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.”
“You know, it takes a lot of practice to use one of these correctly. If you don’t know what you’re doing, you can really hurt somebody—”
“Look, is it a deal, or not?” Marla interrupted. “I know how to use a bullwhip. Don’t teach your grandma to suck eggs.” She reached into her boot for her money clip and counted out six hundred dollars in twenty-dollar bills.
The man glanced at the woman he was with, shrugged, and said, “Sure. We mostly use it as a prop anyway.”
Marla picked up the bullwhip, did a few swimmer’s stretches, and lashed the whip through empty air with a resounding crack—the sound came from the end of the whip breaking the sound barrier. People crowded around the doorway, made curious by the whip-crack, most likely, and eager to see the show. Marla set the coiled whip on the floor and led Jared to the X-frame. She tied his wrists and ankles in place with the loops of heavy cotton rope that protruded from the arms of the X. “You’re sure you want me to do this?”
“Oh, yes,” he said. His eyes were wide, and he kept licking his lips. No one could say he hadn’t asked for it.
Marla turned her head and nodded to the crowd in the doorway. They’d all heard Jared ask for this—they shouldn’t have an excuse to throw her out now.
She took the bullwhip to the far end of the room. Marla cracked her knuckles. “It’s been a long time,” she said, “but let’s see if I can still write my name in somebody’s ass.” She let the whip fly.
When Jared cried, “Safe word! Red! Red!” Marla let the whip drop. The people watching burst into spontaneous applause.
“That’s it?” she said. “You follow me around, asking me to beat you, and all I get is seven strokes?”