Beyond the Fringe - Welcome to BondExpo

Postby sarobah » Sat Feb 27, 2010 11:27 pm

This is a fictionalized composite of three separate true experiences. The bondage exposition is closely based on a real-life show I attended once. I wrote a non-fiction version some time ago, but it wasn’t very exciting – hence the fictional treatment. There is some 18+ material herein, but nothing seriously graphic or disturbing.

BondExpo

My hometown hosts an annual event called SpringFest, and each year there’s a different theme. This year it was “The Periphery – A celebration and showcase of the exotic and the experimental, of unconventional ideas and alternate lifestyles.” It attracted trend-setting artists, performers, writers and film-makers for both public and privately sponsored exhibitions and shows, in a carnival atmosphere with a strong flavour of hedonism and not surprisingly a good deal of erotica.

One of the more controversial expositions was put on by Alternative Arts, a group that has achieved notoriety around the country with its “Homage to Bondage”. It is described in the brochures as “the radical counter-culture’s answer to mainstream counter-culture”. Also known as BondExpo, the event was held at an out-of-town venue, a beachside convention centre and hotel complex. It was not well-advertised and did not attract very much media attention, because the SpringFest organizers were stuck between the proverbial rock and a hard place, not wanting to give it too much publicity because of the controversy, but reluctant to stifle free expression.

Although naturally I’d heard about BondExpo, I hadn’t given it much thought. I was preoccupied with my studies, and anyway my boyfriend Rob is still relatively new to the world of recreational bondage. I love the guy a lot and hope someday to tie the knot with him in the more traditional manner; but it can be frustrating. He has never really understood the allure of the silk rope, the enchantment of the satin blindfold, the sensuality of the ball-gag. However, my interest was piqued when Jack, my ex-boyfriend, told me about it over coffee one morning. Jack and I had broken up on good terms and we remain close friends. We get together once every so often to reminisce about the fun times we had, especially our tie-up adventures.

Jack informed me that he and his new girlfriend Sabrina would be working at BondExpo, helping out with one of the displays. “You and what’s his name will have to come along,” he said.

“You know very well his name, and we would love to,” I replied.

So that is how Rob and I came to spend a weekend at BondExpo. Being impoverished postgrads, we didn’t have the funds for a hotel booking, and didn’t relish the two-hour drive each way; but Jack and Sabrina offered us the spare room in their suite. I should point out that Jack is no more flushed with cash than us, but what he lacks in finances he more than adequately makes up for in his ability to attract women of substance. I don’t mean he’s a gigolo or anything like that; but if relationships were like prize fighting (which they’re not – it’s just an analogy!), he would punch well above his weight.

Sabrina is a successful architect several years Jack’s senior, but she complements him ideally. She’s a tall, gorgeous brunette, at once elegant and athletic, with a dazzling smile, sparkling eyes, amazing body, terrific legs, perfect hair, vibrant personality – the sort of woman who you’d think would veer away from a guy like Jack if she encountered him casually at a party. She obviously has enough depth to see through his rough-hewn veneer. She’s also a very assertive woman, albeit in a subtle, non-aggressive way (unlike yours truly), which harmonizes nicely with Jack’s persona. He’s the archetypal man’s man, but also a genuine woman’s man, strong enough to be tender, secure enough to not take himself too seriously, powerful and confident enough to give as easily as he takes. So I hadn’t been surprised to discover that Sabrina and Jack have the same degree of passion for bondage games that he and I shared.

Fortunately for our timing, the mid-point of SpringFest coincided with a break in classes on campus, so I was able to reschedule my priorities. Rob, not unexpectedly, remained somewhat less than enthusiastic. He wasn’t averse to the idea of two days in a five-star hotel at someone else’s expense, but he still hasn’t fully tuned in to the pleasures of the tie-up. For him the appeal of a romantic weekend by the bay is seeing me in a bikini, not bondage. So I made it my mission to bring out the kink that I know lurks within him... and if that were to fail, to have a good time trying.

