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So much has happened in the month I’ve known you.

My first met-on-the-Internet date ends in a Jacuzzi with several explosive orgasms—one that nearly makes me faint; I’ve acquired (thanks to you) a battery-powered friend who keeps me company when we’re apart; I’ve gone to a sex club, twice, and loved it from the first.

Now we’re going to a club called the Power Exchange, the only actual licensed sex club—in San Francisco, of course—and one known for S&M, bondage and discipline, very kinky stuff. I’m not nervous, though. With you, I know that any time I’m not enjoying myself we will leave, no questions.

And before we commit to staying and playing, you’ve suggested we just look around.

It’s like a haunted house for adults—one you can be part of, play in, chain yourself up to. On the main floor, there’s a room set up for dancing—tables, open space, loud music. And a stage, with poles to dance on and around. Between them, when we walk in, there’s a man with his cock in a sling, masturbating, pushing a white dildo in and out of a woman bent double, ass to the audience. It’s a little strange; not many people are paying attention, and the two onstage don’t seem to be particularly caught up in the experience.

We go into the Henry the Eighth room, table complete with fake feast, rack set up on one side. Through that, there are cells—looking much like actual jail cells except for what’s inside. One holds a metal examining table. One a device hanging from the ceiling that looks like an odd leather swing; you explain that it is, sort of—it’s meant for a woman to lie down in, have her hands and feet hoisted up while the man stands between her legs and rocks her back and forth. On and off his cock. Later, we’ll see one in use… later still I find myself wondering what it feels like to be in that sling. But I don’t tell you that, not yet.

We head downstairs, where there’s a central area that’s open but divided up into cages shaped by wire fencing and metal doors. More of the sling swings; also some frames more than person-high for people to be chained or tied to; tables, racks, other devices meant to hold someone in some kind of restraint. Around the outside edges of that area are more sedate rooms—beds, covered in vinyl or leather, behind half-doors and curtains. And the movie room, where explicit porn is on the monitor and people—still dressed—are milling around, watching each other for any sign of sexual activity.

When we go back upstairs, those pretty bodies are beginning to filter in. Shall we stay? you ask. Ummmm…yes. Why not. So I take off my dress right there, in the lobby near the coat and package check (staffed by a large man with a ring in his nose). Take off my butter-yellow lace underwear. Stand naked, waxed pussy and pink nipples bare to the line of people checking in. And slide into a short black lace chemise …and nothing else. Except a pair of strappy spike-heeled sandals.

You’re still dressed, çukurambar escort in black.

A tiny voice in my head wonders at myself, but only for a few seconds. Is this the same woman who spent eight married years having passionless sex once every couple of months? A louder voice says why didn’t I find this out about myself years ago? So much time wasted.

We walk again.

Downstairs, to the movie room.

We’re standing at the doorway, watching the video, you scoping out the crowd…your hand reaches behind and beside you to me, standing there cunt twitching. Your fingers find the wetness between my legs. I rock forward onto your hand. Push against it, trying to suck your fingers up into me…but you won’t, you’re being a tease; you rub my clit until my breath quickens, until my thighs tense, then stop. Not yet.

We walk a little more. Stand in the center area, watching a man rock a woman in one of the leather slings, pulling her toward him as she writhes, hands and feet tied to the chains attached to the ceiling. Doesn’t look like it hurts; she’s in pleasure, not pain, and squeals as he moves her back and forth.

We’re standing there watching as your hand reaches for me again. Pussy-wet fingers tease my clit, rub a little harder, get me breathing faster, closer to coming—and you stop again. Raise your hands to my nipples and flick them, fast, the way you know I like.

A few people are watching, and of course that gets me hotter.

“Let’s walk,” you say. Tease.

We end up, again, in the movie room, but now you’ve decided to allow me an orgasm. Or two. (Or three, knowing me.) Step up to a chair that faces the audience at eye level. I sit on the chair, and you bend down to my pussy.

It’s automatic how my legs lift into the air, black sandals and all, spread wide, push myself into your face. Begging for it. Craving the feel of your mouth, the soft wet insistence of your tongue, the flagellation of your lips on my clit. You’ve teased me enough that the first orgasm comes in seconds—hot, fast, violent. A crowd has gathered; the atmosphere of the place has you dominant and you demand that I watch them watching me. “Open your eyes,” you tell me. “Open them!” and I come again all over your face.

Your fingers search inside me; have you found my treasure? Yes. God yes. Fuck me harder with your hand your fingers your mouth all those people watching staring at my naked pussy watching me come oh shit fuck me I’m coming LOUD, shouting, moaning twitching.

Legs still quivering.

You always smile after you’ve made me come, cat who ate the canary (no feathers between your teeth, how do you manage that), smug and satisfied. You tell me, often, how my pleasure excites you and gives you pleasure, and I’ve come to understand that from your face after sex. Giving up the old idea that my orgasms are greedy; reveling in my own physicality, knowing it turns you on.

