kagablog

We were a few clubs up from Purple Fly, the club I usually frequented. Well, frequented is the wrong word. I’d been there twice for New Year’s Eve parties. I momentarily dwelled on those nights experienced through the haze of ecstasy and shooters. We walked hand in hand up to a door guarded by two dykes who looked like they drove trucks for a living. The sounds of Limp Bizkit emanated thumpingly through the door they flanked.The word ‘Dominion’ glowed in pink neon above the door. “Hey!” A double-headed nod in her direction, lascivious stares in mine. We exchanged money for a stamp of a pair of handcuffs on the back of our hands. “Mmm. Original!” I remarked. She shot me an impish grin and led me through the door.
My status as a foreigner to the land of clubs in general prepared me to expect anything, but what I saw once my eyes accustomed themselves to the smoke-filled passage really took me aback. The passage, which led you for about ten metres into the belly of the club, had display cases fixed to the walls on either side. I am not exactly innocent: I’ve seen underworld performance art and my share of pornography, but what now flanked me took my breath away.
Amongst the black and white photographs of live piercing performance art and body suspensions, were leather and metal implements of every imaginable, and unimaginable, persuasion: human dog collars with thick chains attached to them, hunting knives, razor blades, pvc masks, leather hoods, leather whips, cat o’ nine tails, riding crops, ropes fashioned out of silk, pvc, cotton, leather. The name of the club, ‘Dominion’ suddenly took on a whole new meaning.
The gothic museum-like passage opened up into a huge, darkened room, lit sporadically with blue globes hanging quite low from the ceiling. It took a while to realize that it was only a fair-sized space surrounded by floor to ceiling mirrors. The club didn’t seem to have reached capacity yet, it was still quite early, but the thirty or so people in the room were either crowded around the bar or seated on the couches along the walls or around the tables in the centre of the room. I was relieved to note that amongst the patrons there were a few whose most outlandish attire was a mohican or arms that were sleeved with tattoos. But leather seemed to be the most popular attire for the rest of them.
We moved through the crowd and pushed our way to a space at the bar. Limp Bizkit made way for Rob Zombie’s “Living Dead Girl.” I would have told her how much I loved the song had it not been for the volume of the music, and the fact that just as I leaned into her neck the barman approached us. Well, barman was a bit of a loose term to describe what stood before us.
He, I could only determine the sex due to the lack of breasts, wore a leather hood with a hole allowed for him to breathe through his nose. He had several piercings through each nipple and wore fur-lined leather cuffs. What held my attention though was the dog-collar around his neck, attached through the medium of a metre-long chain to a woman wearing nothing but a pvc mask, nipple piercings, a leather thong and thigh-high boots. I contemplated the intricacies of placing an order with this pair.
She didn’t seem to be deterred though. She leaned forward and shouted her order directly into the area of his face where his ear would be. At this point the leather-clad woman flicked her cat o’ nine tails over his shoulders and yanked the chain around his neck. Seemingly unperturbed, the bar-gimp followed his mistress around behind the bar, preparing our drinks.
She signaled that she wanted to say something by waving a hand in front of my face and yelled into my ear: “What with the music and the fact that his hearing is severely impeded by that hood, it’s quite entertaining to hang around and see how many orders he gets wrong, sometimes on purpose, ‘coz then his mistress whips him mercilessly and makes him grovel at her feet!” I mildly raised my eyebrows, trying to play it cool, but I was quite relieved when he placed the drinks in front of us and she indicated that he had the right order by paying him.
I downed the shot of Apple Sours, took a large swig from the bottle of Black Label, lit up a cigarette and began surveying the rest of the clientele in the room behind us. The momentary comparison I had registered outside between the bouncer-dykes and Cerberus guarding the gates of Hell flickered once again through my mind as the room mimicked a mirrored tableau of Dante’s Purgatory.
Most of the people in the room were couples. Those in leather resembled, in various forms, the master/slave barman duo. There were two girls forced into a tortuous Siamese pairing via a chain that was intricately linked through their multiple piercings. There was a scrawny bearded guy whose ironically much larger partner was gagged by a leather contraption shackled around his head clamping a red rubber ball between his teeth.