Rob was a sweetheart about the whole thing. He had to do the driving, through heavy weekend traffic (since I don’t have a licence – which, believe me, is a godsend for the motoring public). By the time we arrived, around noon on Saturday, he was nevertheless in a grumpy mood. I couldn’t blame him that all he was interested in was a cold beer in a quiet place. So while he went off to the bar, I checked into the hotel. Jack and Sabrina were already in the exhibition hall with their display, but they’d left a key for us at the reception desk.

The entire establishment appeared to have been taken over for BondExpo. The lobby was congested and noisy. Most of the patrons were in their twenties or thirties, the type you’d see in any resort, whereas there were very few of the more elderly couples and tour groups you’d normally find. A queue was forming at the counter, and two young women were passing along the ranks handing out flyers advertising the event, a gesture that seemed to me somewhat superfluous. They were wearing racy, lacy lingerie, stockings with garter-belts and stiletto heels, the sort of thing you would expect, but nothing really alluding to bondage. In fact, the only concession to the motif was a notice on the counter asking that guests “exercise discretion outside the pavilion” – in other words: “This is a classy joint, so don’t go tying each other up in the foyer.”

I hauled my man off the barstool and upstairs after his second drink. The suite was luxurious with a thick coating of opulence. The living room and bedrooms were spacious and richly adorned, with plush carpet and expensive furniture. A wide balcony afforded a stunning vista of the bay with its blazing white shoreline and a half-dozen small islands floating like green pearls on gold-flecked turquoise waters. And yet the beaches were pristine, with hardly a body to be seen, and the yachts and other boats you’d expect to see bobbing on the waves were all at moorage. This weekend, it appeared, the main attraction was indoors. I wondered how a fringe organization like Alternative Arts could afford to take over an entire resort and decided that maybe it wasn’t so fringe after all.

I thought long and hard about what to wear before going downstairs. Rob was getting impatient, until I decided to play it prudent and remain in my sweater, jeans and sneakers.

“All that time and you haven’t done a thing!” he growled.

“I redid my makeup,” I protested.

He had no answer... or if he did, he wisely kept it to himself.

The exhibition hall was situated at the end of a long, broad corridor leading off the hotel lobby. There was only a nominal admission charge, and the process of registration was nothing more than signing a visitor’s book and picking up a folder of brochures, mainly advertisements for internet websites (no surprises there). Inside, superficially at least, it could have been an exposition not unlike any other. There were a dozen or so rows of booths and stalls, some of them commercial enterprises with vendors touting merchandise and memberships, others operated by private clubs and individuals. There were well-groomed, well-proportioned professional models and presenters, alongside talented – and some less talented – amateurs and hobbyists, displaying their wares and demonstrating their skills. Tables and benches were laid out with all sorts of goodies: adult toys, fetish clothing, a vast assortment of ropes and chains, gags and collars, corsets and masks, some intricate contrivances and nasty looking torture devices, even a range of tasteful chastity belts (including a very stylish his-and-hers combination). There were, of course, also stands offering how-to manuals, DVDs, books and magazines. Some displays were purely informational, including well-attended presentations on legal issues and health and safety procedures. There were posters proffering advice on “how to spice up your marriage”, advising patrons of “intriguing new ways to bind your partner”, warning men to “keep your girl on a leash” (but no such counsel for the ladies... harrumph!), and so on.

Foot traffic was heavy, with several hundred people milling and meandering, chatting, conferring, browsing, bargaining, trying out techniques and contraptions. All around, photos were being taken, pamphlets perused, prices compared, business cards exchanged, autographs signed. I had half-expected the place to be full of shady looking men in plastic raincoats. Instead, there was an almost wholesome, almost family atmosphere (but without the kids). The prevailing response to the exhibits appeared to be one of satisfied curiosity rather than titillation. There were few of the hard-core devotees that I’d anticipated.

