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Visit a Kink Club with Me…
Essemoh Teepee© 2020
Stepping off the sidewalk of a normal London Street into the dimness of a cobbled alley, wedged between shop fronts and fast-
Google maps indicate Club Sanctum is here, somewhere on the right. Checking the address against the numbered plaques beside obvious doorways, light spilling from big windows onto the narrow street, a parallel universe from where we have come, but no number for the club! Checking again, looking again, still nothing. Is this right? It seems wrong.
Then a low voice from the shadows, ‘Here!’
Hard to see the figure in the darkness, ordinary street clothes, pale blue, bearded face floating above a phone screen.
A blank windowless wall pierced by a flat steel door with a key pad. No sign, no number, nothing to indicate that this was anything but a disused back street storage unit. Very discrete.
Inside, a cramped vestibule, dimly lit, made darker somehow, by the lining of black curtains, black floor and black ceiling. A sharp featured, leather corseted woman with scarlet hair sat behind a tiny table, imperiously holding out her hand for our tickets. Then she smiled, changing the atmosphere from vaguely menacing to friendly and communal. She gave us an introduction to the ‘house’ rules and emphasised that there were to be ‘no photographs’. A protective figure flanked the gatekeeper. Unkempt blonde hair, loose fitting white blouse and short black skirt wrapped around a bulky body; watchdog, or pet perhaps? We pushed through the curtain on into the main space.
A strong impression of the theatrical, being in the wings, looking out onto a lit stage. Scaffolding, metal stairs, black drapes and spotlights. A few figures moving in the tight space dressed in black and skin. We climb the steps into a space with the feel of being close to the roof of a tent, more black cloth, black stackable chairs and a defeated sofa. A friendly face, smiling above a tight black leather corset with brightly shining silver clasps, the cloakroom girl offering to take our coats, umbrellas, any unnecessary clothes.
I unwind you from your black dress, unwrapping my playmate for the evening. Revealing translucent black lace, stockings and suspenders, a filigree masque to preserve some anonymity. Buried inside you, a heavy bronze bejewelled butt plug and a remote vibrator, the control in my pocket. I enclose your pale, welcoming neck in a wide black leather collar and attach the chain leash. I am all in black; shirt, suit, shiny shoes.
Nervous hesitation, you are uncertain if you can proceed. Figures moving around us, unknown, unnoticed. But there is just us, deciding. A completely naked young man walks past us. In the distance is the sharp sound of leather on flesh. Something is drawing us down the steps into this new, strange, otherworldly place. It feels dreamlike, different, underwater slow. We have stepped outside of the real into the surreal. Unspoken rules we have not heard, boundaries we cannot perceive, invisible relationships and subtle connections. It is an impossible place, yet here we are, amid the players and without the script.
We join the dance, a ballet of watchers and watched. More men than women. The Dom and the Domme, circling and seeking. A few, prized submissive creatures but not an even balance. Did the seekers expect there to be a ready supply to feed their needs? Can a Dom be a Dom without a Sub? If not what sort of creatures are they?
Another totally naked man, toned and tanned wanders past and disappears through a door beside the hole in the wall bar. No one pays attention apart from us. That must be frustrating for an exhibitionist, or is it one of the hidden rules?
We are observed. A lone Dom, suited and booted but past their prime, a flogger jammed into pants pocket, circles us, just out of reach. You are the draw, black lace, naked skin, bright eyes and hair. Fresh youthful meat that might be passed around to feed the need?
Dream on, Sir. She is mine.
Drinks. Gin & Tonic, no ginger beer so it’s a rum and coke, not a Dark & Stormy. Doubles are called for, a little easing of tension, relaxation of inhibitions. The transition was unnoticed but suddenly apparent. We were real, empowered, looked and felt the part. Nothing was wrong, it was all just right.
Circulating. A portly Dom, black shirt stretched across very full belly, leather kilt, some chains and a waistcoat that would never, ever button again. A lonely man, not speaking, just watching and sipping his pint. A couple, his grey hair in a loose ponytail, black tee and chains with leather wristbands. She was younger, rich thick red hair tumbling down her back, bright red lips, sparkling eyes and mouth too smiley. Brittle giggles, eager for his absent approval, only getting his casual disrespect. He hands me a flyer for a failed website. I have to wonder why?
Drinks in hand we take our turn to watch. Against one wall is a St Andrews Cross, a black leather and studded steel ‘X’, occupied. A leather flail stroking pale skin strapped with black bands, long hair shivering with each blow. Standing near, yet not looking, a tall slender oriental man with amazing cheekbones, pitch hair and cliché fringe. Long black robes brushing the floor as he drifts slowly, a meme from Dark Anime, Manga Porn, his Eminence Noir, the Lord of Pain and Pleasure. I want his autograph! The mood is spoilt as he looks at his smartphone, perhaps texting his boredom or disappointment with the lack of rapacious tentacles in this place.
Your leash is in my hand, I look at you and want you. You are beautiful, silky and smell of woman. Our drinks are finished, the Cross is free, a gentle tug on your collar and we take our place as the Lone Dom watches and draws closer in anticipation. You are his fantasy for the night, he will have you later, alone in his room.
The leather around your wrists, the chains too long, but good to grip. Your leash attached to a ring to prevent any escape. I spread your ankles, caressing your calves. My cock is hard.
The jewel of your but plug escapes your sheer black panties, glittering in the lights. A blast of hot air from an industrial gas room heater engulfs me as I stroke your fine skin with a leather crop and strike your bottom. As you arch, I activate the vibrator inside you and whisper in your ear.
