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My gear? I shake my head. “No, thank you. I’ll just bring it up to my room.”
The two men share a curious glance. The pierced one shrugs.
I pick up my bags and head through the main hall into the living room, where couples and small groups of people have gathered on sofas and loungers. The fireplaces at either end that usually stand empty are both lit, giving off heat and light. It’s almost too warm in here.
That’s when I notice that some of the guests aren’t wearing much clothing.
A handful of men are shirtless, or have their shirts fully unbuttoned, and some of the women are dressed in lingerie. The longer I survey the room, the more shocking details I discover: women sporting collars hooked to leashes that dangle from men’s hands. Men on all fours serving as footrests for women who pay them no attention.
What kind of clothing-optional party is this?
I don’t see Aidan anywhere, though judging by the guests coming and going from the room, I figure the party must extend to other areas of the house.
Before anyone can ask me who I am or what I’m doing here, I back out of the living room and head for the stairs. The murmur of conversation recedes as I reach the second floor. Yet, as I try to make sense of what I’ve seen, a familiar sound echoes through the closed guestroom doors.
Moans. Whimpers. Slaps and soft thuds.
A warm shiver ripples through me as I amble down the hall. Finally, I give in to the urge to press my ear to one of the doors. I hear a woman’s laugh and a man’s soft moan.
This is a play party. I read about them in my research. Private gatherings where people do kinky things to each other. Sometimes with strangers, sometimes with people they know.
One door stands open. I know I should keep walking, but I want to look inside.
A blond, bearded man lounges naked in a wingback chair. At least, I think he’s naked. His legs and chest are bare, but there’s a woman kneeling on the floor, blocking my view of the rest of him—the most important part, as Jasmine would say. The woman’s wrists are bound behind her with rope, right above the waistband of her wine-red panties.
Her head bobs over the man’s lap. She must be giving him a blow job.
I gasp. The bearded man looks at me, sparking panic in my belly.
“Cute costume,” he tells me. He thinks I’m wearing a costume? “Naughty schoolgirl’s a bit cliché, but you wear it well.”
I’m not sure how to respond that, so I just say, “Thank you.”
Maybe it’s the blatant satisfaction in his gaze, but something about a man checking me out while he’s getting his dick sucked makes my lower half tingle. He produces a riding crop and traces the leather tip along the woman’s spine.
He doesn’t seem to mind the fact that I’m watching them have sex. I guess that’s why people come to these parties, to parade their fetishes alongside people who are just like them.
People just like...Aidan. Any suspicions I had about his sexual appetites before are fully cemented now.
Arousal corkscrews between my thighs as I picture Aidan sitting in the blond man’s place, with me on my knees before him, wrists bound.
Aidan’s dick in my mouth. The crop in his hand. The anticipation of waiting for him to strike...
The slap of the crop against the woman’s back jolts me and sends me scampering down the hall, praying I won’t find a stranger bound and gagged on my bed.
