BDSM Library - Story: Such Sweet Sorrow, Chapter: Part 8

CHAPTER 18 : PARTY ANIMALS : FEBRUARY

15 Months, 454 Days After Jenny’s Disappearance

I’m looking at the PER flyer, standing outside the venue, feeling embarrassed and apprehensive. I should explain that there are two reasons for this. Firstly there’s the regular embarrassment of feeling as if I’m standing here shouting “I like kinky SEX!” at the top of my voice and secondly, the last time I was in a club it was with the guys out in Seoul at a venue I don’t think Jenny would have approved of, enjoying myself when who knows what was happening to her.

The flyer had said “Dress Code: Fetish or Black Tie” and I have gone for the easy option. I’m standing here in my dinner jacket, dress shirt and bow tie, felling a bit foolish and wondering whether turning up in leather trousers and nothing else would have been a better bet. I see another man, dressed as I am, go into the club. I take that as my cue.

The whole place is a huge contrast from the cosy surroundings of the munch. Instead of the rustic homely surroundings of the pub, this is a slick, modern, sophisticated, city club. The lights outside are pale blue neon. The door is guarded by a couple of immaculate bouncers. Inside it is sleek and cutting-edge, sharp lighting and shiny chrome. The bar and the food area are impressive. It is the sort of club for confident guests. Leading off the main floor area are several other rooms. One is quite large laid out with tables and chairs at one end and a small stage at the other. There’s a second room, more intimate with dimmer, more discrete lighting - a refuge form the techno music coming from the DJ in the central area dance floor. A few couples are already installed in there. There is ome more room and the last room is obviously the place to enjoy some kinky action: there is a St Andrew’s cross, a spanking horse and a pillory and some metal cages.

It has become quite crowded and those in black tie are definitely in the minority. In fact there’s me and the bloke I saw going in before me and that’s it so far. I’m feeling at a bit of a loose end.

Almost everyone appears to be arriving in couples or groups. Maybe I should have brought Cathy, but that would have been an even bigger challenge than the munch! I’m about to go and investigate the bar when I see Esme and, wearing a leather hood, someone I assume to be Zeph.

Their casual, friendly, air at the munch hasn’t prepared me for the full-on fetish style of their appearance at PER. Esme’s outfit leaves no doubt as to which side of the sub-dom fence she sits. She may not be naturally shapely but the corseted bodice of the short leather dress she is wearing does more than enough to emphasise her hips, and buttocks and her ample breasts. Actually, her dress doesn’t so much cover her breasts as hold them up on a shelf. Pale against the dark brown of the leather, they quiver as she walks. She’s wearing a spiked collar, elbow length gloves in a matching brown leather and high heeled – (what else?) – lace up shoes. Hanging from her belt is a neatly coiled whip. She is leading Zeph with a chain fastened to his collar with a padlock. He’s almost naked, his head is covered with the hood and his genitals are hidden behind a sort of leather jock strap which has also been locked in place.

The two of them reach me. “Joe!” Esme declares with evident delight. She presents a cheek for a greeting kiss. I get very close to the spikes of her collar before realising that I’m about to impale myself and pull back. She laughs and I join her. She offers a hand instead and I provide a gentlemanly kiss and a short bow. It seems appropriate.

“Can I buy you a drink?” I ask.

She nods. “Yes, of course. Thank you, I’d like a coke.” She doesn’t ask Zeph. He just bows his head.

I go the bar. There’s a group of men in similar outfits to Zeph’s. Hoods or masks seem commonplace, collars are evidently obligatory, and apart from that, there’s a lot of flesh, much of it sprinkled with tattoos, and body piercings. The girl behind the bar, “dressed” to match her clients on the other side of it, asks me what I want.

I remind her that there are others before, me but she points out that subs get served last. So here is one benefit to being a Dom: going straight to the head of the queue, at the bar!

By the time I get back to Esme and Zeph, Esme is stretched out on one of the couches and Zeph is kneeling by her side. He’s holding her whip in his outstretched hands. She takes the drink with a word of thanks and pats the seat beside her. I sit down.

