Note, post contains details about Phalene’s sexuality. Please only click past the fold if you’re interested, if you’re a parent or otherwise seeking to protect your sanity and dignity, check out this music video by the Poxy Boggards instead :
Last night (Friday) I dragged mothboy out to Giro and E’s birthday party at a very nice venue, a two story Montreal dungeon. Much to our general delight, my friends LN, Ballbuster and Mr. Sub were all there, as well as a new friend H. LN’s master/boyfriend had brought a remote controlled shock collar.
Over the course of the evening I managed to have my first proper sexual experience with a woman (fondling), beat the crap out of Mr. Sub, experience caning, topped H inexpertly, ate cake, and had belated aftercare when I got emo.
The evening started off with poor prospects after we discovered mothboy’s pants had shrunk, leaving him with nothing stylish to wear to social events. The usual argument ensued until we decided that cycling spandex nicely fit the ‘fetish’ dress code and would knock $5 off his entrance fee too. So after confirming the address and withdrawing sufficient funds to get us in the door and back home by taxi, we were off.
The venue, was as usual, very tasteful and extremely clean. That’s probably what I like best about it, as well as it’s focus on cages and cells instead of rickety spanking benches on centre stage. It might be expensive to get in, but the price is well worth the fun. At the door we doffed our street clothes, Jason in cycling togs and me in a pleather mini and a bikini top, worn mostly to beat the door price.
Fun began with LN’s partner’s shock collar, remote controlled, to be enjoyed up to 100 (out of 127). Fun began with poor Mr. Sub getting it tested on him. He was so scared he kept begging it not to go off, so I held his hand while Ballbuster tested the voltage all the way up to 100. He screamed and begged. I took over the control and made him spell my name backwards, and then spell my various middle names backwards, shocking where he messed up.
Fetch with a time limit was tried, to the detriment of Mr. Sub’s latex trousers, and then we settled on a game where I took the controller and roamed the party asking people “At no risk to yourself, do you want to push this button?” You could hear the screams clear across the house. Of course as some people don’t like doling out pain, I showed them how to turn the dial down to ‘tickle’.
After Mr. Sub’s torture, where he got a cuddle break, we tested the shocks on various people. I got temporary lauds for being able to stand up to 100 and only yelping,until first Eve and then Giro, two older friends, gave it a try without even a grunt. Even so, the next victim was my friend LN, who can’t go over 30.
I have a lot of problems watching LN be tortured. I like her a lot as a friend, and genuine distress on her part triggers the hero reflex. Fortunately I managed to subdue my urge to help her enough not to spoil the fun. Still, I got a shock to the fingers while briefly ‘rescuing’ her by sticking my hand against the shock prongs to catch the current. I regret my first impulse was to take the collar off her and put it on my own leg, but . I’m not sure LN is completely happy with being shocked, since she asked that mothboy hold the remote, with the expectation he wouldn’t zap. On the other hand I think she may like the victim dynamic. Sort of nice to have your boyfriend perceived as the ’safe’ one though!
There was also a great deal of mind fuck for Mr. Sub and LN, who were both so scared they could be repeatedly convinced that this time we put it up to max. LN’s partner, Dunter, proved excellent at this, getting Mr. Sub to try setting it to what he thought was either higher or lower, and confusing the man so much the setting never changed.
Shocking concluded, the gang retreated to a private room upstairs and we, especially me, began to wail upon Mr. Sub until his back was welted and bleeding. Salt was duly applied to wounds (Mr. Sub being a pretty heavy masochist). We all talked about Mr. Sub’s awesomeness, creating a sort of weird cuddly-sadist dynamic.
From time to time, mothboy, who is in a non-sub swing of his switchiness, would pull me away to get to wallop my rump. My own masochism meant this was very agreeable, though I’m a little shy about my public yelps. For some reason the noises I make are very popular. Of course this inspired my own dire fate, some time later…
HB, who’d been mostly watching, was duly tied and given what BallBuster calls “Vadge Smashing” but was really firm whacks to the vulva, which really don’t seem all that bad. I joined in when Ballbuster’s hands got tired and experimented with some breast palpitation, making my first full on sexual experience with a woman. It was fun, but I enjoyed it more when mothboy joined in and suddenly HB made all these moaning noises- I think my bisexuality is only really voyeuristic. We stopped when she started getting rope burn.
Then Mr. Sub wanted to cane me. Initially it was a carrot offered for enduring horrible agony, made into a mind fuck when we agreed to grant him the right to flog but not unchain him, but eventually we relented.
At that point the heat in the house meant that everyone was down to skimpies, me to my skivvies. So I was duly walloped. It hurt, and it was very odd. The strikes went straight past pain into a sort of weird nausea. One was particularly bad that my body collapsed into a sobbing fetal curl. The really interesting part was how I compartmentalized everything. Initially none of the ‘arrgh!’ was reaching my brain, my reactions bypassing conscious thought, and I was perfectly able to consciously communicate in a clear voice, going from a whimpering mess to reassuring people with no transition. I bottle, really, really well. Afterwards I nattered like a squirrel on meth at Mr. Sub about types of pain, and we compared masochist notes. Internally I was going : “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH! Fuck, fuck, shit! OW! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”
Of course everything bottled up has to be dealt with later, but before that, we switched to a new room, and Ballbuster got out a giagantic strapon to use on Mr. Sub, while I gave H a spanking. I was basically service topping and flailing around helping a very nice scene newbie to the limits of my inexperienced ability, while Mr. Sub was being spit roasted between a giant purple dildo at one end, being rammed until he gagged and little bubbles exited his mouth, and reamed out from behind. He cried like a baby despite a rampant erection, I speculated what us anal cavity must be like.
The evening drew to a close with the dungeon clean up guy thanking me for adopting H (hey, I like her!). We retreated for pizza, but I wasn’t feeling so hot because of the gibbering little voice in the back of my head, and only ate a few bites off mothboy’s plate. Once we were home and away from public eyes I demanded aftercare so I could vent, and mothboy iced my enormous bruises while I psychoanalyzed my experience to death.
The truth is that I don’t like being vulnerable. I like bottoming, but I think I’m missing a submissive side, and being beaten past my thresh hold puts me into a loopy head state. That’s not so bad as much as the fact that I need someone to talk me down, and I’m very particular who I trust. Mothboy is okay for me to sob into the chest there of, but I’d already had one miserable experience where I let a sub try with me and I was pushing his limits, and I took a day to get my emotional centre back. Mr. Sub, while nice, is firmly in my ‘victim’ category, and just not okay for that sort of thing, especially given the group machismo competition that tends to happen with pain play. I simply think I can’t submit, the way so many can, and I think I wear a hundred or so pounds of emotional platemail that very rarely ever comes off.
So after being iced with a cool drink can to reduce the swelling, I proceeded to sleep off all of of Saturday and I’m all gooey and romantic with mothboy. And I had a mind blowing, private post scene orgasm that was probably from all the pent up energy. And I have a welt striped behind and lurid purple and yellow bruises, probably the worst I’ve ever had in my life.