of fetish furniture. The overall focus very much on things to fuck on or in, with the added bonus that you could also torture someone on them. There was a sad lack of rope or chain to tie people to the kit, but we had come prepared. It became clear that this was very much a swingers rather than a fetish night. There were lots of straight couples in frocks and suits, vanilla porn (never did anything for me, as a teenager before discovering BDSM I merely thought I wasn't interested in sex, how things change) showing in the cinema room. A fair number of folk skipped quickly past the dungeon or came in and gawked.

Gawking, of course, is not a problem for exhibitionists like myself, and The Photographer sensibly blindfolded me to stop any form of playing to the crowd, which was his job. However both the vanilla presence and the over-loud disco tunes made it difficult for either of us to really get into it and after a while we contented ourselves with watching pretty much the only other BDSM couple around play. We introduced ourselves then played and later fucked as a foursome. Possibly a case of safety in numbers, although I think that both of the boys very much enjoyed the increased attention and head-turning that they got from tying two girls together and making them moan. Apparently, there was a lot of batting away of over-excited observers that had to be done, which almost certainly wouldn't have happened in a more fetish setting - different rules of engagement, I suppose.

Interestingly, the most painful activity was also the most prosaic. I still have some sore to the touch, bright red half moon crescents on my sternum from The Photographer's nail pressing into that thin-skinned close to the bone part of me. It got to the point where he only had to touch that spot lightly and I would shy away violently or start to pre-emptively scream.

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