The atmosphere was friendly and relaxed. There was a camaraderie rather than competition among the stall operators. If one, for instance, ran short of rope during a demonstration or needed a helping hand, he could turn for assistance to any of his neighbours.

Most of the exhibits were small cubicles with a single operator hawking literature and videos and promoting websites. That still left a considerable number featuring live, on the spot, in the flesh demonstrations. The vast majority of the tie-up subjects were females, but there was the occasional male. I saw one couple – girl-guy, that is – being bound together, with predictable “tie-the-knot” type jokes from the ropemaster. It struck me that even when guys were the ones being tied, they kept their clothes on, whereas a goodly proportion of the girls were encouraged to strip down to their undies, and a few brave souls did so. I found it funny that even at an event which advertises itself as “fringe” and “alternative”, it’s the gals who end up getting their gear off.

Amongst the exhibitors, demonstrators and models, leather was the fashion fabric du jour, although there was a scattering of rubber and latex, and slinky black lingerie was popular with the women, who nonetheless tended to accessorize in leather. Collars and chokers were de rigueur. These ranged from the simple to the elaborate, from plain leather to gem-encrusted, from elegant necklaces to dog collars. Many of the models and presenters also wore ball-gags (and less often other types of gags) around their necks, ready to be put into place. On the other hand, there was no nudity; and the bondage itself was, in general, pretty much vanilla-flavoured.

At one of the first stalls we encountered, a pretty blonde woman was lying on her side atop a bench wearing a Star Trek uniform (the “classic” 1960s one, of course, with miniskirt and go-go boots). She was in the process of being put into a very stringent hog-tie by a nervous-looking layman under the direction of – you might have guessed – a Klingon. The Trekette looked up and flashed us a convivial smile just before her bumpy-browed captor took command and thrust a red ball-gag into her mouth. Nice to see they still have those in the 24th century.

At the booth next door, two girls – a short, pixie-faced honey-blonde and a tall, buxom brunette – were being lashed together by a huge man dressed in military-style fatigues and wearing a ski mask. The girls’ arms were pinioned behind their backs to a degree that looked very uncomfortable, but they were laughing and joking. It was hard to tell if they were paid models or experienced amateurs, but from their casual attitude it was obvious they were not neophytes in the bondage game. They were clad in just their underwear and I couldn’t see any discarded clothing, which suggested that they were not roped-in bystanders. Most of the people watching winced and gasped as the pair were hoisted onto the tips of their toes with a cable that was secured to their elbow-ties and slung over a metal-tubing scaffold. They were left to dangle, struggling to maintain foot contact with the floor and so ease the strain on their arms. Yet even as they grimaced and groaned, they continued to giggle and even to mock their tormentor (whose response was to haul them up harder).

Elsewhere another hog-tied young lady was dangling from the centre of a large tripod by a rope attached to her wrists and ankles. She was carrying on a light-hearted banter with her ropemaster and the spectators through gritted teeth and heavy panting and puffing; and there were lots of “Oo-ah” noises from the audience.

Visitors and guests were encouraged to be active participants in the demonstrations and displays. While most of the crowd were content to remain onlookers, a few consented to join in. At some stalls, women passing by were grabbed and bound. They were trussed to chairs, tied down on tables, tethered to posts, strapped to beams, suspended on frames. I didn’t see any males being waylaid, nor did I see any gallant men coming to the rescue of their abducted womenfolk. The line used on the more reluctant subjects was something like “Just try it, to see how it feels.” Most come away looking flushed, and somewhat embarrassed, but generally pleased with the experience.