“Quite a show isn’t it?” she says, raising her voice. The DJ has started up in the dance room and the music, coupled with the increasing hubbub in the room as more and more guests arrive, makes it difficult to hear.

I nod. Looking about me, I’ve never seen anything like it! Around the room there are people in every form of fetish clothing imaginable. Quite a lot of rubber, some leather, some lycra, some uniforms that look authentic and some less so. There are even a few people like me: turned out in full evening dress!I begin to feel less out-of-place, but only a little. I can only see one woman who is not in fetish gear. She’s the complete embodiment of 1950’s glamour, slinky gown, elaborate hair, wonderful immaculate make up and an outside bra that would bring joy to the heart of Madonna. She’s carrying a cigarette in a long cigarette holder. It’s not lit. It astonishing to think that that something so fashionable when the clothes she is wearing were in style – smoking - is now banned, while something that was frowned on in those days is seen as a normal party opportunity now.

Esme leans over towards me. “Don’t be fooled by the outfit,” she says, “that’s as hard a bitch as you’re likely to meet here tonight. Good if you’re looking for a very demanding time, not for a beginner though.”

I give a non-committal ‘Mmmmm’. I hadn’t thought about what I am looking for, but it’s reasonable for Esme to imagine that I am here for more than voyeurism.

“Ooo,” says Esme, I want to watch this.” She clicks her fingers at Zeph and he lays down the whip and kneels on all fours. Esme lifts her feet and places one leg across his back while perching the other foot upon it. I can see quite clearly how the heel of her shoe is digging into his soft flesh. I can imagine what it feels like. I don’t feel inclined to try it. On the stage someone has set up a series of five low cages. A kneeling slave is being herded into each of them: there are two women and three men.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, Good Evening!” A man wearing a rough approximation of my own outfit, but in electric blue rubber has come to the front of the stage. “Tonight we are very pleased, to present these five slaves who come here to be judged in the public court. Each one has been accused of crimes which warrant public examination and, if necessary, sentence. (cheers from the crowd) Sentence will be carried out for the approval of all owners and as a warning to all slaves. Ladies and Gentlemen, the Court of PER is now in session.”

A woman appears in judge’s robes and wig, although beneath her gown she is wearing only a basque and stockings. She makes her way to a table on a dais, bangs a gavel on the desk and orders the first of the accused to be brought before her. It’s a man. Naked, ball-gagged and in shackles he can do little else except to shuffle up to the front of the judge’s dais when he is summoned.

It’s a very short trial. The gag is removed and he confesses his slovenly approach to the house work his Mistress ordered him to do. There’s a chorus of tuts from the Dommes in the audience.

The judge passes sentence of an hour in the pillory which doesn’t sound too bad to me but causes a murmur of comment which suggests others think he’s not getting off lightly.

Esme leans across towards me. Zeph gives an, “Ah!” as Esme’s movement pushes her heel deeper into his back.

“It’s not the pillory,” she says, “it’s what he’ll suffer while he’s in there, isn’t it Zeph?”

“Yes Mistress,” comes the voice from the floor.

“Several different women reamed out your arse with strap-ons while you served your twenty minute sentence last time, didn’t they? In fact there might even have been one boy – but he was not wearing a strap-on!”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“So I guess you’re going to be more careful polishing my boots next time?” Esme smiles.

Meanwhile the convicted slave has been led off to the pillory at the side of the room and a woman has been brought from her cage to stand before the judge.

It’s an unexpected confession from Esme! I was not expecting such a frank account of their past history and I had not expected Zeph would have been subjected to that sort of treatment with such relish on the part of his wife. Despite my reservations, I feel a sexual thrill as my imagination reconstructs the scene.

There are more sentences, more slaves begging to be spared, more applause from the audience for the judge’s rulings, until all have been dealt with and the judge closes the session, leaving three victims shackled to whipping posts on the stage in preparation for their punishments, the unhappy slave in the pillory and a last slave ordered to spend the rest of the evening back in his cramped cage.

The ‘trial’ is the sort of thing I expected. What isn’t, is the dark haired, slim young woman that who comes up to me. “Esme suggested I could have a word with you. I hope you don’t mind?”

