Didn't I Meet You In Heaven? (Pointless Digression & The New World Fool)
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		<h2 id="linktree">Play-By-Post: Bondage, D/s, S&amp;M =&gt; Bondage: Human Solos =&gt; Topic started by: Pointless Digression on 02-05-2011, 22:51:47</h2>
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				Title: <strong>Didn't I Meet You In Heaven? (Pointless Digression &amp; The New World Fool)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Pointless Digression</strong> on <strong>02-05-2011, 22:51:47</strong>
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				<div class="floatleft">(http://fc01.deviantart.net/fs7/i/2005/224/e/d/Red_head_by_amykitty.jpg)</div><br>Heaven and Hell. Perhaps a melodramatic, even a clichéd name for an underground fetish club, it nevertheless opened its doors three nights a week as it had every night for the better part of a decade. Most restaurants and bars closed down less than a year after opening, Samantha had read once. She did not believe that any similar data had been compiled for places like Heaven and Hell, but in her own limited experience she’d guess the record to be far more bleak to an enterprising soul who wished to host the fetish community. It was the third place she’d been in as many years at the university. Before Heaven and Hell, it had been the Leather Rose. Before the Rose, it had been Orpheus. All of them gone before she had a chance to do more than dip her toes into the waters at the shallow end.<br><br>Heaven and Hell was different, though. It had inertia, it had the solid mass of continued existence and dedicated patronage. It was also a closely guarded secret. Underground, little more than a rumor, a bit wild and a bit dangerous. According to rumors floating around the stacks of the medical library, they only admitted new members once a month. Kristen LeBlanc had told her about a secret initiation she’d read about on the Internet; to get into Heaven and Hell you had to impress the doorman “in the usual way.” Kristen had made a suggestive hand motion when she’d mentioned that part to Samantha. Samantha had rolled her eyes at the buildup, but secretly wondered.<br><br>She had studied too much science, too much math to believe in jinxes or curses, but the heart disbelieves what the mind knows. Too many disappointments, too much caution, had cost her the opportunity to explore this part of herself that had always existed with the previous clubs. Samantha was determined to come into the scene this time without hesitation, without risking another wasted, lonely year, another missed opportunity.<br><br>All week long, she had been watching the days crossed off the calendar. Since first waking up on Monday morning, she’d been doing little but waiting for Friday night. If it hadn’t loomed in her mind in equal parts like an albatross around her neck and the Sword of Damocles over her head, she might have even laughed about how much like a bad song from the eighties it sounded. Living for the weekend, waiting for the weekend.<br><br>Parts of the rumors circling the best kept secret in town had been true at least. Non members were only admitted by invitation, as the guest of a current member, or during the yearly initiation. Initiation carried with it an embarrassing amount of baggage, given her own experience as a sorority pledge. Samantha hoped that the two experiences would be linked by a word alone, and nothing else. But come what may, she would become a member of Heaven and Hell.<br><br>Friday. Initiation Day. The hours dragged on like they had a grudge against her. Lecture, lab, eating, study group. It had barely registered. The sun seemed as likely to say its goodbye for the day as an unwelcome houseguest. But finally, <strong>finally</strong>, it had grown dark, and Samantha logged off her computer and changed into her outfit, her costume for the evening.<br><br>Subtle it wasn’t. From bottom to top, it consisted of more latex than she had ever owned in one place in her entire life. The liquid slickness of the black pants fit her like a second skin, with nary a seam or stitch to pull out of place. Her top fell to just below the waist at the hipbones. Her top (http://stockroom.com/common/images/products/Y7402/Y7402.jpg) was a single, split piece of jade green latex, it had neat rows of eyelets up the front, with a black leather thong that laced from her abdomen to her chest. Two thin straps tied around the back of her head, leaving her shoulders and the rounded top of her bosom bare. Samantha tied the leather thong into a neat, efficient bow, marveling at how her hands did not tremble, even in the slightest.<br><br>She lowered her hands, and looked at herself in her mirror. She barely recognized herself. An hour before, she had come into her room, the sensibly dressed and even rather conservative young PhD candidate. Now she looked…her brain scrambled over adjectives.&nbsp; “Good enough to eat,” she said, reaching out a dainty hand to rest against the cool glass. She heard herself, and blushed. Bad dialogue, too, to go with the cheesy soundtrack.<br><br>Samantha was pretty. She knew this the same way that girls who have been told that they are beautiful since they entered puberty knew they were beautiful. Other people saw her as good looking, but she did not quite herself believe them. She would even be prepared to argue the point with anyone who tried to tell her differently, but had long since ceased to care, finding in irritation that people who first thought of her as a pretty girl did not also stop to consider that she might be intelligent as well. She would almost rather have been plain than thought of as dumb.<br><br>She was slightly taller than average, but built on the thin side. It served to make her curves more interesting, more appealing for having been more generously spaced than on a more compact model. Her parents were children of Ireland, and she had inherited hair that burned like fire. Nor merely red, not ginger; true red like a pool of fresh blood. She had almost been named Scarlet, but that her parents had not believed a color so bright was destined to fade. She wore it long and loose, but tonight she had gathered it up into a single long tail at the back of her head, away from her pale shoulders and face. She wanted to be seen without the veil of Crimson.<br><br>Her eyes were pale blue like faded jeans, framed by dark thick lashes. Her lips the soft pink of the inside of seashells. As if to compensate for the femininity of hair and eyes and lips, her chin and the set of her cheekbones was…solid was a better fit than masculine, they gave her face strength and a character it might have lacked otherwise. <br><br>She wore no makeup. She wore no jewelry.<br><br>Samantha slipped on a pair of black slippers, plain to the point of invisibility. Too many years in the laboratory had conditioned her against wearing something open-toed or without a heel, and beneath her calm exterior she was a mess of nerves. Thus far she was holding together, but to come so close towards finally taking the next step into the world of her fantasies, only to trip over something so stupid as an inelegant step in a high heel, was unthinkable to her. Plain, black slippers it was, then.<br><br>Flash forward in time, step sideways in space, and Samantha arrived at the half-empty lot nearest the warehouse. At least it was not an underground club in the literal sense of the word. It was a converted bit of industrial space in the financial district. Well-lit, a safe part of town, but deserted by the “vanillas” after the business week. The perfect spot for a place like Heaven and Hell.<br><br>The door was a solid block of reinforced steel cut into the side of the building, at the top of a brief ramp of concrete stairs. No sign hung above the door. Only the presence of the doorman, leaning against the wrought iron balcony at the top of the stairway like a worker taking a smoke break, gave indication that another soul was within twenty miles.<br><br>Samantha put on her best confident smile and approached the door.
