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after all, but Finch had invested in a black-leather number with chrome accents. Marla
hoped the young man currently chained over it, receiving the attentions of his broadshouldered
companion, appreciated the luxury and the lack of splinters. A woman lay
bound to a gyno table, which was suspended from the ceiling by heavy chains—the
table was also black leather with chrome accents. That seemed to be Finch’s motif. Not
exactly original, but she supposed pinstripes or polka dots would have been out of
place.
One group had dispensed with the need for bondage equipment entirely. They had a
woman in pigtails bound tightly to a support pillar with cling wrap, and the two men
fondled her roughly, slapped her face gently, and kissed her. There were a few doors
along one wall, presumably with closet-sized spaces behind them, with oval holes cut in
the door at crotch height—what sex party would be complete without a few glory holes?
None of them was in use at the moment, though. There were cages of varying heights
and sizes—one was the size of a jail cell, while another was almost too low to even
crawl into; the occupant would have to slither in. Marla briefly considered the cages as a
way of getting rid of her persistent admirer, but a quick glance showed her that none of
them had real locks, just latches that could be lifted from the inside as easily as the
outside. This was a public party, after all—longtime playmates could use locks, but it
wasn’t such a good idea when playing with strangers. In addition to the people playing,
there were others with penlights, and bags filled with safe-sex supplies—gloves, dams,
condoms, lube, and the like. Dungeon monitors were here to make sure everything was
safe and consensual, and that no one was so caught up in the moment that they forgot to
use protection.
Marla turned a corner, wondering how many rooms the basement had—she suspected
the division into rooms was meant to make it seem more vast and labyrinthine than it
actually was. A small crowd was gathered to watch a woman with an impressively large
strap-on fuck her girlfriend, who was dangling in a full-body leather sling. Marla paused
for a moment to watch—the couple had charisma, and a good sense of showmanship.
People didn’t just come to sex parties hoping to sleep with strangers, after all; those
with exhibitionist tendencies came to show off their skills with current partners, too.
The room beyond held a few alcoves with padded floors and mattresses, most of which
were inhabited by people having more-or-less straight sex. One couple was unpacking a
suitcase filled with whips—a ribbon flogger, a cat-o’-nine-tails, a quirt, even a long
bullwhip. A varnished-wood X-frame with metal rings at the four points leaned against
the back wall. Marla turned to her admirer. “Okay,” she said. “You think you want a
whipping?”
“Oh, yes.”
Marla went to the couple on the mattress. “I’ll give you a hundred dollars for that
bullwhip.”
“Actually, it cost about five hundred,” the man said.
“Five hundred?” Marla said. “That’s what you get for shopping at fetish stores—next
time, go where the ranchers go. You’ll get a better whip for a lot less money. It might
not be shiny black, but it’ll get the job done.” She sighed. “But, okay, I’ll give you six
hundred for it.”