Pulsing techno music, the kind of rhythm you’d expect at a party where those attending consider themselves the aristocracy of a dark but sublime world. It was a wonderful party, even though the sale of alcohol prevented me from taking full advantage of the slaves who I encountered. Having a thick, hard cock ready for punishment in front of a room full of people primed me for inflicting sweet but painful torment on a man, much to my, and one man’s chagrin: Rules of propriety were at odds with my own standards. But, as they say, when in Rome . . . .
[Photographer’s Chorus]: . . . or Scotland. Definitely San Francisco; it’s probably the birthplace of techno. I think they call it techno. Just as, here, my thoughts aren’t voiced by a human tongue, this music has never found itself in wood, string or brass. It has as its origin a piece of silicon. And, like silicon, it is sharp and hard and crystalline and regular, oh so regular. Its rhythm is nanosecond-precise; nothing in the human body resonates naturally with it. There is no melody; it has no beginning, middle or end so there is never a reason for it to stop. When it is played loudly in a room full of rubber and leather-clad hedonists, along with unnatural and flashing lights, one tends to enter into a sort trance. Your brain stops functioning. Conversation is impossible. Sight and sound, taste, touch and smell – especially smell – are still functioning but they bypass cognition. Inhibitions fall away. And, now, if one muscle in my body finds a way to connect with that rhythm the rest seem to join in. . .
The first man to catch my eye wore one of those easy-access kilts. At first I let him carry me around on his back, my beast of burden; but I got no complaints, only a shy wish for more.
“Okay,” I said, “let’s play.”
Mistress Omega followed us with her camera. I could see his skirt moving outward as his semi-hard cock stiffened.
[Photographer’s Chorus]. . . When Mistress Omega approached Karin and asked if she could take pictures that was all it took for her to grab the kilt of some lucky sub. The thing I remember most is that I could actually smell Karin’s cunt juices as she marched him to the spot where she’d use him. Oh God! Forgive me for how much I got off on smelling her sex in front of all those quickly gathering around us. . .
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