Join Eva,Ellie, Eythan, Ben, Fiona and Vicki for our Bountiful Pleasures fall session of sultry, steamy passion. Adventures of romance, hot sexy erotica, BDSM, contemporary romance; you just never know what the Trysters will come up with that leaves your pulse pounding.
Who's the king of the swingers? Judge for yourself. We know the Grande Dame...She is The Red Queen.
The Red Queen
by Abyrne Mostyn
They called her the Red Queen...the Grand Mistress. Friends called her Margaret, but most who got close to her called her Master. A dominatrix, she was the master of all that happened around her at all times. Her chambers were a playground for the things that weren’t talked about in proper circles, but perhaps in hushed whispers. Men and women alike who wanted the exquisite, disparate ecstasy-torture of riding the edge to submission came to her in droves hoping she would dominate them. She took them to that place that you couldn’t define. A place that one could only recreate in the sweet dream fantasy land that existed between asleep and awake. Spent and craving another time with a consummate Dom, she was that kind of master. Consuming, total surrender or nothing at all.
She was accomplished at all the forms of domination. A BDSM master, she was in demand by those who lived the lifestyle, though few knew who she was behind her guise. An hourglass in red leather, she never revealed her identity and that seemed to heighten the fantasy. A flame red wig to hide the blonde showed underneath the matching red leather full head mask that hid all but ruby lips and emerald green contact disguised eyes. She could play tic-tac-toe on her subs arse from twenty paces with a flick of the wrist and her long tail whip, making them sing for her to win her game. A showgirl gone deep into the life, she traded in her pink feather boa, diamond tiara, and vaudeville act for the business end of a cat-o-nine tails and needle point stilettos. Blood red nail polish on fingers and toes to complete the ensemble, no one who saw her had a doubt about her ability to play a person to the edge and take them over or keep them from their release as she chose.
To her friends, she was just another person in their circle of friends. To those swingers who entered her party house every three months, she was the sweet hostess, the emcee of the evening. None seemed to recognize her, or if they did, they were wise enough to keep her identity to themselves. She would bet on the former, as she had gone to great lengths to keep her anonymity as the Red Queen to herself, and few who were her subs were invited here. What none in or out of her circles knew was that she, like so many strong Dominants required the powerful practiced hand of another to gain her release. True submission to a proficient, talented master, the skillful application of a riding crop, or to dance at the end of someone else’s whip. The dichotomy of hot wax and ice cubes, the pleasurable pain that would take her higher than many of this world knew they could rise. To float above herself in sweet ecstasy and weep her surrender or release when it was earned, but not a minute before.
When Aaron and Sharilynne had inquired about taking a party, they had no way of knowing the gift they were giving her. Sure, others had hosted at different times through the years, but seldom had any taken the whole night over, or done so with such complete and thorough attention that she was deemed redundant and unnecessary. Tonight, she would get to join the fun and taste the favors. Find and follow through with another of the guests and hope that what she believed was true, instead of being left to vicariously enjoy through the one way glass. Years ago, a safety measure that was insisted upon and agreed to in the early days of the swingers parties to see than none were victimized.
It is one thing to say you want the open rules of anything goes; and another thing entirely to experience it as she had learned long ago. She knew first hand that safe words could be ignored. To reinforce the party rules, one way glass mirrors were installed in each of the rooms with surveillance so that although those inside could have their privacy, or at least the semblance of such, there was someone who could watch at any time and step in. She would often stop by and review the monitors, and would accompany anytime there was a need to escort someone out. In the last decade it had happened maybe twice, but twice was enough to continue the practice. Everyone who came to the party knew that they could be watched and removed; it had been enough for most.
From her post as hostess and later in the evenings as watcher, she knew without a doubt who she wanted to entertain this night as she slipped on her accoutrements for the evening. Aaron and Sharilynne having decked the party goers out with little more than just enough, she hoped that things would go in her favor. She knew what she wanted, and she knew who she wanted to deliver it. Colb Mitras was definitely her first choice. Perhaps six foot tall he had the build of someone who paid attention without the vulgar notion of needing to be bulked out and ridiculous. He was solid without being too much. Sandy brown, disheveled hair and dark coffee eyes, he was tasty to look at. Watching him over the past few years, she knew he could deliver what she craved. He was one to try it all and then go for a little more. She wanted his sense of adventure and freedom, but as his submissive she wanted him to take it. Control it. Make it elusive and force her to reach for it.
Holden Henner with his brooding looks and wicked smile would do, but she hoped for Colb. Knowing the details of the differently themed rooms, she knew she was going into Mardi gras. If both of the men she wanted were odd numbers and sent to Carnival she would settle for finding a soft female to waste the night with, but she was hopeful to get one or the other, or perhaps both to the west room and the North American festival. Time would tell her fortune. Slipping on a feathered G-string, so reminiscent of where she had come from, strings of beads that weren’t enough to cover a woman with far less cleavage, and her mask she slipped the elastic band with the key around her wrist and entered Bourbon Street. Humming to the jazz trumpet wailing, looking for Mr. Mitras she made her way to the table and grabbed a hurricane. Sipping her drink thinking to herself wryly, one to drink now, and maybe another one to rage later and take away her choices. ‘Come on New Orleans, give me a storm.’