2.5 oz Gin or vodka
.5 oz Dry vermouth
.5 oz Olive brine
Garnish: Olives
It was only the second time she had been in the club. She was nervous being there alone but everyone had been so welcoming and friendly during orientation that she had forced herself to quell her nerves.
She wanted to go see what was happening on the main dungeon floor but a noise in one of the semi-private rooms catches her attention. The rooms have doors but there is no expectation of privacy and this door was open.
On the spanking bench was a woman. There was a Dom behind her wielding a single-tail whip and another woman, with jet black hair, kneeling near her head. It quickly became apparent that the woman on the bench was experiencing this for the first time. The black haired woman was caressing her arms and shoulders; moaning .... chanting in a soothing tone. Her words and her touch worked in unison.
The Dom touched her backs and buttocks. He provided that warmth, that connection necessary in impact play. And when he stepped back, the on-looker held her breath. The first few strikes seemed soft. She felt her cheeks flush with the warmth pooling between her legs and inched further into the room. She was shaking a little and stayed close to the wall so as not to disturb anyone. What she didn’t understand was that the trio was already encased in a world of their own creation. They were their own world; each providing their own ebb and flow within their environment. It was rhythmic. It was magical. And she couldn’t look away.
Each flick of the whip created a new mark on the white skin. He was the artist, she was the canvas. He artfully working his craft; she experiencing and submitting to his skill. But the most fascinating person in that room was the black-haired woman. She was the inspiration. She was the conduit. She was the port in the storm. She was the wind in the air. She was the energy in the room.
Her hands stroked and soothed the other woman. Skin never left skin. The woman on the table never experienced a coldness or an emptiness because the other was there. Her voice soothed. Her voice coaxed. Her voice encouraged. Her voice reassured. Not with words, but with sounds. Sounds born of the energy being created. The energy connecting the three in their shared experience.
As the woman on the table succumbed to the ministrations of the two guides, she relaxed. She let the waves of pain and pleasure envelope her.
Yes, the black-haired woman was the soothing warmth of a martini; but she had just the right amount of ...... dirty in her.