You start to orgasm and then it is climax after climax as you squirm and arch on the cross. Flogged, beaten, caressed, kissed and stroked with violent tenderness. Pain and pleasure blending, merging with throbbing vibrations as I press the pulsating wand against the jewel between your ass cheeks. The Lone Dom is raptly watching your face. Orgasms are rare here, pure pain is the usual currency, so you are a very special delicacy to be savoured.
Your legs are wobbly, unsteady as I take you down. You have a glow now, a glazed sensuality, cum drunk and fuzzy. We are watched and followed as I lead you by your leash to a row of empty stackable chairs against the wall with a view of the boxing ring that dominates the space. It is the bright stage upon which the House Dommes, preen and display their skills as we, their adoring audience watch from the wings.
I hand you your leash as I leave you to seek more drinks. A couple thread between the now milling throng. He is tall, fit and thirtysomething, she is slender, sophisticated, blonde and quite beautiful. I see her as ‘something in the city’, controlled and elegant. She carries a leather satchel with a crop sticking out. I place her as his Domme.
Drinks. Singles this time, one needs to keep a sense of perspective in this place. Easy to lose a grip on whatever passes for tenuous reality here.
When I return you are chatting with a young man sitting beside you. He is dressed in shiny black vinyl mini dress and killer heels. ‘James’ is twentysomething wearing a vinyl mask topped with floppy bunny ears! He tells us tales of places that are ‘closed now’, events at suburban homes that were ‘not discreet’, and wistfully of watching a woman whipped until blood was drawn, which she ecstatically licked from the crop. ‘Quite beautiful’, he sighed. We agreed later that we though he was a little ‘lost’
Then we saw the young ‘city couple’ again. He was seated, in animated conversation with someone next to him. She, dressed in a simple black shift dress, was kneeling on the floor at his knees, her face turned to one side, gazing down, very calm, very peaceful, ultra-
A little later we were once again in the dance, seeking another experience. The music and pulsing lights seemed to beat faster and harder over time, perhaps matching our arousal and excitement, maybe driving it? A ‘spanking bench’ looked interesting but the ‘city couple’ were there first. We watched as he undressed her, stripping the black dress from a perfect body, leaving her wearing only a miniscule white thong and matching tiny string strap bra. Bent over the bench her peach bottom showed dark stripes of previous action. I was oddly uncomfortable with the knowledge of what it had taken to leave those marks.
You stood near, you would be the next to be bent over and strapped to that bench. I wondered what was in your mind as we watched her beautiful bottom beaten brutally with rod, crop, whip and sharp edged wooden strip. The dark stain of bruise and welt on pale perfect skin growing darker with every blow. Her whimpers and yelps of pain were very genuine, his pinching already bruised flesh adding to her pitiful cries.
Unlike the ‘shows’ in the boxing ring, there was no soft caress between strokes, no comforting touch. Words were whispered, yes, and she appeared to be good with all that was happening, yet I was growing angry. I wanted to intervene, to stop this infliction of pain for sheer pain’s sake. There were no orgasms here, no squirming back arching climax. Just hard, sharp, pain. I was not good with this.
Then a minor epiphany, I knew that I was not like her harsh, dominant abuser. I was all about the orgasms, the remorseless infliction of pleasure. Pain as a means to pleasure, perhaps, but not this harm, this hurt. I did not like what I saw. When it was over, the sweating, beaten girl warmly hugging her torturer, she appeared happy. His expression was unreadable, what, if anything he got from the cold torment I could not fathom.
It was our turn on the bench. I sought out wipes and paper towels to sanitise the leather after the previous use. The Lone Dom reappears, proffering a disinfectant spray, anxious to speed up our preparations so he could once again indulge his fantasy of you.
I bend you forward and bind your wrists to the bench. You ask, ‘Can they see my plug?’ I adjust your panties to cover the jewel between your cheeks, reassuring you but then sensing I had misread your intent. You wanted them to see you were full up, you were proud you had taken the heavy metal toy, pleased that your ass was being stretched by it. Such a Dirty Girl!
I used you in the way I had on the cross. You started to climax with my first stroke of the crop. I pinched your pink bottom, to make you feel it more. We can all learn from others. The Lone Dom watched you intently, moving so as to more clearly see your face, to watch you cum. Being so observed made you more aroused, made you cum even harder, an erotic feedback loop. There is some of the exhibitionist in you. You didn’t stop cumming until I released your wrists and helped you stand on rubber legs.
The timeless minutes in this place had mounted into several hours. We watched the ‘House Dommes’ see to the needs of a few male submissives. The Boxing ring featuring a spanking bench ruled by a slender blonde Dominatrix in pink frilly underwear and tight crimson leather corset. Her ministrations had punctuated the night with the sharp sound of hands, crop, flogger and paddle striking naked oiled flesh. Her male subjects, oddly silent and apparently unmoved. No orgasms here either.
Another Domme, raven hair piled high, trussed into a tight black pencil dress, laced up corset with a magnificent cleavage and shiny knee high platform spike heeled boots that she enjoyed having licked by eager supplicants. She bound men to a bench and inserted metal ‘sounding’ rods into their flaccid cocks, attached electrodes to their balls and shocked them for mutual pleasure. No erections or ejaculations, just the satisfaction of pain and bindings. One of her subjects was the person from the door when we arrived, their maleness not as evident then as when later, strapped on their back, knees to their shoulders, being ‘sounded’.
We saw them again, guarding the door as we left, our minds swirling with the sights, sounds and impressions we took with us back onto the street.
‘Leaving so soon?’ they said, as though 1am was just the start of the evening.
The chill winds and intermittent spray of icy rain woke us from our enchantment and we emerged from the bubble of their reality and slipped, reluctantly back into our own.