About an hour after we arrived, a party of visitors came into the pavilion amidst a flurry of photography. I recognized two or three from their pictures in books and brochures as special guests at the “regular” SpringFest. As I’d already come to expect, the males in the group were left unmolested, although one whom I didn’t recognize volunteered to try out a straight jacket with a comment about how it was bound to come to this sooner or later. A face that was familiar belonged to a celebrity “gonzo” journalist from the UK (I will call her Rebecca) who was touring the country to promote her latest book. The dust cover photo hadn’t done her justice – she was much prettier in the flesh, and she was smaller and more fragile than one might had judged from her writing style and subject matter. That didn’t stop one of the stall operators seizing her as she and her entourage passed by. With only a whimper of protest, she was lifted onto the table and slammed down onto her stomach, her wrists swiftly and efficiently bound to her ankles. She was wearing a tube top with a denim miniskirt; and with her shoulders hauled back rather harshly, the writer famous for baring her soul in the unlikeliest of locales was in some danger of exposing herself in the most obvious of places.

Unfazed by the experience, Rebecca rolled onto her side and began discussing how this would make a good yarn for her next manuscript, with an attractive, stern-looking woman in a pencil skirt who must have been either her agent or her publisher, whom she called Jo. Taking this as a cue, the couple from the neighbouring booth, a short man wearing dungarees and a construction worker’s hard hat, and a tall, striking woman in a figure-hugging latex catsuit which left little to the imagination, grabbed Jo by the arms, wrenched them behind her back and snapped on a pair of handcuffs. Even as she started to protest, Catsuit Girl clapped an iron collar about her neck, while Hard Hat attached a connector chain to the cuffs and collar. Once she was past the initial shock, Jo laughed and proudly showed off her new ensemble to her companions. Amazingly, she chose to wear it for the rest of the afternoon. I don’t know if Catsuit Girl and Hard Hat got their apparatus returned.

Rebecca, meanwhile, had been forced back onto her belly and was now being silenced by a ball-gag. Her captors had converted her bonds into a full hog-tie by lashing her wrists and ankles together, and had made it so rigorous that her body was arched rearwards until the back of her head was nearly touching her heels. She was gasping and groaning through her gag, but shook her head vigorously when asked if she’d had enough. Somehow, her boob tube stayed in place throughout her and its ordeal.

The VIPs and their retinue consisted of fifteen to twenty persons and naturally attracted a lot of attention. So it was funny to watch the group compact itself as the women on the perimeter were picked off one by one and the rest huddled towards the centre to avoid capture. Only two or three managed to evade the ropes and chains, but no one complained or offered more than token resistance. The males in the party unchivalrously accepted invitations – and in some cases volunteered their services – to assist the abductors. Maybe the whole episode was stage-managed, but it all looked spontaneous, and the expressions on the faces of the victims as they were being accosted and bound appeared natural enough.

Near the centre of the room were Jack and Sabrina, tending a booth with a few others for the Radical Arts Academy, an experimental theatre group. The men were dressed in bizarre costumes, Jack’s a parody of a policeman’s uniform – lurid blue spandex and latex, with a grotesquely enormous cap and badge. He looked ridiculous. The women, by contrast, were clad identically in suede, barely there bikinis, along with every modern girl’s indispensable accessories – rawhide collar plus wrist and ankle cuffs. Sabrina, who comes up beautiful on her worst bad-hair day, looked luscious.

Theirs was one of the few stalls where I saw as many guys as girls being bound, and the Academy was doing a roaring trade. Males were lining up to be tied by the bikini-clad attendants, while female partners were being corralled into a miniature stockade by Jack and his henchmen with plastic truncheons and huge water pistols. Once trapped, they could be methodically and systematically “processed” until the enclosure was crammed with bound and gagged girls. When one of the men was through with his own tie-up session, he paid a small fine or ransom to free his companion from the pen – the money paid for the rope and (inexpensive looking) ball-gag that the couple were able to keep. It was thereafter up to him whether she was released from her bonds. So the prevailing theme of BondExpo was very much damsel-in-distress.

