The club used to be a pub, so the ground floor is the typical bar-centre layout opened up, dance floor to the front, seating at the rear with two staircases at the back leading to the repurposed cellar. A vintage 'No Smoking At the Bar' sign has been amended to read 'No Fucking At the Bar" and the barman jabs his finger at it, as he tells one pretty young man to cool it with another who is being distracted from ordering drinks with the required London efficiency. A shame; both are wearing the briefest of underpants and nothing else, ready and willing, but they'll have to move elsewhere in the building to act on it. I'd like to see them.
It's warm. I request juice, even though you and I would be happy for me to have one drink before playing. You do the same, staying totally sober for playing, as usual. It's a habit that helps me trust you, and if tonight is anything like we've been planning - more intense than previous play - I'm going to need that complete trust in you, knowing that you're going to hurt me but not harm me. A subtle but vital difference.
You fill up a couple sports bottles of water - I suppose you'll be getting exercise and I'll be open-mouthed... I'm starting to feel nerves in my tummy from the anticipation.
"It's loud here, isn't it? Drink downstairs?"
I nod and follow, careful on the narrow steps in my heels.
Down below, the ceilings are low and it's dim but peaceful, despite the bass from the dance floor above. The main room flickers with a dozen electric candles and some patchouli oil fails to cover the scent of damp. Some mood lamps and gauze around various beds and white bean bags are aiming for a mellow, louche feel. Almost no-one is down here yet. We move on. The second room is half the size, lit brighter but more harshly with a couple bare bulbs from above, and the damp smell is hidden more effectively - by a mix of piss and disinfectant.
The room's walls, ceiling and floor have all been hastily painted black, drips everywhere. There's various rings bolted to the wall, a table with condoms, lube sachets, mini sharps bin, and a bin nearby. A case of bottles of water and a few towels which look dyed black some while ago to cover stains.
There's a battered fake-leather sofa in the corner, a dentist's chair, and a padded bench, but we've come to see if the bed is free. And it is. Someone is cuddling someone else on the sofa, but they wave us on.
OK.
I breathe, deeply.
You take the carrier bag out of my backpack and rummage through it. And hold up my collar. It's not something that gets used much, sadly. You're looking questioning, and I give a small nod.
It's not as if it's really going to make much difference to our play, which at root is me letting you restrain and hurt me in ways we find mutually satisfactory, even if sometimes I'm finding that in retrospect, but there's undeniable symbolism with a collar I can't ignore. As soon as you stroke upwards to make me raise my chin, and fasten the buckles snugly round my neck, I feel myself relaxing, getting in a state to cede control to you.
"Ready?"
It seems a superfluous question - it's what I've come here for. I come up with an answer.
"Yeah. I'll just nip to the toilet and be right back..."
"No."
You're holding a finger through a ring on the collar, and gazing into my eyes. "The bed is rubber for a reason. I want you on it now. You want me to control you; well, I am controlling you, so: get on that bed."
I take a deep breath, again. It's not like we haven't discussed a wider range of activities beyond the usual play-party staples of bondage and hitting and such, and in principle I think this should be hot, but I can predict the obvious outcome of this and the embarrassment is huge. I might have wussed out, but the other couple are getting up and leaving, presumably just here for the quiet rather than the kink. If it's just between you and me... that mattress is covered in thick black rubber, easy to clean ... if you want, I can do this.
Yeah.
I get onto the bed, lying face down as urged. You've run a rope under the whole thing, and pull up one end to loop round the metal ring on my collar. A swift safety knot and repeat on the other side, and I'm held down more firmly than I'd have ever imagined, yet with hands and legs totally free. I can't even shuffle up or down the bed. I experiment with where to put my hands and conclude up, above the rope, is best. You aren't taking any risks of my punching out wildly, so cuff both wrists, clip them together and then loop them round the head of the bed frame.
Suddenly I find myself calming, accepting; my wrists being tied is always a trigger to my knowing that I'm staying put now until you release me, no matter what happens. I trust you not to deliver lasting harm, but I also know you! There's going to be some pleasure, I hope, but some of the next hour or so is likely to be very difficult. I remember what you told me and try to convince myself I really don't need to urinate at all, not in the next hour or more, I'd be fine for a car journey - why should I be worried?
I'm worried.
You start massaging my shoulders, my back, and I relax and forgive you - you are one of my best mates, after all, and anything for a good back rub... Anything? Might have been going too far, there. Time will tell.
The massage reaches my bottom, relaxes it too, which is impressive given it's got reason to be the most fearful part of my body. You pull my cheeks apart, prod deeper. It's all good until you tap my inner thighs, implying I should lift myself. I obey.
