IMPERVIOUS--Confessions of a Semi-retired Deviant by Janet W. Hardy

Author:Janet W. Hardy
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Lifestyle, Kinky, fetish, deviant, BDSM
Publisher: SinCyr Publishing
Published: 2019-04-20T00:00:00+00:00

IF YOU’RE THE KIND of woman who, as a girl, was never asked to dance, consider becoming a female dominant in a major urban BDSM community.

On a cool autumn evening in San Francisco, I attended my first “tops and bottoms auction” – a common kink fundraiser, in which people are allowed to bid on the “right to negotiate a scene” with anyone bold enough to put themselves up for bid. Play money is included as part of the admission charge, with more available for purchase to raise funds for some worthy charity.

As a nod to childhood Errol Flynn/Basil Rathbone fantasies (It’s time to pay for your misdeeds now, Levasseur), I used the sobriquet “Captain Blood.” I’d chosen a loose, ruffled silk poet’s shirt, leggings, and thigh-high spike-heeled suede boots (acquired secondhand somewhere, I suppose, as I hardly had the budget for new ones), and applied a heavier makeup than usual.

If you get “bought” at a tops and bottoms auction, you get to keep the money – and any unspent play money is unredeemable at the end of the event. Thus, being the final item of the evening is the place of honor. The auctioneer took one look at me and slated me last: not only was I a top, and looking hot, but I was new.

For someone like me – a lifelong misfit, weirdo, fatty – this was phenomenal, soothing wounds I’d carried for years. I’ve seen this sort of thing a hundred times since then, women who would be unexceptional in mainstream culture suddenly becoming precious commodities in kink-land. I sometimes wonder if some women go pervy purely to ride that wave of unaccustomed popularity.

The auction progressed. I distracted myself from a fit of nerves by bidding on and winning a man who had already become a good friend, a bouncy and excitable submissive with a charming giggle, an arousing yelp of pain, and a butt of cast iron. We agreed to wait until the auction was over and then figure out when and how to play.

But then it was my turn on the block. It was late, the room was hot and stuffy, a lot of fists were clutched around a lot of play money, and energy was running high.

Introducing the fair Captain Blood, called the auctioneer. An experienced top, skilled in flagellation, clamps and CBT, available for purchase by men or women.

Ten thousand, someone called quickly.

Twenty, shouted someone else.

Fifty, from the back of the crowd.

Coalitions started to form. The most popular bottoms accepted donations from friends who weren’t interested in me (by virtue of dueling orientations, other commitments, or simple aesthetics), and who thus didn’t need their play money any more.

By the climax, everyone in the room was supporting one of two people, and the bidding was frantic. Four hundred thousand! called out a plump man with a reputation as an intense masochist.

The auctioneer glanced at the other bidder, who looked around to see if anyone had more play money. Nobody did. He shrugged and grimaced. Sold! the auctioneer barked, and the auction was over.

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