Cheap prosecco and Ann Summers do not the kink ball make...

It wasn't a bad night, but it wasn't all that. And frankly, the fact that I had been promised free champagne, but given cheap prosecco was outrageous. And I love prosecco, I really do, but this was fizzy, alcoholic sugar.

The one in the middle, that's me. On the left of the picture is a lovely friend, who showed up unexpectedly, and on the right, well, that's Alistair. I went a little heavy with the smudge tool on those guys. Those of you who have been with me long enough will remember the fateful day when Alistair found my blog. Whilst I have refused to pull any punches, whether he reads it or not, I still feel the need to smear his face beyond all recognition, it's only fair.

Do you like my gown? That be 100% pure silk, with train, the whole shebang. It was given to me as payment for modelling at a show for these guys.

I am surprised we made it at all, considering Alistair left it until about an hour before the cab arrived to finally accept that he needs some fetish clothes to go to clubs in. Don't get me wrong, he has a truck load of gear, but most of it is either useful only as part of a session, or is a little too skimpy to go to an "exclusive" fetish ball in. Truth be told, the man hardly ever leaves the house, preferring the endless conveyor belt of women to come to him. Actually, I must be fair, he does attend and throw private fetish house parties. These are convenient, since he can wear both of his uniforms, i.e. the only fetish wear that he ever wears: upon arrival: leather trousers and black top, an hour later: little leather thong (butt plug if he's lucky).

I digress.

He left it as late as he could to have a hissy about the lack of clothes, managing to produce only an old black rubber catsuit, and an old pair of black rubber chaps. I favoured the chaps, since his backside is of epic cuteness. However, some bastard guests had pinched the polish from the fetish B&B that he runs, with my assistance. I have the patience of a saint, so I managed to smile through adversity, despite the fact that I hadn't been laced into my corset, and the cab had arrived.

But we got there, and he looked lovely. But I always think that, which is one of the reasons I just can't put him down. But he did.

We got there early, as he didn't want to miss out on the champagne. It was fucking prosecco. Nonetheless, it was served to me by one of the hottest, buffest (can't believe I just said that) bits of crumpet that one is ever likely to see, wearing only a pair of tight shorts. Nice.

The venue really wasn't very "exclusive". I was expecting marble, and plush furnishings, and a really nice loo. I always say that you can tell the quality of an establishment by how chic its loos are. Regarding this establishment, I have graced worse toilet seats, but I have graced a hell of a lot better too.

And the people started to arrive.

Hmmmmmm.

Young crowd. Young oh-my-darlings-aren't-we-being-edgy crowd. They were hot, no doubt about that, but it became apparent that each one had only just bought their riding crop at Ann Summers, and after tonight, it was in danger of never being brought out the closet again. And there was very little good conversation to be had.

Call me old fashioned, but even if they are mind bogglingly, angels-weeping-tears-of-joy hot, I just can't kiss 'em unless they're clever.

Eventually I made my way to the dungeon, I noticed it was a dead end, and then I noticed a horny tranny and her mistress making a bee-line. I fled.

However, Alistair and I did meet one extremely lovely, genuine woman. I really liked her, and we are keeping in touch already. More on her later.

Eventually, after a failed after-party at someone's house, Alistair and I reached home on Saturday morning. It was only 9am... shockingly, nay, disgustingly early for us. And so we had our own little party. 8 hours of play in the dungeon.

I cannot begin to describe the things we did, suffice to say that if I told you, you'd probably end up running away. And for once, Alistair subbed to me, and looked at me with those burning eyes of his. The eyes that make me want to be cruel, the eyes I want to see cry... They almost did, I think, on Monday night, when we revisited the weekend. It's a compelling, addictive, and entirely unhealthy game we play. It's a game that horrifies him, disturbs him, and yet makes him so hard... And as I push him, force him into doing things of nightmarish proportions, I am waiting for those moments where the desire takes him over, and he begs for more, and for me to hurt him.