This impression received positive reinforcement at the adjacent cubicle, which was decorated with all sorts of mediæval items and imagery. A dashing fellow in period apparel was working the crowd with a spiel peppered with Renfair-speak – lots of thees and thous and prithees and verilys and forsooths. Beside him, a doe-eyed damoiselle in a stunning emerald-green gown with fine gold embroidery and generous décolletage had been bound to a pole. The ropes entwined her body from her ankles to her neck, leaving her completely immobilized. She was crudely gagged with a wad of rough calico. It could not have been very comfortable or tasty. I don’t know if she was supposed to be a witch or a heretic; in any case, the chevalier announced that she was to be burnt at the stake. Then he declared that “Tis pity” the valuable raiment should be consumed by the flames, and there were shouts from the crowd to “Free the dress!” and “Take it off!”

However, the damsel was saved from her defrocking and blazing demise by the intervention of a busty young woman dressed in a skin-tight red Lycra bodysuit and wearing next to her ample cleavage a large badge proclaiming “Fire Marshall”.

In the meantime, preoccupied and somewhat flustered by the rush of business, Sabrina managed just a smile and a wink when she saw me. Rob wasn’t interested in sampling the Academy’s services, which rendered me safe from seizure, so after a while we wandered over to a stand where members of another troupe were giving lessons on simple ties to newbies. Rob, sensing my impatience, urged me to join in, but it was a little too tame for my tastes. However, across the hall a more enticing performance was taking place. A man and woman dressed as dungeon-master and dominatrix were demonstrating various tie-up techniques on each other. Their methods and moves were much more my style. When they called for a volunteer and no one else immediately responded, I boldly stepped forward. The domme looked me up and down, frowning, and said: “ID please, dear.”

Now, I need to explain that I am quite small, and I look a good deal younger than my 22 summers. I don’t know if the event was officially adults-only, but I never saw anyone under about the age of seventeen. So I rummaged through my bag, and breathed a sigh of relief when I found my uni ID. The woman took the card and frowned again, flapping it about as if that would somehow prove its authenticity. She still had her doubts, obviously, because she kept calling me “Sweetie” and had this irritating habit of patting me on the head like you do to reassure a youngster. Once she and her partner got started on me, however, it was anything but child’s play.

I was ordered to take my clothes off, more specifically my sweater, jeans, sneakers and socks. I complained that I wasn’t wearing a bra, which elicited a cheer from someone in the audience, but I was told I could keep my shirt on. Nevertheless, I was a tad embarrassed because I was wearing my “Hello Kitty” knickers (which elicited some giggles from the mob). The dungeon-master bound my arms behind my back, double hammerlock style, then looped the rope about my torso to wrap my breasts in a tight harness. While he was busy on my upper body, his associate trussed my knees and ankles. She then took another rope and attached one end to my chest-tie. I knew where it was going, so I pushed my thighs apart as far as I could with my knees lashed together. The woman threaded the rope between them and secured it to my wrists, pulling hard enough to give me front and back wedgies – not exactly painful, but poor Kitty went to places she hadn’t been before. Some of the spectators flinched and cringed, but I put on my best “I’ve had worse” expression.

I was about to say “Bring it on” when the man shoved something between my jaws. It was a bit-gag, the kind with a hard plastic rod that you clench in your teeth. It’s my least favourite type of gag, because when the head-strap is drawn tight, the rod digs into the corners of your mouth; and there’s also lots of dribbling and drooling involved, so it’s not the most dignified of oral appliances. Granted, most bit-gags are not very effective at stifling speech, but this one came equipped with a sort of tongue depressor which did the job nicely. I could make only silly ga-ga noises.

