Page 1 of Masters of Play

Chapter One

Today's kink club is not what most people would think. Especially not if they watched the theatrical version of Fifty Shades of Grey. Sure, there would be all manner of sex furniture like a Saint Andrew’s Cross parked somewhere at the center of the room like an angel topping a Christmas tree. Dotting the edges of the space would be a spanking bench, where any naughty grown, consenting adult could come sit on Santa Dom's lap. Of course, there would be a bed where birthday suits would be unwrapped. Stockings would be stuffed with all manner of sex toys, like dildos, butt plugs, nipple clamps, and spreader bars.

What would most likely not be found in this particular wonderland is Christian Grey himself. Instead, a version of Old Saint Nick without the six-pack abs and full head of dark hair would deck these halls.

The vast majority of kinkster men weren't tall, dark, and twenty-something broody billionaires. They were mostly average height, thinning hairline, dad bod geeks and nerds. To the discerning eye that wouldn't take away from their attractiveness —unless a play partner was actually looking for a sadistic sugar daddy dressed in a red suit lined with fur. And, yes, there are some of those.

What made today's kinksters—men, women, and non-binary persons—truly attractive gifts that everyone on the naughty list couldn’t wait to unwrap was that they knew exactly who they were, and they weren't afraid to say exactly what they wanted and needed to get off.

"Fuck, sir," moaned a woman walking along the floor of the kink club. Beside her walked a man dressed in leather pants and no shirt. Every few steps, he'd reach over and punch the woman in her arm.

"Fuck, sir," she moaned again after the latest punch. There was a hitch in her step, like she was trying to press her legs together to savor an orgasm while also putting one foot in front of the other to keep her stride.

Her play partner gripped her upper arm, right over the darkening red spot where he'd given her those love taps. The woman closed her eyes, and her steps faltered. But the man held her firm until she stopped her shivering and got her legs back under her. When she was steady enough to walk again, he switched to the other side.

"Fuck, sir," she cried again as he picked up the ritual on the other side and punched her in her other arm.

The ways in which kinksters got off was another misconception. It wasn't all about cuffs and collars. Hell, a soccer mom could pick up a pair of fur-lined cuffs and a dildo at the Walmart nowadays. What used to be kinky a few years ago was mainstream today. Take, for instance, the fact that in the 1950s, oral sex was considered kinky. Now college coeds have no problem asking for a backdoor entrance at the local kegger.

"Ah, fuck you, you fucking asshole."

That came from a man bent over a spanking bench. It wasn't Santa giving him a naughty whack on the ass. It was Mrs. Claus dressed in a red leather harness that held a purple dildo. Said dildo was being plunged enthusiastically into the man's asshole.

"Tell me how much you like it, you little bitch," said Mrs. Claus with another thrust that sent the man up onto the balls of his feet.

"Fuuuuck," was his response as his eyes closed and his whole body convulsed into shudders.

Kink was all about perception. I know because I've been studying it since the first time a boy slipped his fingers down my panties and rubbed me to orgasm. I've been chasing that bliss since high school... okay, middle school. I was promiscuous and I'm not ashamed. I strung up my kink flag early in life. Yeah, the cloth might be a little tattered from waving in some mighty storms.

"You here to study tonight, Kellie? Or you here to play?" asked the bartender.

"Both," I told him, taking the offered drink and downing it in one go. The amber liquid burned my throat and woke me up.

"You just let me know if you need a new test subject, honey."

"Thanks." I gave him a wink and the empty shot glass.

That part—the observation part—of my work was done. I didn't need any more participants in my study. All my data had been collected, all my findings collated, even the proofread of my dissertation was done.

Tomorrow, I would present the completed document to my dissertation chair. That would be a trial in and of itself. Tonight, I was going to celebrate.

I headed to the far reaches of the club. Past the Saint Andrew’s Cross. Past the spanking benches. In a dark corner of the space was a simple, human-sized tripod with rope dangling from its arch. A shiver ran through my body, and I arched up on the balls of my feet with anticipation.

Like I said, kink has always been my subject of choice. I studied psychology in undergrad. I was a few days away from earning my PhD in Behavioral Health with a focus on gender, sex, and deviant behaviors. My area of expertise? Kink, of course.

Remember what I said about kink being a matter of perception? Well, the only way to know what kink was to others was to get into their bedroom. Surprisingly, most couples who are about to engage in sex aren't into letting a student into their boudoir to study their moves. Well, some are into that. But even those swingers don't like to be asked questions mid-fuckery. Though if you came into a BDSM club, you'd find many of the folks within the four walls are all too happy to let their kink flags fly and explain the meaning of each color on the flag as said flag was getting a rise.

What I discovered was that there are scales of kink. Most self-identifying kinksters were into the extreme side of the scale. For example, blindfolds were kinky. But being sensory deprived with a hood over your face and most of your body covered in latex was seriously kinky. Especially if you were also being led around on a leash while others present were allowed to finger and fondle you like that girl was having done to her at the center of the club.

Hickeys were pretty naughty. But being bruised on purpose, and then showing the patterns off like they were an accessory, was seriously kinky. Especially if you were particular about how you're being bruised. Like the guy in the corner getting off over knife play.

These days everybody and their mama was into spanking. Trust me, I know. Late one night as a kid, I woke from hearing a rhythmic thudding. Then I heard my mom call my dad Daddy and ask him to spank her harder. Kinky? Scarring? Not as scarring as watching the welts form on the woman's ass in the corner as her partner canes her with a stiff rod.

Me? I like to be tied up. Tight. And then suspended. Just like that pixie of a girl who was dangling from ropes on the tripod. The two men working on her were adept as they tied the rope and lifted her higher. My mouth watered at the sight, impatient for her scene to end so that mine could begin.

Chapter Two

Unfortunately, patience wasn't one of my virtues.

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