The Muscled Woman and the DJ
In which our hero reflects on life and fetish
Something about the panorama, the sunset, the pure breathtaking beauty of the place and the way it invited me to reflect on the greatness of the Universe and my presence within it always filled me with wonder and a sense of peace.
I could hear traffic, but it only served as a reminder they while I stood still on the breeze or lay down on the weathered bench and paid attention to the detail of it all, out there, others went about their lives perhaps with a sense of purpose or maybe fulfilling duties. Either way, thinking of the future while I stayed in the present afraid of both what might come and haunted by the memories of where I'd been.
Last night I watched a stylish film with a scene, the confrontation of the baddie, set in a nightclub and populated by clientele in fetish clothing.
The DJ wore a latex gas mask and shiny black and red clad guests wove and vogued in a dense orgy of dancing and mild corporal punishment.
No doubt the intention was to reinforce the notion that there were no depths to which our villain would not stoop, so depraved was he.
The camera cut to a shot of a woman's shoulders, her arms weaving above her head to show her shiny braces and muscular back and shoulders.
"Had any of those involved in the making of the film ever been to a fetish club," I wondered. The fact is that over 40% of the participants are clinically obese and, certainly in England, in the Midlands, badly drawn and blurred tattoos compete for attention with missing teeth and blotched cheeks.
I cast my mind back and several images leapt out at me. The first was of a skinny man in his 30's with spiked blonde hair like the singer from the 80's British pop group Kajagoogoo. He wore high heels and frilly pants.
Strutting gingerly towards the spanking bench he leant across it and clutched the handles at the far end. His partner, a young man called David, aged 24 and resplendent in a long Chinese dress and pony headdress didn't bother to strap him in but instead set about his frilly bottom with a leather paddle.
Officially this activity is referred to as "Spanking a cissy."
Behind them a widower of 84, wearing nothing but baggy Y-fronts, was being restrained in what looked like an electric chair. Ankle, wrist and neck cuffs in place, his attendant lowered a bar in front of him with a crank shaft that held a reel of thin chain terminating in 2 nipple clamps.
The 5 o'clock shadow on his young blonde, mini skirted and be-wigged mistress left no doubt about his/her gender. S/he gently began slowly turning the handle until the old fellow’s nipples were stretched a good 8 inches from his chest. His contorted face left the onlooker in no doubt just how uncomfortable this was.
It was a relief for us all when they finished and retired to another spanking bench in the far corner.
Seeing the free chair a tall, athletic guy with businessman blonde hair and a headmasters face strode past in thigh-length patent leather boots, tutu and corset and plunked himself down on it. He was followed by a mousy brunette, his wife I think, who went on to subject him to similar treatment.
A sign said "Our licence does not permit the displaying of genitalia or any form of sexual activity."
I searched in vain for the muscled woman and the DJ.