A demetevler escort crowd is watching; we seem to attract them. Shaky legs and all, I get up off the chair and follow you to a couch in the back of the room. But it’s not for me to sit on; it’s to bend over, ass facing you. Your cock is hard and you want to use it, to fuck me the way I like best. I’m so wet I need no preparation—pussy lips quiver a welcome as you shove your rod into me, hard, deep, and I rise up on tiptoe to take you in deeper. Moan; shout, cry out and thrust my ass back onto you, fucking you backwards, dancing on my toes…swiveling my hips to get the most sensation of my ass cheeks on your belly, my fingers on my clit with the other hand against the wall, holding me up.

It’s time to walk again. Are you showing me off? Making sure everyone in the club sees me, sheer lace barely covering my breasts, showing off the labia left bare by a bikini waxer’s art. Sheer black chiffon behind not concealing my ass at all.

We walk back out through the ante-movie-room, and there’s a couple there completely nude, she sitting in his lap facing him, back arched, face pointed toward the ceiling, fucking rhythmically. The masturbator is here, watching them from a few feet away. You sit me down, again, and my legs spread automatically, knowing what’s coming. Knowing you’ll watch them with your fingers in my cunt while he watches them and watches me, not sure where to look so as to not miss anything. Voyeurism is a burden, isn’t it? When so much is going on, how do you know where to look?

It’s so much easier for me. All I have to do is let go, let my pussy feel what it wants to feel anyway, let you (beg you, demand from you) do what makes me come, and open my eyes to see them watching. That’s all it takes; watching them watching me, and I’m gone again to that private public place where my senses all focus on my cunt, my ass, my breasts, your mouth, your hands, your cock.

No flowery gardens there; I don’t hear birds singing. Sometimes, when the orgasms are most intense, I lose all sense of hearing because a loud hum pierces my brain, and I lose sight in a white-out blurring of everything. Those are the orgasms I have to recover from; body shaking after, small reruns making me gasp.

After a few gasping, twitching spasms, we walk again. Now there’s a group in one of the larger cages; two men, three women. Two of the women are clearly “subs,” submissive to the dominant three. They wear collars, and one kneels on a mat on the floor, hands in her lap. The third woman is carefully, methodically laying out tools of pleasure/torture; feathers on sticks, soft floggers, leather handcuffs. One of the men—head shaved, glasses—is testing a small stick that gives off blue sparks. You’ve called that a violet wand; it’s meant to give a very mild shock. The man with the shaved head comes over to the cage door and sees me watching; offers to show me what it dikmen escort feels like.

Electric shock…why not? I’ve come this far. I hear it buzz as he reaches behind him to adjust its settings. Gentle, for my first time. He touches my arm with the wand; it feels like a ticklish sting, a prickling startle of nerve endings, and I imagine the feeling on my clit and feel my pussy wet again. He hooks up something else and holds my hand, tells me to touch you—and now the purple sparks are coming from my hand, touching you, and I feel them at the same time you do. There are possibilities here.

But we move on.

To a room with a leather-covered bed, an elevated chair with a cutout in the seat, and a large wooden box in the corner. There’s a couple fucking on the bed, and a beautiful woman laying back in the chair, fully nude. A man stands in front of her, dressed, touching her, fingering her pussy.

Standing there, watching them, you reach for my cunt again and slide in two fingers. I squirm on your hand, grinding against it, twisting and turning. A couple next to us watches and they smile. That’s about all I notice before you hoist me up onto the large black box.

Careful, you say; don’t hit your head—there’s a dropped ceiling, but since I lay down on my back almost as soon as I’m up on the box it’s not a problem. Because I know what you’re going to do, and I want it right away.

Your face in my pussy. Your tongue in my cunt. Your lips wrapped around my swollen, throbbing clit as I ride your face, rub myself against your mouth, rubbing and pulling at my own nipples in another almost immediate orgasm.

There are other hands on me; I’m aware of that as my coming subsides. A smallish, dark man smiles at me and I encourage him with my hand on his arm as he rubs my nipples, one with each of his hands. A blonde girl—just a girl, hardly a woman—is behind him, at about my waist. They’re both standing next to the box; I’m laying on its very edge, you between my legs at the other edge. Her hands are on me, too; light and soft as birds’ wings.

Your fingers are inside me. I could be blind and deaf; I would still know your touch, especially when you reach deep into me and rub my G-spot. I’m coming again, just that quick.

Then you’re counting…your fingers. “That’s three.” I’m coming, feeling supremely filled, feeling my pussy expand to fit your fingers. “Four.” Jesus, now it’s another explosive orgasm. Twisting, pulling, writhing…his hands on my breasts, no, his mouth on my nipples, her hands on my ass, my flat belly. Your fingers inside me. “That’s all five.” And I’m hearing that buzz; the white-out, everything-else-obliterated orgasm, the shouting, moaning, keening come that intensifies when I open my eyes and see a crowd gathered to watch …me. I’m fucking your whole hand, being touched by three people at once as you educate the girl on where to touch me.

Your hand withdraws and it’s hers, touching me differently but the intensity is still there and I come another time. I hear you talking to her; “here, touch her here,” you’re saying, and I feel different fingers on me.

Her fingers inside me where yours just were. “That’s the first time I’ve made a woman come,” she says. Congratulations…

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