She’s dressed in a black rubber cat suit that seems to have been polished until it gleams. She’s quite short, only about five feet four tall, even with her heels. Beside her is another girl, much taller, bare breasted but otherwise immaculately dressed and presented. Tweezer clamps grip each nipple and a chain connects them. Her hands cuffed behind her, she is being led on a leash from a gleaning steel neck collar. “Could you hold my slave for me, please? Just for a few minutes. It’s just that I owe that one up there a little treatment,” she nods her head toward the pilloried slave who was already suffering at the hands of a woman taking advantage of his bent forward position to deliver a sound spanking. “Just between ourselves, his sentence is probably a bit severe, but he’s upset quite a few of the Dommes here at some point in the past so he’s probably going to get a bit more than he expects. For example he spent way too much time trying to inveigle me into punishing him just the way he wanted. I can’t stand subs topping from the bottom. This one’s much more pliant.” She holds out the girls leash towards me. “You don’t mind do you?”

“Not at all,” I say. And I don’t. Firstly, because both she and Esme have obviously decided that I’m a dominant and if that’s what Jenny wants, that’s what I’m going to be. (But is it something you decide? That doesn’t really seem right.) And secondly, in spite of the fact that I should be thinking about Jenny, it’s hard not to find the idea of holding a half naked, big breasted girl on a leash engaging - in one way or another.

“Thanks,” says the girl in rubber and without a word to her slave, heads off towards the pillory, selecting a thin whippy cane from a rack at the side of the stage, as she does so.

I sit down, the girl kneeling beside me. “Look at me,” I say and, for the first time, she lifts her head. There’s something curiously satisfying about the quietly spoken request, unthinkingly obeyed.

She’s a conventionally pretty girl with blonde hair greased and combed carefully back away from her slightly pale face with a pair of full, reddened lips. She looks a little nervous. Of course, as far as she knows, I could be a renowned slave trainer, not someone who’s little more than a convenient hitching post. I’m happy to maintain her uncertainty. Is that the behaviour of a top? I suppose it is. Maybe I’m getting the idea of this …

“A girl with nice tits nicely tormented,” Esme comments directly to me. My kneeling slave’s eyes flick towards her as though she isn’t used to being spoken of, rather than being spoken to. I wonder if she likes that; the objectification, the humiliation of being ignored.

“Yes,” I say, entering into the spirit of Esme’s teasing. “That’s why I agreed to look after her.” She looks up at me with an air of disappointment, as though she had thought better of me than to comment on her tits. I’m enjoying it though. I lean forward towards her:

“Kiss Mistress Esme’s feet – and ankles – and legs. The Mistress wishes to see your skills”

The girl gets to work on Esme. She is enthusiastic and very thorough!

“She’s such a slut!” The girl in the rubber cat suit has returned from the stage following a round of applause. “I hope she behaved herself.”

“Impeccably,” I say, passing her leash back to the owner.

“Oh yes. She’s always happy when I tell her to show off. Aren’t you?”

The girl nods, an embarrassed smile on her face.

“Well, thanks for looking after her. If you’ll excuse us. I may stop by later.” She takes the girl and leads her away towards the quiet room.

I’m feeling pleased with myself. My first little bit of topping. The feeling lasts about a minute.

It’s only after the girl in rubber has gone that it occurs to me that my main role in this little exercise has been to get her slave nicely warmed up for her. The girl in rubber has had the fun of thrashing the man in the pillory and her slave has been evidently excited by being required to make an exhibition of herself. Now the two of them have disappeared off, no doubt for some joint amusement.

I turn to Esme. “Have I just been taken advantage of?” I ask.

“It’s hard to say,” she answers with a laugh. “Only if you didn’t enjoy it. I must confess that we Dommes can be a little competitive. That probably wasn’t altogether fair of her, but on the other hand perhaps, you didn’t mind doing her a favour?”

There’s obviously more to this topping business than I thought.

It’s then that I realise that my the beer Ihas “made its way through”; I excuse myself and go in search of the gents.

