Play Party

I was recently at a play party. Our hosts had recently taken a larger home- convenient that as the number of revelers had dramatically increased.

In the little formal living room off the entrance, a young woman was moaning and crying out as the ropes she wore tightened and cut into her crotch. Ropes where all she wore and while her mistress put her through the paces, six people sat on the floor in respectful silence and watched her writhe and moan.

Passing by, the sound of flesh hitting flesh was like a door chime. Sweet sounds as the slave’s groaning rose higher and higher and cut off in a gasping need for completion, but her mistress hadn’t determined it was time.

That was the first five feet into the house.

The kitchen table was loaded with sugar and carbs and salt. Soul food for the slaves who stood, shaken and shaking, wearing blankets in a post session bliss. After care Doms herded them to the choicest cuts, replacing the expended energy and letting them come back again.

One woman walks by in high heels and a body stocking, others, fully dressed and buttoned up to the chin sprawl on the carpet courting coloring books and oversized crayons.

You can tell the new ones, the men and women who look around wildly and try to pretend they’re cool with casual nudity and the sounds of whips and floggers coming through the wall from the dungeon. They are frightened, just a little and reveling in the fear and uncertainty. No one tries to push them, they’re caught in casual chit-chat.

The dungeon is a huge room, black with muted lights and quiet music that blends with the sounds of flesh struck and bodies teased and hoarse voices calling out in agonizing pleasure. Two slaves – one male, one female – on opposite crosses, both whipped and stroked until they fall into bliss and cease to exist on this plane.

Their sweat glistened bodies dance to the master’s whip, but they are far gone into the soft ether of subspace and nearby on the table, a naked slave arches as her master brings her to orgasm, showing her to the world.

He pours her, limp and shaking from the table and curls her against him. Her nudity forgotten, the people watching nothing more than shadows as she continues to have little tremors while in his arms. He holds her, whispers to her, words meant for her, only she knows what they are, but she reaches for him.

Conversation in the main room runs from politics to floggers to health food and any slave found wanting is offered a hug or chocolate by others. They all know each other, even the ones that never met before tonight, even the new faces are known and welcomed.

At the end of the night, a few linger in the living room, a woman is bent over a bench as her man enters her from behind. It’s impossible to tell who is the master and who the slave, they have become two people in orgasmic bliss and they serve to bookend the night, giving the same pre-orgasmic grunts as welcomed the visitors earlier that evening.

There is nothing to say to those faint friends you know intimately other than, “good night, see you next time.”

But the drive home is made in silence, and the quiet is a contented yearning.

These are my people.