Of course, the fun was just beginning. The couple erected over me a tall triangular structure made of metal tubing and proceeded to sling me from it, with straps connected to my knees, crotch rope and chest harness. To take the strain off my midsection (and my... well, let’s say crevices), they added a halter that went around my shoulders and behind my neck. When the man tugged on the rigging, I was swept off the ground and suspended horizontally, facing towards the ceiling. In fact, he overestimated my weight – I’m rather scrawny – and on the first heave I flew almost to the apex of the tripod before dropping and settling, still bouncing and swaying, almost two metres off the floor. The woman then set me swinging back, forwards and sideways, until my body adopted an orbital motion that made me feel queasy after a while. Hanging there with my head drooping backwards and the bit-gag in my mouth, I began to worry that I might throw up, but Mistress was experienced enough to know when I’d had enough.

When I was released, dizzy and leaning against Rob to stay upright, as I was acknowledging the audience applause, I glanced down and was mortified to see a damp patch on my knickers, which were still – well, how does one put it decorously? – nestled in the crease from the effects of the crotch rope. I swear the wetness was perspiration, but I know what it looked like. Rob chuckled with a distinct lack of sympathy as I sheepishly pulled on my jeans and slinked off through the crowd.

There were many other sights and scenes to be enjoyed throughout the afternoon. At one booth I was measured up for an elegant ensemble of silver choker, bracelets and anklets and Rob put in a provisional order for my upcoming birthday. I thought it was funny, but also appropriate, that the salesgirl was tethered to her own stall by a gold collar and chain.
When we returned to the Radical Arts Academy, Jack and Sabrina were taking a break. She looked flushed and fatigued, and there were pink braided marks on her wrists and midriff, so she must had just had a turn on the other end of the ropes.

“What are you two doing for dinner?” Rob asked. “There are a couple of restaurants...”

“Oh, yes,” Sabrina said, her breath still a little puffy, “we have one in mind. Let’s make it six o’clock?”

“Don’t get dressed up,” Jack added, grinning at me and winking at Rob. I wasn’t quite sure what he meant by that.

We agreed, and went upstairs. It was almost five now, not enough time for a decent nap but sufficient to make good use of the big, cosy bed. Even so, I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew I was lying there naked, alone, and I could hear voices coming from the next room. I had just enough time to pull a sheet around me as the door flew open and Jack’s voice boomed: “Up you get sleepy head. You’ve got visitors.”

I pulled on a camisole and a fresh pair of knickers and staggered out into the living room. Jack and Sabrina were there, still in their costumes, as were the couple from the mediæval stall.

“Sarah, meet Maria and Harry. Harry, Maria, this is Sarah.”

Harry smiled broadly. “Well, Sarah, we’ve heard a lot about you.”

I glared at Jack and he contrived his best look of innocence.

“Thanks for the heads up,” I said to Rob, casting a downward gaze over my less than copious attire.

“Well, so much for the formalities,” Jack declared. “We’ll see you back here in, say, twenty minutes.”

Harry and Maria departed and Sabrina made tracks for the bathroom.

“So, about dinner,” Rob turned to Jack. “Do I wear my tux?”

“Sure, but you’ll look pretty odd.”

Rob and I retired to our room and I changed into my powder blue, spaghetti strap dress. It wasn’t a hard decision – it was the only frock I’d brought with me. Fortunately I’d insisted, against his protests, that Rob pack a pair of slacks and a jacket. Back in the living room, Sabrina was ready to go, looking stunning as usual in a purple slip dress that showed off her perfect contours without being slutty. (I’m not being catty – Sabrina could wear a leopard print bikini with feather boa and suspender belt and still look like a choirgirl.) Jack, bless him, was in a suit, albeit minus necktie – Sabrina can work wonders, but she can’t work miracles.

When Harry and Maria returned to the suite, I wasn’t surprised that his suit had an olde worlde cut and she was wearing an opulent Renaissance-style gown, with a sumptuously low-cut bodice.

By the time we got back downstairs, the entire lobby had been taken over by the expo crowd. I suppose the management had given up all attempts at confining the fun and games to the convention hall. Sabrina had the foresight to book a table well ahead, because both hotel restaurants, the bar and cafeteria were full to overflowing. The staff were kept terribly busy, and having worked as a waitress myself I had a lot of sympathy, especially for the girls who were wearing feet-punishing stiletto heels. I don’t know if that was part of their regular uniform or a nod to the fetish theme of the expo.

