Sarah: Party Bondage Ch. 03

Author's note:

This really won't make much sense at all unless you've read Party Bondage 2, which will make more sense if you've read Party Bondage, so I really do suggest that you read that first.

This has a bit more explicit and up-front character development in it than I normally bother with, and it's there for two reasons: I'm starting to care more about Sarah, and; some feedback I've received has told me that I need to clarify the situation and the personalities and relationships a little more.

Don't worry, there's some very dirty sex coming later on!

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My second party took me a while to recover from.

I spent all of Saturday unsettled, trying to relax on my weekend off and failing miserably. There's enough extrovert in my personality that, once I had accepted that I could turn up to a swinger's party and let everyone know that I was there for the same reason they were, putting on a good show wasn't too big a stretch for me. Hell, I could probably be a pole-dancer if I were a bit fitter and more desperate for money.

But I felt used. I have sex because It's really, really enjoyable, but no matter how hard I came on that table, I still felt like a piece of meat that they had been nice to. Knowing how much of a self-confessed whore Suzanne was didn't help either - lying next to her, having the same things happen, didn't sit well with me once I had calmed down and thought about it.

I didn't want to speak to anyone all day, but by Sunday morning I did. I was up and dressed and the Gaggia was already hot by the time Catherine dropped by. She gave me her usual greeting, was sprawled on one of my kitchen chairs by the time I had closed the door and walked back up my hallway, and raised her eyebrows at my manner.

She even waited until I had made us coffee, instead of trying to talk over the vibrating, rumbling, rattling old beast of an espresso maker.

"What's up?" She asked, as soon as she had taken her ritual first sip and given her ritual, grateful nod of approval.

"Friday night. I'm not sure I'm happy with where I went."

She nodded and took another sip of coffee. "Are you mad at me for what I did?"

"Not sure yet."

"I was wondering about that. Sarah, you know I love you, and you know that I say everything for a reason - you may not have been ready. Let me guess: You're thinking 'I'm not a slut like that Suzanne, how dare they just use me like that?' Am I right?"

"A little."

"Of course you are. Because you're not used to the scene, and you haven't seen anything like that before in real life. Let me stress that 'Real life' part. Do you know what the first rule of BDSM is?"

"I have no idea."

"Respect, and permission, and choice. You remember those three couples you met? The naked girl kneeling on the floor is an office manager. She can directly fire seven people, and she likes being shown off because it makes her feel good to have people admire her body, and to let somebody else make all the decisions. If you touched her without permission, her owner would break your fingers. The chair? He runs an entire company. He comes home at the end of the day, head hurting from responsibility and trying to not fire anyone the way the world's going, and he gets to relax and say "Yes, Mistress" to his wife and not care about anything until he gets in his car the next morning. The pony girl has just always wanted to be a horse - no idea why.

"Look, Sarah, the point is that if you had said 'No, stop!' at any point, you would have been dressed and in a chair before your mouth had shut. I don't run 'anything goes' parties, I run 'anything may go' parties. Look, I've been shackled on hands and knees and sucking every cock in the room while being spanked and told what a nasty whore I am. It makes me feel good to let go occasionally."

"Should I be worried that that image didn't make me cringe?"

"Honey, the best way to approach the world is to go far enough to know where your limits are, and then remember them. If spanking isn't for you, nobody is going to spank you. If you are having trouble grappling with the idea that somewhere inside you there may be a sexually liberated woman saying 'Sex? Hell yeah, bring it on!', then my advice is to give her a good spanking and tell her who's boss. Next time, don't get laid out, lay them out."

She finished her coffee while my mind was trying to work out where her metaphors had been going, and took refuge in the fairly automatic process of refilling it.

I sat down again, and leaned forwards with a calculated air of being about to speak. Catherine let me.

"Look, Catherine," I said. "You know I love you, and respect you, and know just how much experience you've got but... Honey, none of that sunk in. What the hell are you talking about?"

Catherine gave me a hard look, and ignored her fresh coffee. She leaned forward. "You," she said, quietly and with a touch of compassion in her voice, "Need to get to know yourself a little better. I don't want you spending the next few years slowly getting to terms with what's inside you. I think you need a private party."