Amused I reflected how this and the other melodramatic scenarios reflected unspoken interrelations in every day partnerships. How many irritated husbands wouldn’t just love to attach that leather-ball contraption to their wives’ heads? How many wives would give anything to beat their husbands about the shoulders and then get them to lick their boots?
Not everyone was linked together in any visible bond of pain. Despite the Dantesque attitudes adopted by the couples, they behaved in a satirically normal way: they drank beer, smoked cigarettes, talked, perved, laughed.
She interrupted my musings and motioned me towards the door, which presumably led to the dance floor. Marilyn Manson’s remix of Depeche Mode’s “Personal Jesus” led us into the room adjoining the bar. In our eye-line, above the writhing bodies on the sunken dance floor, an intricate foliage of chain and leather decorated the ceiling. The theme of blue lighting was continued into this room and low-hung flickering strobe lighting intermittently illuminated the pulsating leather and metal of the dance floor.
On either side of the room a DJ hovered over their respective equipment, sweating in their vapour of blue light. She later told me that there were two DJs playing songs alternately in order to woo the crowd. The best DJ was then auctioned off at the end of the evening in order to participate in a ‘play’ (an erotic activity involving pain, domination, bondage, etc.) or ‘scene,’ also known as a ‘session’ (a ‘play’ between two or more people.)
Rather than hanging around on the edge of the dance floor, she led me straight onto the floor. We fought our way through leather, metal, flesh, smoke and sweat to the middle of the floor. The drinks earlier in the evening on top of the Black Label and tequila counteracted any anxiety I felt about the surroundings and I was soon enjoying myself, thrashing about to “House of Love” by Sisters of Mercy. I had no sense of the individuality of anybody around me. They were an organic seething mass, an extension of the throbbing bass of the music.
All I could hear was the music, all I could feel was the bass reverberating through my body, and all I could see was her, blue hair, piercings, eyes and lips erratically illuminated by the strobe lights. She was all concentration, jumping up and down to the screaming synthesis of electrical instruments and vocals, her head bobbing up and down in juddering flashes of blue.
The second DJ insinuated his next track between and above his rival’s, and as the easily recognisable thudding bass of Nine Inch Nails “I Wanna Fuck You Like An Animal” shuddered through our bodies, she lifted her grinning face onto my level, grabbed me by the front of the waistband of my jeans and pulled me against her. I smiled into her neck, slid my hands up and down her waist, concentrating on the pounding bass that dialogued between our breasts. Clutching my waistband with her left hand she slid her right hand up my abdomen and cupped my breast, gently, and then eagerly, deftly running her thumb over and over my pierced nipple. The throbbing of the bass in my body pooled under her hand and in my cunt.
I exhaled deeply into her neck, nestled her head into my hands as I ran my tongue over her sweating skin in the groove between her collarbone and the muscle of her shoulder, up along her neck, her earlobe. Finding her mouth I forced her head back into my hands and pushed my tongue deep into her mouth, pressing my hips against hers.
Her tongue reciprocated teasingly, massaging my tongue with hers while she gently tugged at the ring in my nipple, the pleasure of which forced me to disentangle my mouth from hers and emit a deep groan into her neck.
“Ohhh, fuck!” I breathed into her ear, nibbling the lobe, running my tongue over and between the piercings in her lobe.
“You like?” she asked, breathing a smile into my ear.
“Fuck yeah!” I answered, returning my mouth to hers, slowly running my hand up her ribcage to her breast where I found the nipple erect around the piercing. I pressed my thumb into her breast, pushing the hardness of piercing and nipple into the surrounding softness. She ground her pubic bone into mine, continuing to manipulate my nipple ring between her thumb and forefinger, grabbing a handful of my hair in her other hand, pressing my mouth deeper into hers.
I resurfaced to consciousness, realising that Nine Inch Nails had long ago been followed by Metallica’s “Nothing Else Matters.” At about the same moment, she disengaged her mouth from mine. I looked up to see a guy in a Korn t-shirt handing her two tequilas. She nodded her thanks and handed me the shotglass. Like waking from a deep sleep I once again took in the crowd and the lights and the shotglass. Downing the tequila our bodies once again gravitated towards each other. She leaned into me and with her free hand pulled my face towards hers, running her tongue over my lips, inserting the rough wetness of her tongue into the blazing tequila-induced warmth of my mouth.