On my way there I stop to look at the cages. I guess I’m always interested in the way things are put together – one of the consequences of my job, I suppose. Jenny spoke about being kept in a cage when she was taken for interrogation. I wonder if it was something like this? The Master of Ceremonies comes over, still resplendent in his electric blue rubber suit; he smiles:

“Nice work aren’t they?”

I nod. They’ve been put together well, a good solid frame and secure fixings for the bars. The entry with its padlocked grille is pretty solid too, welded steel or possibly something lighter, maybe.

“They can be taken apart for transport. They fold flat and fit in the back of a typical hatchback with the back seats folded.”

“You sound like a salesman.”

“Sorry,” the MC grins, “The makers lend them to us and we get a commission if anyone buys one after the show.”

“Don’t apologise. They’re well made. I can tell, I’m an engineer but that’s my only interest, I’m afraid. I can’t see one of these in the living room at home.”

“Well, what would you tell the neighbours, when they came around?”

“Something like that. Clever construction … my speciality is concrete castings for water management projects - canals, drainage, that sort of thing. Can’t really see an application for that here, though.”

“There are always the SM Dykes.”

I laugh. It’s a genuine BDSM joke. I hadn’t thought there were such things but actually, thinking about it people do seem to take it less seriously - and less ponderously - than I expected. “That’s good,” I tell him. “That’s very good. Still, if you’ll excuse me – I need ...”

The toilets are no less bizarre than the rest of the event. There’s queue outside the ladies, as there always is, except this queue is clad in leather, rubber and straps. Outside the gents a woman is waiting. She’s wearing a black halter neck outfit in vinyl. Its cut high on her hips, where a coiled dog whip hangs from her belt, and there’s a cut out at the front showing off a generous amount of cleavage. She wears a small septum ring in her nose and the piercings in her ear lobes have been enlarged: there is a blue metallic tunnel through each one and through the tunnel there is a thick blue metal ring which rolls as she moves her head. She’s wearing short black gloves and in one hand she’s holding a stop watch. I nod sociably as I pass her.

Inside a middle aged man (who is starting to show the beginnings of a belly and sandy hair that’s starting to recede) is wrestling with the set of straps and buckles that he’s wearing, trying to free his cock from its leather cage. There’s obvious relief as he succeeds and his cock springs into his hand so he can relieve himself into the urinal.

I have a lot less trouble in doing what I’ve come to do. He’s still trying to refasten his harness as I finish washing my hands. “Is that your Domme, with the stop watch?” I say.

He looks up, startled. Blokes don’t speak unbidden in a lavatory – usually grunts are all they exchange in here at the most – and I wonder if there’s some unwritten etiquette about speaking to other people’s slaves. He is obviously not offended. He merely nods and says, “Yes. There’ll be hell to pay if this takes much longer.”

I follow him out and almost trip over him as he drops to his knees immediately outside the door and presses his face to his Mistress’s feet. “Sorry,” I say instinctively.

The woman looks around incredulously. “Sorry?” she exclaims. “It’s his fault. You should be kicking him out of the way.” There’s something engaging in the way she smiles at me.

“Of course,” I say, “I can’t imagine what I was thinking.” Her slave looks up with an expression of relief on his face as though anything I said to contradict his Mistress would result in unpleasantness for him. “Is his clumsiness a big problem for you?”

What on earth am I doing, standing here discussing this man in the same way as you might talk to someone about their pet dog?

“Yes,” she says. “It’s taking a lot of effort to bring him up to a reasonable standard. His wife’s no better.”

“Really?” It’s one of those non-committal replies, but actually I‘m fascinated. This woman is probably fifteen years younger than the man, perhaps not long out of her teens, and yet she’s obviously got the two of them in her thrall. “Look, let me get you a drink and you can come to see her.”

The girl in vinyl seems genuinely friendly and another drink seems a good idea.

“Sure,” I say, “I would like that.”

She sends her slave scuttling off to the bar with an order for a beer for me and a J2O for her. As he goes, I wonder where he keeps the money in the harness he’s wearing?

She leads the way into the quiet room. From behind, I see her back has been tattooed. It looks like some sort of Viking design. But as I study the design I realise it also makes an intricate image of a pair of women’s high heeled shoes, seen from behind. “You do have some great body art,” I say, genuinely impressed.