I was surprised and delighted that the restaurant featured blindfold (what I call sans vue) dining. House rules were that each blindfolded person be accompanied by a sighted partner, which made good sense, and that once blindfolded you were expected to stay that way for the entire meal, to take in the full experience – which meant, for instance, being escorted to the bathroom (to the door, at least... after that you’re on your own). Not everyone took the opportunity, but at most of the tables someone dined dans le noir. At ours, it was the ladies’ privilege.

The blindfolds, which were brought by one of the waitresses, were of the sleep-mask variety and were colour-coordinated as closely as possible with our dresses – mine was blue, Sabrina’s purple, Maria’s red. (All men’s blindfolds were black.) As we put them on, the waitress inquired as to whether we’d be dining mains liées.

“That’s hands bound, dear,” Maria said, with an indulgent smile.

“That would be nice,” I said.

“And would madam prefer back or front?”

“Hmm...” I looked to Rob, who nodded. “Behind the back, please.”

Sabrina nodded eagerly. Maria was rather more hesitant but decided “Why not?”

I was half expecting the waitress to say “We have a fine collection of vintage ropes and chains,” but instead she fetched three long strips of satin ribbon from a side table. I was surprised when she stood behind me and gently tapped my arms. I leaned forward, put my hands behind my back and crossed my wrists. She didn’t tie them tightly – there was no real need to, since the purpose was not to restrain me but to simply take away my ability to feed myself. Maria and Sabrina didn’t wait for their turn and were tied by Harry and Jack.

As usual, our sans vue dining was sensuous and sexy. We hadn’t seen the menu – it was brought after our blindfolds went on. Now I’m not the sort of gal who normally lets her man order for her. However, Rob knows all my likes, dislikes and allergies, and it’s the not knowing what’s coming that makes the experience so enjoyable. Without your sight, your other senses are aroused, and when you have no idea what is about to go into your mouth, the anticipation, the momentary puzzlement and the sudden awareness adds immensely to the appreciation. To discover what you’re eating, you have to rely on your heightened sensitivity to aromas, flavours and textures – and I liked how the menu harmoniously combined strong and subtle to create an element of mystery. In fact, the stimulation can be so intense that it can be a little disorienting, and sometimes you end up totally bewildered, almost overwhelmed. But even that doesn’t matter, because it’s enough to just savour the rush of different tastes, smells and sensations.

The other wonderful thing is, of course, that you rely on your partner for guidance and assistance, and this feeling of intimacy was enhanced by the fact that, with our hands tied, we had to depend on the men, and trust them, to feed us and give us drink. Rob toyed with and teased me, gently passing a glass under my nose to sniff the bouquet or grazing a morsel of food lightly against my lips. As a result, the meal took a lot longer than usual and there wasn’t much table conversation. It was also inevitable that I got some stains on the front of my dress, but nothing that wasn’t washable. So doing it sans vue, mains liées style elevates the simple art of dining into a skill, and as with all forms of bondage, this doesn’t limit your experience, but rather enhances it.

Inevitably, at one stage we had to use the ladies room. Maria broke the female code by not joining Sabrina and me – with such an attitude it was no wonder that she barely escaped being burnt at the stake. Since Rob was in the middle of handling our coffee order, Harry volunteered to guide me to the bathroom. This was something of an imposition on the men (Harry and Jack) because I presume they had to wait outside the doorway for our return. I was impressed that they remembered to bring our purses and put them in our hands as we went in. Once inside, Sabrina and I were able to untie each other because our bonds were secured with a simple bow. We also took off our blindfolds, although a couple of the other women, hardy souls, kept theirs on. On our way out, we replaced our blindfolds and felt our way back down the short corridor to where someone with a firm grip seized my arms and pulled them behind my back. Harry – I was hoping it was Harry! – bound my hands and cinched the knot much tighter than the waitress had done.

