The vanilla friend’s eyes were wide as she sat facing the bed where Elita and I were letting our kinks out to play. Her pretty mouth fell open slightly at the shock of what she was watching.
“Oh my God!” she said. “That must really hurt a lot!”
What could Elita possibly have been doing to cause such a horrified response?
She was smacking my arse with her hand!
Elita had told me about these sessions, where one of her vanilla friends comes in to watch. I’ve fantasised about kink in public and this seemed a way to dip my toe into that murky pool without the potential embarrassment inherent in a larger audience.
Knowing almost nothing of Elita’s other lives (talented as she is, there are several) I had pictured some hot, overtly sexy, model type. Her friend was definitely very attractive but in a “sitting upright in her office skirt, nice blouse, and flat shoes” kind of way. It made me desperate to ask how they knew each other. She seemed demure and innocent. She had a soft American accent and I detected the almost excessive politeness one finds sometimes in the country club/private school/house-in-the-Hamptons class of Americans.
And she was nervous. Right now, nervous is hot for me. Nervous speaks of scary new ventures and of comfort zones breached. To see an attractive woman nervous was pressing buttons I have only recently discovered.
Even without her presence this was a hot session; Elita slapping my face again and again in a “guess the colour of the chocolate” game from an earlier post; bondage, pain, pleasure, edging, more pain; sensations constantly climbing. And, at the end, the caning I had been waiting for all week, had specifically asked for; demanding, challenging, unremitting; followed by the endorphin rush and the wonderful, floaty calm. A full hour of erotic torment, perfectly paced.
It was special, as it always is.
But she was there, this sweet girl, watching every moment; watching as Elita tightened the rope round my testicles, watching as she slapped my nipples with a riding crop till I was desperately twisting away from it, watching as her hand closed over my throat and pushed my towards asphyxiation. She saw it all from a few feet away, surprise turning to wide eyed shock as the session developed.
Elita asked if she’d ever seen a corporal punishment scene in a movie or on TV that she liked. (Anyone else would have said “remembered;” Elita assumes everyone watches corporal punishment scenes for pleasure).
“Well,” she said, not understanding Elita’s game in the gut-wrenching, sick-feeling way that I did, “I only remember one, they tied a guy’s legs to a bed and beat the soles of his feet. It was horrendous!”
Her look of horror, her unsuccessful pleading with the delighted Elita, her abject apologies to me as the soles of my feet were smacked again and again with Elita’s vintage riding crop; these reactions lifted an already intense scene, adding new elements, new emotions as she became complicit in my pain and connected to it.
The session was special in other ways.
Beforehand I had thought I might feel isolated by the real-life friendship between the two women. But the opposite was true. I’ve no idea how her friend felt afterwards, but during the session it seemed she was the isolated one and I felt a little sorry for her. Her presence emphasised the extent to which Elita and I were playing OUR games, doing OUR thing, and however weird and outlandish that might have seemed, the easy familiarity with which Elita hurt me and with which I accepted her pain put her friend in the, perhaps uncomfortable, position of voyeur.
So I felt a little guilty. But only a little.
In fact I felt rather like the sword swallower at a circus. “Look, I can do this!” his actions say, as he relishes the horrified gasps of his audience.
Which was why I relished her post session text to Elita: “Oh, My God. I can’t believe that just happened!”
Yeah. That made me smile. And I’m smiling again now.