“Thanks,” she says. “Not everyone appreciates it. Do you have any?”

“I’m having some done. Just started, just an outline so far.”

“So it must be quite big?”

I nod, “Pretty much the whole of my back and then some.”

It’s her turn to look impressed. “That’s brave for a beginner!” I feel pleased with myself. She points to a couch. “Let’s sit there.”

There’s a woman kneeling bound and hooded beside the couch. Her arms are locked behind her back in a sort of leather sleeve. “This is the other one I was telling you about,” she says. She pulls off the slave’s hood.

Beneath it, is the face of a forty year old woman, her face streaked with sweat and her dyed blonde hair is plastered to her scalp from being inside the hood. Her mouth is distended by a large ball gag. She’s evidently been inside the hood for quite a while.

She looks to be about the same age as her husband, but her outfit looks more suitable for a teen-ager; a very short kilt that barely covers her bum, a pair of white knee high socks and Mary-Jane shoes; a bra that pushes her tits up and looks like it’s two sizes too small and a pink t-shirt top with the legend “Right Little Princess,” cropped to reveal her bare midriff and pierced belly button.

Her mistress sees me studying her. “She’s a real slut. I thought she should keep in touch with her youth; in the vanilla world she tends to be rather uptight so hence the outfit,” she says. “You might enjoy her though.”

It seems as if everyone’s trying to give me their slaves tonight “Is that your thing?” I say evenly, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice.

She looks back straight at me. “Oh, yes.” I don’t think it’s uncommon. Besides, you’ll know that keeping slaves is hard work. It needs a lot of attention, a lot of thought. Sometimes its nice to have some time off. Of course, this is where switches have the advantage, they can bottom out for a while. Doesn’t work for me though. You seemed to be here alone and I thought you might be interested - but it’s OK if you’re not.”

The husband returns with the drinks on a tray, he kneels silently beside his Mistress and holds the tray out. She passes the beer across to me and takes the orange juice for herself.

There’s something about her straightforwardness I find appealing and sexy. It reminds me of Jenny. I’m regretting being rude. “Sorry,” I say. I shake my head. “Sorry, that seems to be a bit of theme for me. Let’s start again. I’m Joe.”

“Vanessa,” the girl says. “That’s OK. This whole place can be a bit daunting if you’ve not been to something like this before.” I’m disappointed that I’m such an obvious newbie but I suppose it’s inevitable.

“You don’t mind if I ask you about these two?”

“I offered them. I can’t complain if you want to kick the tyres.” Her remark earns a scowl from the wife. “I’m a good friend of her daughter,” she nods to the wife. “Who let on about some of the things she’d found in their bedroom and I must confess that the idea of having a couple of slaves of my parent’s age to bully, was quite a turn on.”

As we’re talking, a tall man with a shaved head, wearing leather jeans and nothing else struts in and peers around, flexing a riding crop as he does so. “Vanessa,” he says loudly, ignoring me. “Still playing with your middle aged slaves?” He prods at the woman kneeling at Vanessa’s side with his crop.

Vanessa looks up. “Gerry,” she says, with a calm smile. “Still middle aged, yourself?”

Gerry grunts, looks around some more and disappears.

“My turn to be sorry,” Vanessa says. “There’s some rude people on the scene, the same as anywhere else. He’s actually less of a dork than he makes himself seem, but not much.”

I laugh. I know what she means.

“Look, I meant my offer,” Vanessa goes on. “This one,” she points to the wife, “is quite useful with her tongue. She’d give you a good blow job, believe me. It’ll turn her on to be told to do it, it’ll turn him on,” she nods at the husband, “to have to watch, and it would let me go and have a dance and see if there’s anyone here of my own age to play with. No offence.”

“None taken. I assumed you meant a sub anyway. Go on, I’ll mind the livestock, as long as you promise to come back for them.” I can hardly believe I’m saying this. Jenny would be proud of me, taking on a dom role like this.

“Thanks,” says Vanessa, hands me her whip, and disappears into the crowd.

