What to say about the party? It was both expected and unexpected. Normal and bizarre. Surreal and mundane. But most of all, it was fun.
I wasn’t sure what to expect when we walked into the meet-and-greet bar, around the corner from the venue. We knew someone would come to fetch us, but our main concern was how we would recognise them. Walking up to randomers and asking them if they were from the Internet probably wouldn’t work (aren’t we all nowadays?), and we were fairly sure that asking punters if they were perverts would lead to trouble.
This worry was resolved when a friendly-looking bloke clad head to toe in skin-tight latex wandered in.
And so the waifs and strays of the Irish fetish community drifted in, in ones and twos, to say hello and get comfy before an evening of debauchery.
We were warned that the venue was somewhat dilapidated, but we were still somewhat unprepared for just how… ‘atmospheric’ it was. Cracked stone floors, exposed beams, crumbling plaster over red brick walls. Gaps in the ceiling gave peeks of fellow kinksters on the upper floors. Cobwebs. Dust. Paint. We were skeptical.
We struggled into our kinky clothes (klothes?) anyway, feeling more self-conscious by the minute. Our partners in crime were similarly wary… we all sensed impending disaster. How delighted we were, then, to be proven wrong.
You would be forgiven for thinking that folks who have a penchant for consensual sexual violence might not be the most friendly or approachable bunch. You would also be dead wrong. Lots of fellow pervs introduced themselves happily, clearly delighted to have new people around.
The host was genial and excited – the theme, she told us, was Carnal Carnival, and we had our choice of several evil-sounding games. The menu of players was handed around – a list of “staff” kinksters who are happy to show the solo attendees around the equipment and give or get a playful swat or two.
Yes… the equipment. We made our way up to the top floor to find a shabby room, dimly lit with fairy lights dotted about. An unassuming space – if you ignored the St Andrew’s Cross and suspended stocks adorning the walls and ceiling. Our dungeon master for the evening was ensconced up there, keeping an eye on… well, nothing as of yet.
Curiosity satisfied, we wandered back downstairs and sat and drank and chatted. Strange to be so comfortable in such varied company – some guys in street clothes, others in black shirt and trousers, others in full PVC drag. The women were clad in an array of skimpy, clingy, booby, corsety things. Toys were shown off, war stories swapped, bruises compared and orientations shared.
The rest of the evening is mostly a blur. I have flashes of pretty catsuited ladies being spanked rather meanly, of lovely subby girlies punished for not doing their homework. I was introduced to the terrifying monster that is The Fucksaw – capital letters warranted. We hijacked a table and with a little bit of duct tape and ingenuity, transformed it into a spanking bench. We laughed. We winced. We made friends.
My one outstanding memory of the night is tentatively slipping my hands into the cuffs of the suspended stocks… just to see what it felt like. The cool leather felt restrictive, but secure. I smiled at my Sir as I did it, wondering at how far we’d come in a few short years… from tentative newbies to fully-fledged, play-party attending pervs.
I saw a smile creep over his face as he stood in front of me, and a split second later, I felt the thwack of a deliciously heavy flogger on my ass. Shock. Sir’s grin widened. A realisation, followed by a thrill of anticipation. A second lash.
But that’s a story for another time.
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