I nested my body into Squishy, my overstuffed living room chair. I'd rescued her from a neighbor's refuse pile. Her upholstery was tattered and stained, but the bones were solid. After I refinished her, she'd become the prized seat friends vied for during our weekly game night.
Our game nights skewed towards the adventurous, as did my circle of Bohemian friends. This week's gathering was a sex dungeon murder mystery. The game came with an inflatable male body, a murder victim that was discovered at a BDSM gathering. My friends and invitees Chad and Gary offered to bring their St. Andrews' Cross over to bind the victim to.
"It'll make a great centerpiece!" Gary quipped with enthusiasm.
"Indeed," I said to myself. It would clearly heighten the mood, but could also enhance the reason I'd chosen this game in particular.
You see, I really enjoy power exchange sex, primarily as a sub. It fit my nature and provided a release from my intense marketing career. The invited friends all knew this. I had played that way with some.
I also used denial as a form of motivation. Often it was simplistic: no chocolate until I cleaned out the garage, no discretionary spending until I'd saved enough for a special trip. A while back, there was this customer engagement concept I'd brainstormed, but was stuck trying to tie the elements together. It could be groundbreaking, so I chose an equivalently difficult denial. I would not engage in sex, including dom/sub play, until it was done.
Unfortunately, I had overdone it. The effort proved fruitless. All it did was leave me horny and frustrated. I wasn't ready to admit I'd failed, though, and hoped the game would rekindle my intent and provide the impetus to finish.
Gary brought the cross by a few days before the game, and I had great fun binding the inflated victim with bondage tape while adding embellishments from my BDSM collection. I also sent the seven other players their character information: roles to play, minimal facts about the others, and so on.
I knew my friends would go all out costuming themselves for their roles. We'd dressed similarly for slut fests and themed parties before, so awkwardness wouldn't be an issue. I did, however, try to select character profiles that matched their interests, or costumes I'd seen them in. Still, a few swapped to try something new, which could easily lead to some afterparty shenanigans.
My character was the dead man's underpaid assistant. Rummaging through my apparel, I chose a bodice that pushed up my exposed breasts, a matching thong, some self-supporting stockings, and spiked heels. A leather posture collar with a leash ring spoke to me, and I purred while running my fingers across it before adding it to the pile.
As I closed my accessories drawer, I spied a wide silk hair ribbon with "Are You Enough To Tame Me?" boldly scripted on its tail, along with outlined depictions of S&M accessories. It was wide enough to double as a blindfold or restraint. I recalled how powerful it made me feel when tied to my fiery red ponytail, and I placed it with the other things.
I paused in contemplation. Was I caving it on my project commitment, or realizing it was misguided to begin with?
It didn't take long for my answer.
"Ugh, get out of your head, Tina! Just do this!"
Come game night, I was heading for the shower when the phone rang. It was Chad.
"Hey, Tina," he started, "Gary's really sick, and won't make it tonight. I'm so sorry."
"Oh, no! I'm sorry to hear your boyfriend's not well. Do you need anything?"
"No, he's set. He's so sorry to mess things up, though."