I sit back on the couch, take a sip of my beer and contemplate my new acquisitions. What on earth should I do with them? The two of them are obviously enjoying themselves. The wife’s nipples are stiff and the man’s leather cod piece is straining against something that’s going on underneath it. I feel curiously detached from it all. I’m enjoying the sense of power but I can’t say that I’m feeling sexually aroused. There’s also a sense of responsibility.

The woman is an attractive proposition. She’s not young, but she obviously takes care of herself and she’s got a sparkle in her eyes that is something more than the sexual arousal of the moment. Even if her tits have been hoisted up by some aggressive under-wiring, they still look like they’d be fun to play with and there’s every suggestion that she’d enjoy both the humiliation of being offered without reference to her desires and the actual sensations. There’s nothing about the surroundings to discourage me either. It’s dark in the quiet room and from the sundry grunts, muffled cries, squeaks, and short slaps, there’s plenty of amusement being had, in the various corners around it.

The man is looking on expectantly. I find his voyeurism more uncomfortable than I find the wife’s evident enthusiasm.

It’s then that I start to have second thoughts. This is about Jenny after all, isn’t it? Would she do what the woman is doing? And I am doing anything more than the man? Is this all an exercise in voyeurism, justifying my behaviour in the past, by being a spectator at what Jenny wanted me to share? How would she feel if she was where the man is? Would she want to watch? It is as these thoughts and reflections run through my mind, that I realise how little of Jenny’s sexual responses I’ve understood. Yes, she’s submissive but what does that mean? Pain? Restraint? Humiliation? Whatever her partner desires?

The woman gives a whimper behind her gag, She’s looking directly at me, eyes wide open and pleading. She stretches, trying to earn some relief from the way that the arm binder pulls her elbows together and her shoulders back. It’s a sensuous, disturbingly arousing movement. Is that something I’m uncomfortable about too? The animal nature that’s being revealed here. On an impulse I reach forward and unbuckle her ball gag. Am I going to get her to suck me off? I don’t know. Is this being true to Jenny, by pursuing her interests, or betraying her, through sex with another woman? I don’t know and actually it’s becoming harder to make rational judgements. The man suspects this move is the precursor of some action. He looks up in anticipation. I tell him to bow his head. “Yes, Master,” he responds apologetically.

“Thank you,” the woman says working her jaw, stiff from the gag.

“Can I,” she nods towards my crotch, “please you?” There’s another animal like shrug of the shoulders. Her stiff nipples seeming to point at me through her pink top as she twists, her belly button ring glinting in a single shaft of light from somewhere.

At that moment, I know I’m not ready for this, yet. Whatever the rights and wrongs of it. I’m not ready for this woman going down on me in a public place, no matter what anyone else is doing, but I do have a responsibility for them. “Yes,” I say. “But as I wish, not as you wish. You will suck your husband. If you can make him come by the time your Mistress gets back, I will ask her to cane him.” I am astonished at myself, for putting this devious plan together but it seems to fit the mood of the evening perfectly.

There is a momentary flash of surprise on both of their faces but then the woman stares back at me, smiles broadly and says, “Yes, Master,” in a quiet tone before bending herself to the task. Her husband to unstraps himself and frees his erect prick. A moment later and they are both busy. He kneeling upright, his eyes closed in enjoyment (or is in anxiety?), she working on him carefully, thoroughly, enthusiastically. I get the definite impression that she is very keen to see him caned by Vanessa, and is going to do all she can to bring it about! I sit back and take another pull at my beer. For a moment I feel I can relax and I understand what Vanessa was talking about. It is a challenge keeping slaves, you have to think about them all the time. I let the tip of Vanessa’s whip trail across the backs of each of the two crouching figures, just to remind them to keep on with the task I have given them, but actually I’m a thousand miles away, wondering what Jenny and I might be doing now, if we’d got this sorted out between us and whether she might not have gone, if we had.

