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IC : Weblogs : CruelLadyScorpio : "Cru Goes to an Orgy"
Cru Goes to an Orgy
CruelLadyScorpio's profile
Posted by CruelLadyScorpio on Thu 6 Nov 03, 5:29 PM
(For those who're viewing this entry purely for a wank,
I've conveniently marked the action bit with '***' so
you can bypass my brain and yours.)
I suppose you might be surprised that a woman of my age
with kinky sexual appetites has never been to a
gathering of those on bonking bent, but s'true. I've
never felt my sexual throes were suitable viewing for
anyone except the person doing the throe-ing. At the
age of seventeen, I permitted my skinhead boyfriend to
shag me in the coat room at a party while his best mate
was puffing away on top of his girlfriend in the same
room. The fact that his (dominant) best mate
had 'dared' him to do it wiped any respect I had for
him, and made us both rather pathetic and ridiculous.
It did not turn me on. I learned the value of sexual
dignity.
Anyway, we were at a big fetish bash at the weekend,
fillyslave and I, and as is her wont when she knows
she's looking good, had worked herself into what I
refer to as a state of social hyperactivity. I watched
her with affectionate indulgence as she flew about
enjoying herself, chattering nineteen-to-the-dozen and
showing off like mad. I clocked that a striking lady
trailing a femsub on a leash was taking a keen interest
in her, possibly thinking she was alone, so I called
her to heel for a few minutes. The lady approached our
group and declared she was having an orgy, tenner a
shot to cover booze and hire of apartment. Whilst
apparently making it a general invitation, she cleverly
managed to make it clear that fillyslave was her
object, who, responding like Pavlov's dog (pony?) to
the attention, immediately turned to me,
going 'Mistress can we go, can we go, can we? Let's get
wild, Mistress ... pleeeese can we go?' etc etc and
bouncing up and down on her hooves. I made non-
committal noises, having caught the looks of a couple
of dom friends, and the lady departed to the next
table, but not before pointedly and impertinently
kissing fillyslave. I threw a Grade A Dominant Strop
(see previous log).
After fillyslave had tracked me down to the loo in
which I'd locked myself, she persuaded me to at least
let her get the address, by appealing to my admittedly
somewhat latent sense of adventure, while I went to
inquire about this lady's creds. I was informed that
she had her fingers in many money-making pies of a
sexual nature, none of which could be described as even
vaguely bdsm, was notorious for being arrogant and so
loose she was practically falling apart. Her nickname
was unpleasant, so I shall simply call her Queen Bee.
Despite my misgivings, I was getting curious to see
what folk got up to at these things, and I couldn't
resist the possibility of social combat presented by
Queen Bee's gauntlet of the kiss. Reassured by filly's
greater experience of such gatherings, and her
suggestion that if it turned out to be a load of
unattractive people doing unattractive things to
eachother, we should drink all the booze and leave, I
agreed to go if we had time pending other commitments,
and on the understanding that nobody was to touch her
without my say-so.
After a couple of hours to visit friends' for a spot of
bickering plus foot worship, and a detour to filly's
flat where she could change her boots, forget to bring
more money and lose her mobile phone for the umpteenth
time, our taxi dropped us at 4am outside an upmarket
warehouse conversion on the waterfront.
A large man in an expensive black suit greeted us
outside the door, and I thought 'Perhaps this is
classier than I thought if even the bouncer's got a
handmade suit.' It wasn't. The man turned out to be the
avuncular, if somewhat shell-shocked, owner of the
apartment and a close friend of Queen Bee, and showed
he was palpably delighted with his two attractive and
evidently kinky latecomers by failing to collect the
entry fee.
He lead us through to the sitting room, where various
prosperous-looking vanilla folk were dotted about in
the usual party positions, bar Queen Bee who was being
rogered energetically doggy-style in the middle of the
polished floor by a handsome lad in a baseball cap.
Things began to feel a touch surreal. The ever-
capricious filly did a circuit of the room, gave me
a 'yeurch' look and made a beeline for the only couple
there we knew to be bdsm, with whom she spent the next
two hours chatting, decidedly not 'getting wild', and
deflecting all Queen Bee's attempts to get into her
knickers by plying her with drink and exhorting her
to 'relax'. I was entirely in agreement that us playing
was not appropriate amongst such folk, so I looked
about for other diversion.
I was being eyed warily by a number of people, no doubt
assuming that Dommes were humourless and
unapproachable, so I skillfully broke the ice by
slipping in some spilt wine whilst trying to step over
filly, and crashed spectacularly and noisily down on
top of her, spraying my glass of beer in a wide arc
over everyone sitting on the sofa.
Things warmed up after this, and I circulated
in 'evangelical bdsmer' mode with an eye to getting as
many converts as possible, and perhaps finding
someone 'relaxed' enough to let me thrash them. (Oh,
and incidentally trying to salvage some dignity by
having lots of complex intellectual discussions, thus
making it clear I hadn't slipped over because I was
hammered. Ahem.)
The question in the forefront of my mind was 'If this
is supposed to be an orgy, everyone here could
technically get their money back.' The host took me
through to his ensuite lavatory at one point, the main
loo being engaged. There was a couple in his bedroom-
cum-coat-room, sure, but they were fully dressed and we
were obviously interrupting an intense conversation. I
began to suspect this was all a set-up to allow Queen
Bee to publicly display her nymphomania.
It says a great deal for the natural aplomb acquired
with age that the host and I managed to sustain a
discussion on NLP while Queen Bee was having a
screaming orgasm behind us on the sofa. I'm afraid I
cannot conceive a circumstance where I should want to
have someone I met an hour ago truffling around in my
pussy while folk stand around chatting with glasses of
wine and nibbles. But then I'm not an exhibitionist; as
Saint Quentin Crisp said, the problem with
exhibitionism is that it's a drug which, over time, one
needs larger and larger doses of to gain the same
effect. Queen Bee, by this reckoning, is well on her
way to a twelvemonth at the sex-maniac's equivalent of
the Betty Ford Clinic.