When it was time to go, Jack insisted on paying the full bill – I have a strong suspicion it was Sabrina’s money, but that’s between those two. Rob didn’t object, because we’ve had arrangements like this before; but Harry took some convincing before he relented and demanded the right to buy drinks in the bar. We gave back the blindfolds, but we were permitted to keep the satin ribbons, which remained in place, binding our hands.

To get to the saloon lounge, we passed the entrance to the exhibition hall. It was still open, although the crowds had thinned out considerably, mostly down to overnight hotel guests. As a result, Jack and Sabrina could leave their stall in the hands of a skeleton crew. The Radical Arts Academy had a sense of humour. We took a quick detour to say hello, and the attendants were indeed dressed in Halloween-type skeleton costumes. Meanwhile, Harry and Maria had simply closed their booth down for the night.

At this time of the evening, many more people were in theme. About half the women and maybe one in five men wore some sort of bondage paraphernalia. As we went into the lounge, we were welcomed by an attractive, effervescent woman wearing a puffy white blouse and black skirt. She was standing next to one of those vertical railing features you see in pubs; she had one arm through the bars and was handcuffed there. Harry greeted her by name, Susan, and informed us that she was the manageress. I didn’t find out whether she was part of the decor or whether one of the staff or customers had waylaid and cuffed her to the railing.

At the bar, a big, ferocious-looking man in black leather pants and jacket was seated on a stool cradling a beer in his huge paws. However, my attention was draw downwards, to a pretty blonde girl in a rhinestone-studded halter-top and blue denim cut-offs, sitting on the floor, her legs tucked under, her head nestled between the guy’s knees (no, she was facing outwards) and her hands pinioned behind her back very tightly – you can tell by how far the shoulders are pulled rearwards. Nearby, a striking brunette in a figure-hugging black sweater and leather miniskirt was standing with her back against a post, handcuffed in the position. Elsewhere, a gorgeous, vivacious young lady in a crimson strapless bandeau top and black frilly shorts, also with hands bound behind her back, was being manhandled by her boyfriend – or a super-friendly acquaintance. And so on. Not every female in the lounge was bound, but everyone in the bar who was bound was female. That didn’t surprise me, because when the girl is tied up, she is hardly in a position to pay for her own drinks... Of course, she needs a close partner or obliging stranger to help her with her drinks, but that’s a bonus.

The place was crowded and noisy, so after a single round of drinks we decided to continue upstairs. As we were preparing to leave, Harry had an idea. He untied Maria’s hands, then grabbed me to pull me over to her, put one of her arms between mine, which were still bound, then did the same with Sabrina. When he re-tied Maria’s hands, we were locked together. It was difficult walking like this because we were back-to-back and thus facing in three different directions. If one of us took the lead, the other two had to shamble sideways, and if two of us got into step, moving forward, the other had to shuffle backwards. As the smallest, I had the least control as we manoeuvred our way across the lobby, into and out of the elevator and down the passageway to the suite, so I spent most of the journey in reverse gear. I’m not complaining. It was good for a giggle.

On the way, we almost diverted into the hotel ballroom, because a sign advertised blindfold dancing. This has the same attraction as the dining, because without your sight it requires skill and concentration and you must depend on and trust your partner to guide you. It’s always the woman who is blindfolded because, as in all traditional ballroom dancing, it is the male who leads; but it is she who has the more difficult and demanding role, because she must interpret her partner’s moves and signals without the benefit of sight. Hence it can be a lot of fun. However, we were all feeling fatigued and decided to give it a miss. Nevertheless, it was still relatively early in the evening, so Jack suggested we should have some fun – ominous words from the likes of Jack.

To be continued...
Words, like Nature, half reveal and half conceal the soul within.