Remnants

So what little visual or aural remnants are left from the sights and sounds of our Saturday evening adventure with Aisha and D?

More than just a few:

The sound of thwacks, moans, cries of anguish in a 360 degree quadraphonic arc as Mistress and I sat watching D wrap his web of ropes around Aisha before suspending her. All very distracting, and some a little disturbing too.

The strange, unanticipated costumes. Who knew that women would get a buzz out of   dressing up as “sweet” little girls, all pig tailed and dressed in short little see through “nighties”, watching their peers get whacked while sucking their thumbs?  That was a kink I have overlooked.

The full sized coffin,  sitting in a corner.

“Do you think they rented the place out for a wake earlier today, and they forgot the guest of honor?” I asked Mistress.

D explained that some folks are into “coffin play”.

I think I’ll save that experience for much later. 

Actually, I  opt for cremation.

Wonder if anyone has a fetish revolving around that?

D warned us to be careful not to invade other folks’ play space, and we were careful to keep our distance.

(BTW, Aisha, I think D enjoyed being very directive when it came to Mistress following dungeon protocol.  “Molly, Don’t point!” he corrected her in that dom-ly voice.  I suspect it made her sub side perk up and take notice, but who’s to say?)

But sometimes our “voyeur’ space was invaded by kinksters intent on their own play.

As we were sitting along a wall – not exactly minding our own business – but clearly fixed and stationary, a man and a woman, both fully dressed in street attire, hauled a rather full figured woman - dressed in fishnet hose and nothing more - up to a post right next to us. They bound her face forward, hands around the post, then proceeded to wale away at her with palms and paddles.

It seemed they were mo more than 2 feet away.

Hard not to stare, at those bouncing tits and huge ass, but then monitoring D’s progress in trussing up Aisha so skillfully, then sending her into flight was much more … rewarding.

“I’m a little afraid I might get smothered by those giant breasts, Mistress.”

She just laughed, trying to ignore the somewhat exaggerated cries of anguish, or the perverse delight in the eyes of the fellow doing the thwacking with a rather theatrical swagger.

Would it be rude to just stand up and walk away from all that vibrating flesh?

No matter, we stood and moved a little closer to D and Aisha putting on their  far more loving demonstration.

In the days that followed Mistress and I have had plenty of time to absorb and discuss our little expedition.

Was it interesting? 

Of course.

Was it educational?

Certainly gave us some new ideas.

Was it  amazing to see first hand the magic that D and Aisha create and that she describes so cunningly in her blog?

Absolutely. 

Was it a turn on?

Well …. That’s the funny part.

I think we both learned that watching other folks enmeshed in their own kinky scenes was not really a sexy turn on for either one of us.  Though I was all caged up, I had no problem keeping my cock under control. (I guess that’s the ultimate test, isn’t it? The “Youch” factor.)

We are more participants than watchers. And, as our readers have probably noticed,   our interests trend  more in the direction of sex than pain.

Does that make us weenies? 

Could be. Or maybe we are just more into sex.

So…. Does that mean we are disinclined to make a return trip?

Uhhh. No.

I can see the turn on in stepping out of the audience and becoming a more active participant.

I did like the part of Mistress leading me about in my collar and leash.

And I think she enjoyed flexing her Domme in public.

And what if she took it a step farther: lashed me to one of those St. Andrews’s crosses, arms above my head, feet spread.  A crop in her hand. Her hands teasing and tormenting me. With an audience egging her on, giving her pointers. I would be pulling on those implacable bonds, but unable to escape.

The “youch” factor would definitely come into play.

(Mistress asked the other day why they call it a St. Andrews’s cross. I deployed my primitive Catholic school education and described it as an alternative crucifiction device that one of the minor saints made infamous. Though maybe it was just bad carpentry. You can see the derivation here:)

And what if, after Midnight, with the advent of our Switch Day, Slave turned the tables, and I put Mistress up on that cross.

My Ingredients: A flogger. A feather. My palm. Her Hitachi. An extension cord.

How many of you would enjoy watching that?