Read Online Eighty Days Yellow by Vina Jackson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Vina Jackson
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a dark-haired, beautiful, vampy-looking woman covered herself with gasoline and then blew fire into the air over her head, while grinding round a pole to the sound of a heavy rock song. She reeked of sex. In the company of Charlotte, and in the presence of so many others who seemed unashamed of their bodies and proud, even, of their sexuality, I felt, for the first time in my life, as if I might not be a freak. Or at least, that if I was a freak, I had company.
A tall man standing at the edge of the dance floor caught my eye. He was wearing a pair of tight, bright-blue sequinned leggings, long riding boots, a red and gold military jacket and a matching hat. He held a riding crop in one hand and a drink in the other, and was chatting happily to a gothic-looking girl wearing latex hot pants. She had long, black hair with a single white lock at the front. The man’s leggings barely concealed a large bulge at the crotch, and I stopped still for a moment, mesmerised. I thought I’d seen a similar pair of leggings in the window of a women’s fashion store, but on him the effect was decidedly masculine.
Charlotte tugged my hand. ‘Later,’ she whispered into my ear, eyeing the man with the leggings. ‘The show’s on. That means it’ll be quiet downstairs.’
She led me through a small, red velvet-curtained corridor, then into another, smaller bar, filled with similarly clad partygoers, and then down a flight of steps.
‘This is the dungeon,’ she said.
The room didn’t look how I expected a ‘dungeon’ to look, although I really had no concept of how a modern-day dungeon would look or even that such a thing existed. I stopped in my tracks and looked around, soaking it all up, in case I never saw anything like it again.
The décor was just like the bar above, only with a few extra pieces of strange-looking furniture. There was a large, padded red cross in the shape of an X rather than a crucifix. A woman, naked, was leaning against it with her legs and arms spread, while another woman beat her with an instrument that Charlotte called a ‘flogger’. I couldn’t see the handle, as it was covered firmly by the woman’s hand, but instead of one single strand, like a whip, it had several pieces of soft-looking leather attached. The woman doing the flogging took turns at whipping then stroking the other woman’s arse with the palm of her hand, and sometimes running the strands of leather softly over her body. The woman on the receiving end moaned with pleasure and twitched unintentionally throughout, and the woman flogging her often bent forward and whispered what I imagined were sweet nothings into her ear. She was smiling, laughing and leaning her body towards her partner on the cross. They were surrounded by a small group of interested onlookers, but appeared to be in a world of their own, almost as if an invisible screen stood between them and the people watching.
The sight would have shocked me if I had seen it in a photograph, or read a salaciously worded description of it in a newspaper. I’d heard of this sort of thing, of course, but filed such activities away in my head, in the same place that I put stories of people rushing to hospital after an unfortunate accident with a hamster and a vacuum-cleaner pipe – I supposed some people might get into it, but I thought it was mostly either an urban legend or the prevail of the very strange. The people involved here all looked quite nice and normal, though they were kitted out in the same dramatic costumes that filled the rest of the boat. I moved in a bit closer to get a better look.
Yes, the person on the whipping end was definitely having a good time. I would have given a limb, right then, to know how that felt. And the beating itself, the rise and fall of the flogger, looked precise, rhythmic, expertly orchestrated. The whole thing was rather beautiful.
Charlotte, noting my interest, approached a man who was standing near the cross and tapped him on the
A tall man standing at the edge of the dance floor caught my eye. He was wearing a pair of tight, bright-blue sequinned leggings, long riding boots, a red and gold military jacket and a matching hat. He held a riding crop in one hand and a drink in the other, and was chatting happily to a gothic-looking girl wearing latex hot pants. She had long, black hair with a single white lock at the front. The man’s leggings barely concealed a large bulge at the crotch, and I stopped still for a moment, mesmerised. I thought I’d seen a similar pair of leggings in the window of a women’s fashion store, but on him the effect was decidedly masculine.
Charlotte tugged my hand. ‘Later,’ she whispered into my ear, eyeing the man with the leggings. ‘The show’s on. That means it’ll be quiet downstairs.’
She led me through a small, red velvet-curtained corridor, then into another, smaller bar, filled with similarly clad partygoers, and then down a flight of steps.
‘This is the dungeon,’ she said.
The room didn’t look how I expected a ‘dungeon’ to look, although I really had no concept of how a modern-day dungeon would look or even that such a thing existed. I stopped in my tracks and looked around, soaking it all up, in case I never saw anything like it again.
The décor was just like the bar above, only with a few extra pieces of strange-looking furniture. There was a large, padded red cross in the shape of an X rather than a crucifix. A woman, naked, was leaning against it with her legs and arms spread, while another woman beat her with an instrument that Charlotte called a ‘flogger’. I couldn’t see the handle, as it was covered firmly by the woman’s hand, but instead of one single strand, like a whip, it had several pieces of soft-looking leather attached. The woman doing the flogging took turns at whipping then stroking the other woman’s arse with the palm of her hand, and sometimes running the strands of leather softly over her body. The woman on the receiving end moaned with pleasure and twitched unintentionally throughout, and the woman flogging her often bent forward and whispered what I imagined were sweet nothings into her ear. She was smiling, laughing and leaning her body towards her partner on the cross. They were surrounded by a small group of interested onlookers, but appeared to be in a world of their own, almost as if an invisible screen stood between them and the people watching.
The sight would have shocked me if I had seen it in a photograph, or read a salaciously worded description of it in a newspaper. I’d heard of this sort of thing, of course, but filed such activities away in my head, in the same place that I put stories of people rushing to hospital after an unfortunate accident with a hamster and a vacuum-cleaner pipe – I supposed some people might get into it, but I thought it was mostly either an urban legend or the prevail of the very strange. The people involved here all looked quite nice and normal, though they were kitted out in the same dramatic costumes that filled the rest of the boat. I moved in a bit closer to get a better look.
Yes, the person on the whipping end was definitely having a good time. I would have given a limb, right then, to know how that felt. And the beating itself, the rise and fall of the flogger, looked precise, rhythmic, expertly orchestrated. The whole thing was rather beautiful.
Charlotte, noting my interest, approached a man who was standing near the cross and tapped him on the
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