Sisters of Mercy soulfully droan “I Don’t Exist When You Don’t See Me” and I feel it, because nothing exists besides her body against mine, pounding the bass and voices into my body until my whole body vibrates against her frame. All I feel is the heat of her chest and her mouth and her cunt, the pulsating gentleness of her tongue in my mouth, the warmth and wholeness of her hand on my breast, her manipulation of my nipple. I push her mouth deeper into my mouth, my hands in the blue sweat of her hair, my tongue pushing into her mouth to the rhythm of the music and the rhythm of my hipbone pushing into her groin, yearning to put my tongue in the folds of her pussy, flicking my tongue in and over the folds of her lips. After a few seconds she whispers, “Wanna get outta here?”

The freshness of the night air didn’t interrupt the alcohol and lust induced trance I was in. I wasn’t conscious of how we got home and only realised we hadn’t gone back to my house when we came to a standstill outside an unfamiliar house. We hadn’t spoken in the car and didn’t speak as we got out of the car, entered the house and as she led me to the bedroom.
She pulled me towards her, burying her head in my neck, kissing, licking and then sucking the sensitive area between my neck and my shoulder. I ran my hands over her back, down her back, pulling her t-shirt up, feeling the smoothness of the skin, the beautiful contours of the small of her back. She lifted her lips and tongue from my neck as I pulled her t-shirt up over her head and reacquainted myself with the sensuality that only a woman’s body has: the contradiction between the firm planes of her hips, ribcage and the suppleness of stomach and breasts. I lowered my head to meet my fingers around her nipples and took the hardness of steel and nipple into my mouth. She moaned into my ear and pulled me onto her as she fell on top of the bed.
She ran her hands over my hips, the small of my back, my buttocks, pulling me against her. She lifted my t-shirt over my head, unclasped my bra and moaned as I ran my nipples over her stomach. She unbuttoned her jeans, kicked her Docs off and started unbuttoning my pants. We kicked and wriggled out of our pants while kissing, rolling around on the bed. In the darkness I took in the planes and curves of her body with one hand while playing with her nipple with the other.
She rolled over onto me, straddling my left leg so that I could feel her wetness on my upper thigh. She sucked my right nipple and pulled the left nipple ring with her hand. Fuck, it felt like she was stimulating a nerve that ran straight from my nipples to my clit. Moaning I pushed my cunt up into her hipbone. She sucked my right nipple deeper and harder into her mouth and tugged a little harder at the left one as she repositioned her wetness over my hipbone, without moving her mouth and hand from my breasts and began slowly rocking backwards and forwards onto my hip.
I removed my left hand from her nipple and felt my way towards her cunt. Sighing and biting into my nipple she lifted herself off my hip, high enough for me to insert one, then three fingers into her, my thumb locating and teasing the cold metal in her clit. God, I’d missed this! my fingers sliding in and out of the wet warmth. As she lifted her head and pushed her tongue into my mouth she slid her hand from my nipple, slowly down my side, onto my stomach, onto my hip, still slowly riding backwards and forwards onto my fingers. She ran her hand down the outside of my thigh, onto my knee, back up along the inside of my thigh and then rested her hand on the inside of my thigh so that the outside of her hand was gently rubbing against my labia. She kept this up until I thought I was going to explode. She slowly slid her hand over my labia, over and between the folds of my cunt, tortuously running her index finger from my entrance up to my clit, neither touching it nor entering me. Unable to take it any longer I disengaged myself from the kiss and breathed, “Touch me, please touch me. I need you inside me!” She lifted her head to look at me.
“Really?” she teased, “How much?”
“Fuck! Please, I really need you inside me.”
With that she moved two fingers up to my clitoris, massaging it gently but firmly, looking into my face the whole time, still rocking gently onto my fingers, which had by now increased to four. Then she slid the two fingers down towards the entrance of my cunt and put what felt like her whole hand into me.
At the moment she did this she watched my reaction, which was a sobbing “Oh fuck! Oh God!” and then forced her tongue deep into my throat, in and out, in and out, her fingers moving in unison with her tongue and her torso. She started moving down and onto my fingers faster and harder and I pushed up around her hand to the same rhythm. She came hard with a moan that was almost drowned out by my screams as I felt everything disappear, except the warm wetness of our mingling tongues merging with the warm wetness of my hand inside her and her inside me.