Anyhow, I got chatting to an attractive and intelligent
guy who thought he might be a switch and was up for a
bit of experimentation, and as I was itching to hit
someone by this time, we retired to the relative
privacy of the balcony for a quick Cook's tour of my
weaponry. I'd not really registered that one wall of
the sitting room consisted of glass doors, with voile
curtains concealing a room behind. The back wall of the
balcony was also glass, and formed the end wall of this
same room. I positioned my victim so he was clutching
the balcony railing and turned to fish for a flogger in
my bag ...
One of the balcony curtains had been pulled aside due
to the activity within, and I clearly saw three
couples, one girl-on-girl, going at it hammer-and-
tongs, all youngish and pretty. Now, in my imagination,
an orgy is a situation where you're all in a tangle of
limbs and you end up with someone's toe jammed up your
nose, but this lot were entirely focused on their
respective partners. I felt faintly disappointed. It
was all rather mundane, and yet folk kept sticking
their heads round the balcony door to look, and I
realised just how far 'out there' I'd become.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not decrying vanilla sex at
all; I've had some deeply touching and spiritual sexual
experiences with both vanilla and D/s partners. But I
realised what I was seeing through the gap in the
curtains was just a multiple of plain ol' biology. And
man, was it dull.
*** Serves you right, suk3rz!
(Purely for the research purposes of this log, and with
a desire to inform, you understand, I checked back
periodically, but although the participants may have
switched partners, the landscape remained resolutely
uninspiring.)
.....
I turned back to the chap clutching the railings, and
used my whip and my voice to take him to the dreamy
place. Afterwards I held him, and was later given to
understand, kissed him. I have no recollection of
it ... I was just doing usual dom aftercare stuff.
Having pacified fillyslave following her claw-flexing
hissy-fit about that (which rather surprised me,
considering she was the one who'd originally advocated
a night of knickers-round-the-ankles), I started
chatting again to our host who, although non-scene,
evidently had a grasp of the more cerebral aspects of
bdsm through a recent long D/s relationship.
He displayed just the right combination of fear and
boldness that interests me, so I upped-sticks and
claimed his bedroom, and decided to bring filly in for
a lesson in where not to hit folk, and underline why I
was so fabulous. Trying to take someone into subspace
when people keep traipsing through to use the loo, get
coats, and when your excitable companion-in-crime keeps
zipping off to try her new skills on someone in the
other room is kind of tricky.
I managed it in the end cos I got tired of screaming at
folk to 'Get the fuck out!', threw a Grade B Dominant
Strop (ibid) and chucked all the coats out into the
hall. (Where I incidentally encountered a very naked
and very beautiful young man hovering curiously, his
face a portrait in surfeit indicating he'd been a
recent inhabitant of the curtained room. I flicked his
behind with my whip, told him he'd catch his death
standing there and slammed the door.)
Queen Bee, despite her 'bury-me-in-a-Y-shaped-coffin'
activities, gained my respect because she kept 'just
popping' into the bedroom to ostensibly get stuff, but
actually to check I wasn't killing her friend.
He'd come-to by about 7.30am, and we wandered
comfortably back into the main room to find everyone
away apart from the Queen Bee and her sub, and daylight
glancing at the ceiling from the water below the
balcony.
We proved ourselves to be awfully British by squeaking
happily over sharing the small pleasure of an
overlooked cig, and pottering about picking up empty
cans until the taxis arrived. filly by this time had
imbibed so much alcohol she'd got to the 'boneless'
stage, or in her Glaswegian parlance, 'Three-stages
past fucked'. I had to keep propping her against
structural features on the way down to the street.
The cab driver had just come on shift, and by the grin
on his face felt he'd hit Sunday morning pay-dirt as he
listened to our outrageous conversation, and admired
fillyslave's long stockinged legs flailing about as she
decided she wanted to get comfy and go to sleep in my
lap. He became so intent on our dialogue that when
filly, in a return of the green haze, rather nastily
enquired whether I'd given our host a blow-job when she
was out of the room, his outraged intake of breath
matched mine. I'll draw a veil over the strategic
difficulties of getting a tall, extremely drunk and
bratty femsub teetering on four-inch heels out of a
taxi, up the stairs of a tenement, out of her clothes
and coaxed into bed.
The next day fillyslave in a reprise of her green-eyed
theme, roundly declared that men were really rather
disgusting, and only useful for their packets ... pay,
that is. But our host had proved himself to be a
gentleman to the last. Despite being tired and strung-
out, he'd graciously accepted that his host privileges
didn't extend to groping Cru; that play with Cru and
her delectable slave was unlikely to be repeated; and
that kinky women smoke all your fags, drink all your
liquor and make unreasonable demands. He'd called us a
cab, made sure I could cope with the tiddly filly,
gallantly kissed our hands as we left and gave me his
card in case filly's mobile was down the back of his
sofa and not, as I suspected, under her bed (it was).
Dignity can be found in the most unexpected places,
even coat rooms.
.....
I learned two other useful things that night: a) don't
try S&M at a vanilla 'get naked' party as no one knows
the rules and there'll always be some twonk standing in
the way of your backswing asking daft questions while
you're trying to concentrate, and b), take a femsub's
assertions of sexual liberation with a pinch of salt
and a dash of jealousy - her thighs may well snap shut
like an alligator's jaw when presented with the reality
of Nature, red in face and knee.
Edited Sun 18 Jan 04, 6:35 PM by CruelLadyScorpio
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