I was speechless for a second, then: "How the fuck is that supposed to help?"

"Darling, consider it a therapy session. You get to play around as and how you wish, no pressure, just fun. Me, James, Suzanne'll be here for another week, so we can give her a going-away present next Friday if you're comfortable with her... We'll need another two men. I'll get Clay, and I'll borrow a sub. How's that?

I sat back and stared at her, properly speechless, until she raised an eyebrow at me and said "Well?" in a meaningful tone of voice.

I finally found mine. "Can I get back to you?" I asked, slightly squeaky.

She shrugged, and picked up her mug. "Sure. Just let me know by Tuesday. Give me time to plan a few things."

She stayed to chat about everything but anything to do with sex for another half hour, and I was feeling mostly human by the time she left. Then I rang Clay.

#

I had only seen Clay once since the first party, and although he had made me promise to go to the second, he had been sick for the night and hadn't turned up to take his turn on me.

He felt a little safer than Catherine, who had fucked me with a strap-on while I had a cock down my throat, and he was intelligent and less forthright than Catherine, as well.

We met at a local cafe, and he refused to not shout me lunch.

As he was rather better paid than I, I didn't argue for too long.

My chicken Caesar salad was fancy enough to be slightly poncy, but delicious. His turkey focaccia was pretentious, but also delicious. I let him choose wine, so long as it wasn't white (white wine gives me all the symptoms of hyperglycemia. Red wine or rose doesn't. Don't ask me why, my doctor doesn't know), and he found us an extremely nice, and local, organic rose with a pleasingly crisp, honeyed palate.

I chatted inconsequentially for several mouthfuls, but I can read people well enough to know that I wasn't fooling anyone. He, being a gentleman, waited.

"... which nearly drove me mad, because it was pure, uncaring incompetence. Plain and simple. Which I had to clean up, instead of getting back to my clients, one of whom was approaching crisis. So, well, Catherine wants to teach me about myself by having a private party and inviting you."

He took the huge sideways shift in subject in his stride, swallowing his mouthful before replying. "I won't try and pretend I didn't get chapter and verse on Friday night from our beloved mutual friend," he said. "I take it that you're not sure if you want to speak to anyone ever again, or undress with the lights on."

"Fucking stop that!"

"Stop what?" he asked around his wine glass.

"Stop being so fucking insightful! How do you know that?"

"The same way Catherine guessed it before she rang me yesterday, I'm guessing," he continued, his attention on his foccacia for a moment, "Because we've been there, been through it, remember what it was like, and recognise it in others."

He took the sting out of revealing that they had been talking about me behind my back, and before I had unloaded on Catherine, by asking "Have you ever been given the 'We care about you, deal with it' speech?"

"Once or twice," I said cautiously, not sure whether I was going to be wary of him, and self-consciously not taking a drink in case it looked defensive.

He topped up my glass, which was only a third empty, before saying anything else. "Look, Catherine's a lot less scary than she seems. You already know that, but I'm guessing that you haven't met Mistress Catherine before. There's also a slave Catherine, who's much more fun in my opinion, but that's another story. If you let her look after you, she will. And I'd be honoured to help."

I took a very deliberate drink before replying, keeping my eyes firmly on his. "Okay. You ring Catherine and tell her to organise it for next Friday, and I'm sorry I'm pushing into their private time. But I won't be drinking. I don't care if I wasn't drunk for either party, I won't be drinking."

"Check."

"Good."

"You're welcome."

"Shut up."

He gave a semi-courtly hand-wave bow of his head in acknowledgement.

"What are you doing for the rest of the afternoon?"

He pushed his plate away and leaned back to stretch, taking his glass with him. "I have nothing planned except inconsequentialities."

"Would you like to come back to my place?"

"I would be honoured."

"I'm on top."

"Whatever you say, mistress."

"Excuse me?"

"Whatever you say, Mistress."

"Good boy."

"Arf, arf."

"You'll pay for that, later."

#

My afternoon with Clay, which stretched over two hours while I played soft-core bondage Mistress and he good-humouredly played alone while I made him cum twice and got three out of him for myself, taught me a few things:

One, I was still quite happy in my sexuality, thank you, but didn't quite want to be on the bottom just yet. Two, having power is quite a delicious thrill. Three, curtain tassels make handy restraints. That was his suggestion, by the way.

