Sweetie and I were sleepy and at loss for something to do Saturday night, and I was feeling the way I usually do on the weekend, which is buried in homework. We’d just been to the library so the temptation to spend our extra Daylight-Savings hour in bed pretty compelling. But! Old-timey Guy and Punk Rock Girl turned out to be having a last-minute party because one of their events got cancelled—and they live right near our neighborhood!
So Sweetie and I did something that we hadn’t done in a shameful while—we bought a bottle of wine and headed over to our friends’ house to pal around. It felt great.
It ended up being a teensy party, which appealed to both my introverted half and my love for hogging attention. Punk Rock Girl answered the door in a gypsy skirt and corset, with nothing covering her pretty boobs. We’ve seen each other nearly naked lots of times, but this would be our first chance to play together sans nipple tape—hooray! Hooray for boobs! Is how I felt walking into their house.
As I hugged Old-Timey Guy hello, his other slave came bounding down the stairs. She’s a green-haired Muppet-adorable girl I’ll call Squeak. She had on a collar and a little black satin nightie. She had kind of an undergrad way about her, but not unpleasantly so. OTG is the same age as me but his slaves are in their early 20s, which feels a little annoying to me, but who am I to judge. (Answer: the inner judgey part of me that spent many parts of that evening with arms folded, pondering the ethics of nearly consenting to being called a little girl, but I’ll get to that in a bit.)
“Welcome to Wonderland,” he said, “If my shtick gets too much for you, let me know. I generally rein it in at (the public dungeon.)” It didn’t look too wonderland-ish, except maybe for the rather large number of hats. It was a stonerish house like I went to a million times in my college-townie twenties. They had beanbag couches, the TV tuned to Bugs Bunny, and shackles up in the wide doorway between the living room and the dining room. OTG’s spanking implements were neatly arranged on a rack next to the stairs. Cozy.
As often happens when you visit a BDSM person’s house, we were given a tour of the basement. No Scooby-Doo style trick bookcase, but these was a “Naughty Room”—a chilly stone room furnished only with a dropcloth, an ominously tiny chair, and of course loops in the ceiling. Perfect for some Buffy and Spike actions, but we went upstairs.
Next: “I’m nooooot touuuuuching you….”