At the club, my body formed an X, black rope woven elegantly around my neck, between my legs, accentuating each breast.
Something I had never done before: knifeplay.
But first, he tormented my skin with this excruciating leather slapper that almost took me out of the flow.
The knifeplay was equally excruciating, but in a more delicious manner. Unnerving and exquisite. The blade on my skin was even more physically binding than the ropes because I would not risk movement.
As pleasurable as it was, I felt for the first time – I knew it would happen eventually – I had outgrown the club. Not him. But the atmosphere. It no longer held the same allure.
I wanted more.
I didn’t know if he knew, but afterward, he took me to a new club. Private, members-only.
Rooms upon rooms, countless contraptions – leather, metal, wood – everywhere. Artwork and decor, stunning. It was the kind of place read about in books. There was even a library stocked with erotic literature.
The people were serious players, but still warm and welcoming. Refreshments, but no alcohol. Conversation and smoking outside near a fire.
We browsed the main room with its multiple stations until drifting down a hallway – some doors open, some not, some left ajar for the curious. Different songs flowing from each. And of course: screams, wails, gasps, sobs, panting, and more.
Since it was a private club, there was much more skin. And more intimacy.