As my eye wanders out across the room I start in surprise: there is someone familiar on the dance floor! I can only see her from behind but there is no mistaking her tall muscular body. Her hair has been braided and at the end of the short plaits, there is a row of silver beads. Gwenda just looks fantastic! I have got to see her! I glance down at the two slaves engaged with each other – for goodness sake! Can I just leave them to their own devices, till Vanessa returns? How long is she going to be? I glance up again. Gwenda is turning towards me: will she see me? I get up and raise my arm to wave, a broad smile on my face – and it’s not Gwenda. The girl is a complete stranger. My arousal collapses as fast as it has risen. I feel … what? Relieved, disappointed, let down, angry and sad, all at once. I could almost weep with disappointment.

“I see you’re keeping them busy.” My thoughts are interrupted by Vanessa’s return. She too has come back empty handed.

“No success?” I say.

She shakes her head. “I guess I’m getting too selective. Have they behaved themselves?”

“Yes,” I say, but I am anxious about continuing the conversation, for fear of where it might lead. “You’d better have them back though. I thought they could let us see how affectionate they could be to each other! I said you would spank them if Hercules here had come before you returned. Ariande has done her best to bring him to the point of no return but he has held out!” Vanessa smiles.

“Stop now,” I say to the pair and they kneel up.

I pass Vanessa the whip back. “Thank you,” I say, “for the use of your property.”

“That’s quite all right. Thank you for the chance of a few minutes to relax.” She takes the whip from me.

I get to my feet. “I have to go. It has been fun meeting you,” I say to Vanessa. The two slaves look as if they are expecting some acknowledgement. They’re disappointed.

“You too,” Vanessa responds. “I get along to this event quite often; perhaps we’ll meet up next time?”

“Yes,” I’m not sure whether to ask her for a phone number. She might be a useful person to call on but at the moment I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed by it all. It’s certainly time to go.

It’s as I have turned to leave that I meet another couple. I’ve returned Vanessa’s two slaves and really, I think I’ve had more than enough experiences for one evening when I notice the MC pointing me out to a couple standing by the stage. She is quite short, corseted, in stockings and a leather mask; he tall, muscular, lean, good looking in leather trousers and an elaborate chest harness. There’s no mistaking the dominant one in this couple.

The man comes across to me, abandoning his sub to the MC.

“Excuse me, Sir,” he says in a diffident manner that makes me realise I am wrong again. “My name is Andrew. My mistress, Philippa has told me to approach you. I hope you don’t mind?”

I look across to where Philippa is standing with the MC. She’s evidently enjoying the discomfort of having her sub present himself in this way. I’m beginning to feeling a bit like a “resource” for the more experienced party goers.

Andrew goes on, “I hope this in not rude but I understand that you’re a civil engineer?”

I nod. I assume that’s the substance of the discussion between him and the MC. I can’t imagine where this is going.

“My Mistress and I are engaged in a project that would allow you to combine your knowledge with your interests in the Scene,

“How? I mean what is this project?”

“This is perhaps not the best place to discuss it now. But perhaps we could meet. At your convenience of course...”

Of course.

“Could I possibly give you a call?”

I think for a moment. There’s really nothing to lose, except maybe a bit of wasted time, and on the other hand perhaps I’ll get some more insights into this peculiar world.

“OK,” I say. “I don’t have any business cards with me though.”

“That’s all right, just tell me your number, I’ll remember it.”

“If you’re sure.” He nods and I recite my phone number, he calls it straight back to me.

“When you have a Mistress as exacting as Philippa you learn to remember things,” he says with a smile. “I’ll call you next week and perhaps we can have lunch?”

“Fine,” I say and watch the two of them leave. I’m no closer to knowing what it’s all about when I finally begin make my own way home.

The journey in the cold night air brings me back to full alert yet I still feel tired after a full day at work and the emotional effort of screwing up my courage to attend the Club.

I am not ready to sleep just yet, so I go on-line and check emails. There’s a note from Andrew, Jenny’s dad; the people from Missing People have been in touch to suggest refreshing the Find Jenny site once more. Can I send some more photographs? They have no leads to tell us about. Have I anything to tell them? No: apart from the chronic loneliness and ever - present anxiety of just not knowing what has happened to her. Once the site is back up and running, would we like them to approach the local paper to run the story of her disappearance again? Yes, I would, of course I would. I want to know that I am doing anything and everything I can to find her. So I can tell Inga and Andrew – and myself that I have done all in my power.

All characters fictitious

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