It restored my faith in myself and put me in a good mood for the rest of the week, even for work.

Which made the looming inevitability of Friday night seem a little more bearable, until Friday afternoon came and I got home from work to be faced with a shower, which was good, and then getting dressed, which was difficult.

I found myself standing in front of my wardrobe, staring at everything and saying "I need a corset. I need a fucking corset, dammit!"

The thing was, I had an impulse to not get entirely undressed. Just to make a point, I'd keep my tits covered. Not because my nipples were still smarting from the snake-bite cups, but because I thought it would give me a sense of controlling the situation. A corset would be ideal. But I didn't have one. Nor did I have a leather bra. Without something good to wear, I couldn't see myself getting out of undressing. However...

With a little ingenuity, and a pair of scissors, I managed to get suspender fishnet stockings, that came halfway up my thighs, attached to crotchless panties under a leather mini-skirt I hadn't thought I would ever wear again. Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to go commando for the cause.

My only pair of high boots weren't high enough, so I went with high heels instead.

A black bra went under my most goth shirt, and I made my make-up bold and in shades of black.

Then I grabbed my car keys and belted out of the house, running late.

When I got there, Catherine opened the door almost before I had knocked, looked me up and down and said "Would you like to borrow a corset? I think you need to be wearing a corset."

She was wearing a latex nurse's uniform which did a good enough job of giving her cleavage without any boning at all.

"Do you know how much thought I had to put into this?" I demanded.

"Okay, I just thought..."

"Show me the corset, bitch."

It was red, and boned, and gave me a cleavage I had never had, and I couldn't stop giggling at myself in the mirror.

"What panties have you got on?" Catherine demanded, hovering over my shoulder with a calculating look in her eye.

"Well, actually," I started, arching my eyebrows, but didn't get any further before she nearly crushed me in a hug from behind.

"Excellent!" she crowed, then lunged across the room, rummaged in a drawer and came back. "Put those on and get rid of that skirt!"

I stared at them. They were leather, large enough to be boy-shorts, and had many studs, and a removable crotch area held on with studs, and lots of adjustable straps for my stockings to attach to.

Eventually, I found my voice. "Catherine, were you wearing these last week?"

"Yes I was, honey. They're my only pair that hold a dildo. I have other strap-ons, of course..."

I nearly went chill, remembering, then went hot instead, and started unzipping my skirt. "Could you give me a minute, darling? I'll join you with the rest."

She almost cackled with glee as she skipped out of the room.

When I had changed out of my modified panties into her leather boy-shorts, I left my skirt off and stood staring at myself in Catherine's full-length mirror. I looked fucking hot! More to the point, I looked powerful. Every stereotype of dominant bondage women I ever knew clicked into place. My boots weren't tall enough, but between the corset, the leather boy-shorts and suspender fishnets, I looked in charge and I felt confident.

I still needed a deep breath and a bit of mental coaxing before I walked out the door and joined everyone else in the living room, however.

Catherine's dress just about revealed what panties she was, or more likely wasn't, wearing.

James was wearing skin-tight latex pants and a sleeveless shirt that would have made him look like a rent-boy if he wasn't so obviously in charge of his own personal space.

Suzanne was wearing a little frilly-edged black top like a fetish french maid, a skirt to match and white stockings. She seemed to be going for the school-girl fetish angle as well as the maid angle.

Clay was rather more conventionally but no less simply dressed, wearing a frilly white shirt and snug pants with a black-on-black pattern that was difficult to make out at first, and on closer (much closer) inspection turned out to be a diamond grid with a fleur-de-lis in the centre of each diamond. He also had a wide leather cuff on each wrist, and a studded leather collar without, I was slightly disappointed to see, a D-link for a leash on it. Oh, well, another time, maybe.

The final member of the party, to get the genders balanced, was, as Catherine had promised, a borrowed slave. He was wearing a leather G-string and a body harness which positioned big steel rings over his nipples, both of which were pierced. He was surprisingly young-looking and cute, and had a tentative, shy smile which spoke volumes about how unused he was to not be in a full-discipline environment. Somehow, that did a better job of making me feel confident than anything else so far.

