On Saturday I took Tom to Club Subversion as part of our Valentine’s celebration. (We don’t take Valentine’s that seriously, but I’m a bit soppy about my men and tend to get overexcited about opportunities to spoil them.) The three of us haven’t done much fetish clubbing in the last year, we’ve mostly been too busy. But Tom and I in particular have been playing more than usual lately; I figured that one way or another, we’d probably have fun
I didn’t even think about my outfit until the day before. This event was vampire-themed (‘love at first bite’) which, I have to admit, didn’t particularly appeal. I considered doing something with devil horns, but eventually decided to ignore the theme and go for an easy, comfortable outfit which would flatter my recent weight gain. I settled on a ‘harem girl’ look; a beaded veil, flowing sleeves, and a belly dancer’s coin belt slung low over transculent trousers slit open on each side. I accessorised with jangly bangles and blackberry nail varnish on my fingers and toes. Tom was doing his customary half-gentleman, half-scoundrel thing in leather trousers, velvet waistcoat and a white dress shirt open at the neck. Whenever he does the “dishevelled formal-wear” thing I always have trouble resisting the urge to lick his collarbones.
It was really great to see people, particularly my friend J whom I haven’t seen since the shoot with Zille, and his partner. When we first found them upstairs J was involved in a triple-topping scene, himself and two stylish dommes (whom I think we saw running a classroom scene at my first ever Night of the Cane) attending to a young lady I vaguely know, who looked very pretty strung up on a St Andrew’s Cross. A lot of people had done the vamp thing to the nines, and the overall effect was not unlike wandering into a kinky Camarilla event. We had fun watching people and chatting – Subversion is such a friendly, welcoming club there’s a danger of spending the whole time talking.
Unfortunately Tom’s health was not at its best. He warned me shortly after we settled in that he might not be up to anything energetic, and I was glad to have friends to chat to when he went outside for a bit to clear his head.
So I was surprised and pleased when, a little while later, he whispered that he was inclined to find an available whipping bench and spend some time doing wicked things to me. It was a busy club, but he’d kept an eye on a black padded bench in the corner, and when it was vacated we moved over. All our friends were sitting in clear view of it – I used to feel a bit odd about playing in front of friends rather than strangers, but my exhibitionist streak must have developed, because this time I found the idea actively exciting.
I was kneeling down by the bench, kissing his hand and taking a quiet moment to get in sync with him in the crowded club, when another couple slipped past us and started using the bench. Not much we could do about it: there’s always competition for furniture, and the window of opportunity in which we could have challenged their claim passed before it occurred to either of us to try. No big deal, anyway – we’d no doubt find somewhere eventually, even if it wasn’t in front of a crowd of people we knew.
We ended up upstairs, being watched by a growing crowd that included J and his partner, but no other familiar faces. I bent over a spanking bench which may well have been the same one we played on last April. Tom removed the jingling coin belt and pulled the loose trousers down to reveal my bottom. He started to whip me, lightly, with one of his little switches. The more we play with these the hornier they make me. Playing in a club, where you can’t easily hear each other, is always slightly odd – I feel like my gasps are being drowned in the background noise. I tried to respond physically as much as possible to keep him aware of how I was feeling, and he helped the connection by checking in with me regularly, stroking my hair and whispering things in my ear.
I responded to the whipping with enthusiasm. I was ready for this, I wanted it; I wanted to make him proud. He used the heavy brown tawse on me, which I used to be so scared of but am gradually warming up to. I watched J and his lady drift away from watching us; he bent her over an item of furniture on the other side of the room, and as I was gritting my teeth through the tawse strokes I half-watched him preparing to flog her.
After Tom had warmed up my bottom, he drew me to a kneeling position, and guided me round so I was sitting on the edge of the bench. He told me to put my hands behind my back. “Look at me,” he said, and then held my eyes as he proceeded to switch my breasts. I could feel the eyes of all the watchers – and sense the movements of all the figures wandering past, ignoring what was happening. The tip of the switch on the curve of my breasts was sensual and delicious, but he took careful aim and landed several sharp flicks right on my tender, erect nipples. It hurt so much I twisted and cried out, and when my eyes met his again they were fearful. He gave me a few more strokes, just because he could, and then a slow, predatory grin spread across his handsome face.
“Now,” he growled, “I’m ready to cane you.”
Back over the bench I went, shivering with sensation and anticipation. “I’m going to give you 36 strokes,” he told me quietly. “No need to count them. Just keep your bottom pushed out for me, and make sure you return to your position after each stroke.”
I devoured that caning. The bench was too short for my arms and body, so to hang onto the other side comfortably my hips were bent, and my bottom jutted vulnerably over my bare feet. (Tom had carefully removed my slippers when one of them threatened to fly off during the switching.) I breathed with the strokes, concentrated on remaining obedient and graceful, on keeping my back arched and my bottom offered up to him submissively. It must have hurt a lot, because halfway through I peeked and realised he was using the Master cane, 12mm of stiff dragon tailored to the needs of Tom’s reach and my arse. It has a thick, firm bite that seems to resonate through my pelvis, and it leaves glorious bruises. But I was so aroused, so focussed on being pleasing and taking the strokes well, so utterly subsumed by the moment, that the experience consisted of almost pure pleasure. Or, if pain – and there must have been pain, even if the physical memory has faded – entirely the right kind of pain.
The only blip in an otherwise dreamy scene was when we were interrupted by a random woman who – apparently, although Tom handled it so well I was totally unaware of what was happening at the time – marched into the scene without making eye contact with either of us and started berating Tom for bruising me. That was the first time I realised how hard we were playing, and when I caught sight of the cane he was using. I’d been floating so high I thought he’d been using one of the safe, medium canes, but the knowledge he was bruising me lent an extra frisson to the rest of the caning.
Afterwards I breached all reasonable etiquette by twisting round and kissing him enthusiastically. I perched on my hot, welted bottom on the end of the bench, kissing him deeply, running my hands up and down his back and wrapping my legs around his waist. I was ridiculously turned on. I can’t imagine anyone paying attention could have been seriously worried that the scene was nonconsensual!
I was on a high for the rest of the night. I straddled his lap, stealing many more kisses, and persuaded him to lay me across his knees for a warm hand-spanking on my bruised bottom. I could have happily kept playing and playing.
We headed home not long after, as even the best caning can’t mend a poorly Dom as well as sleep can. I had beautiful black and purple stripes to match my painted toenails, and after that scene I was more than willing to be taken to bed.