They had, strategically, left me only one space to sit - on the couch, between Clay and James. Suzanne was sprawled on the floor in front of James, and the young slave was kneeling carefully by Catherine's armchair. She was toying proprietorially with his shoulder-length hair. The other two boys were sprawled into the nook between the couch back and the arm, so I was left the middle cushion, and leaned back feeling like a queen. I draped my arms over the back of the couch and crossed my legs.

Clay offered me a tall, thin glass.

"Lemon, lime and bitters," he explained. "Non-alcoholic, as requested."

I raised my eyebrow and said "Well, boy?"

Grinning, he raised it to my lips for a long sip.

"Hey, this is good. Who the hell mixed this?"

Catherine put her hand possessively on the head of the cute sub and stroked his hair slowly. "Michael here is a cocktail waiter," she said with a smirk in her voice. "He's good with his hands in other ways, too."

"Borrow him often, do you?" I asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Every chance I get!" Catherine replied to general laughter. I even joined in myself.

As the rest of us laughed, Catherine pulled up the bottom of her latex dress (it only came to mid-thigh anyway) and said "In you get, boy!"

He swung his knees around to face her and leant forwards, his head disappearing from view and a satisfied sigh drifting out of Catherine's lips.

I managed to say "I thought you were talking about his hands, darling," with perfect voice control.

She waved a languid hand in my direction, head resting on the back of her chair. "Later, darling, later, I don't want to peak too early."

James leaned towards me and said, in a conspiratorial slave whisper, "She's actually lying. It doesn't matter how early she peaks, she can keep going for the rest of the night if she needs to."

"Just for that!" Catherine called out, "I'm going to! Boy, try harder!"

I was, almost literally, mesmerised as the slave's head, barely covered by the bottom of Catherine's dress, began to move around as he kept his hands perfectly still on the tops of his thighs.

Catherine's hips began to roll, slightly, and one hand crept up her body to her latex-squeezed breast as she began to breathe a little harder.

For almost five minutes there was complete silence apart from the faint wet sounds from under Catherine's skirt, and the slowly escalating moans from her mouth, only the underside of her throat visible as her head lay over the back of the chair.

I only vaguely recognised that I was tensing up as she got higher and higher, but I definitely recognised that it was making me horny. My breasts were beginning to ache inside the corset, and my body was twanging like a bowstring. I started off staring at her throat, but my gaze dropped and I couldn't get my eyes off the back of the slave's head as it moved around, the white latex of Catherine's dress stretched lewdly to accommodate him.

Catherine began to twitch, and her back slowly rose from the chair until she was supported on her neck and her feet, her legs visibly quivering until, with a sort of strangled moaning gasp, she went rigid, shook, and then collapsed back onto the chair as the slave straightened his back again, his face wearing the most self-satisfied submissive look I have ever seen.

I had the slightly mad thought that I had never seen Catherine cum before.

James started laughing, a happy, proud sound, and I suddenly realised that I had heard Clay give a pained sound and that it was probably because my hand was clamped onto his leg just above his knee. I forced my gaze away from the absurdly smirking Catherine and looked down at my hand. Yes, I'm not surprised that it may have hurt.

I peeled it off his leg and realised that the only way to come out of this with dignity and self-respect was to throw myself headlong into it and try not to fall over.

I patted his knee and said "I'm sorry, did I hurt you?"

"Yes!" he exclaimed, pointing at his knee. "You can kiss it better, too!"

It took me a heartbeat longer than ideal to come up with a retort, while Catherine asked "What? Did I miss something?"

"You," I said in response, "Can kiss my pussy and thank me for it!"

The bastard actually grinned at me before saying "Okay, then."

He slid off the couch and between my knees before my brain, which had geared up for an argument, realised that he had agreed.

It wasn't the conscious part of my brain that spread my knees for him, but I didn't argue the point. A small part of me screamed that this was ridiculous, I was about to expose myself again, how is that normal?? But I closed my eyes and thought "I don't care. I'm sexy, fuck it, and I am in control this time, and I will have this man between my legs and I will love it."