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				Title: <strong>Re: Didn't I Meet You In Heaven? (Pointless Digression &amp; The New World Fool)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Kyubey</strong> on <strong>03-05-2011, 19:38:26</strong>
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				<span style="font-family: courier;" class="bbc_font">Brandon (http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dAKbIYf8btM/SoHpTVxyn-I/AAAAAAAAADo/yPwRPtYQz5Q/s320/Loveless-soubi.jpg0) McKinnon (http://s1.subirimagenes.com/otros/374598soubi5jk81.jpg)<br>Sheryl (http://img.safebooru.org/index.php?page=post&amp;s=view&amp;id=606155) Clyde (http://img.safebooru.org/index.php?page=post&amp;s=view&amp;id=611637)</span><br><span style="font-size: 8pt;" class="bbc_size"><br>Was it really cruel irony that he had to go to the new club Heaven and Hell hours after he had attended an Information session with regards to following Priesthood? Still holding the pamphlets and a cheap plastic rosary, he was quick to place it within his knapsack, away from the ropes, gags and the vibrators that he always kept with him when going to such demonstrations. A separation of Hobby and Church, as some would say. Brandon's bespectacled sapphire blue eyes looked only forward, knapsack held at one arm slung over at his shoulder. For someone as handsome as he, his blue polo collar was meticulously folded down, every button put into its respective buttonhole. He wore a pair of denim jeans, the grained blue melding quite well with his dark blue Polo, a consistent color scheme that was pleasing to the eye. Strands of faded silver-white hair flowed, covering the nape of his neck in a swath of silver and white. The frames of his glasses drawing a stark frame around his eyes, with a relaxed gait he walked at a comfortable pace, feet clad in black Oxfords, each ribbon symmetrically accurate down to the very inch.<br><br>He was meticulous with each knot, a dead giveaway towards his skill with the rope. Each knot, each intersection, each coil, each intersection must be handled with such care and precision. Will it hold the load? Or will it hoist them gently standing on one foot? Will he incorporate objects other than rope or will he forgo the technological teasers like the plug or the vibrator? So many things to consider, all in the breadth of a moment. His skill with the rope took their breath away, leaving only gasping and bated breath as they were bound, hung or constrained in various positions. Give a blade to the fencer and he would strike quicker than the eye could see. Give a paintbrush to an artist and he will paint a mural pleasing to the soul. Give Brandon a coil of rope and he would transform you into a breathing, throbbing piece of artwork.<br><br>That was...until that incident. <br><br>It was Amateur's night over at the Devil's Maw nightclub, May 8th, 2010. Sheryl had organized the event, lining up a group of eager and curious models, all curious about the world of kink and the passion of the ropes. He had handpicked Rebecca Sommers, a beautiful girl of 20 years old, whose golden tresses still haunt him in his nightmares. He had finished through with a good demonstration of how to incorporate an anus plug into a crotchrope and how to orchestrate safe yet restrictive predicament bondage before he had attempted his final display: an upside down hogtie. A feat accomplished only by the daring of the rigger and by the courage of his model (http://www.hogtiedandfucked.com/pics/hogtied-girl-fucked-1.jpg)At first everything went well: the box tie had come out snug, the bamboo felt great to her legs and each knot teased the model a considerable degree every time she wriggled <em>(from what little space she could wriggle in anyways)</em>, but the tragedy happened when he had tied the knot connecting her ankles and her wrists. <br><br>Before taking a bow, a loud gasp and a brief scream came before the thud registered in his ears: the support and foundation rope had snapped, causing her to fall a good 1 and a half feet from above, headfirst into the wooden stage. As the audience gasped and cringed in horror, the modest and skilled Rope artist, coming in with a smile and in good spirits, shocked and in utter disbelief, could not stop the tears. As it turned out, Rebecca had entered into paralysis the moment her neck had sustained much damage from the impact. Although Sheryl had taken the blame for the lack of foresight into inspecting the ropes presented to him <em>(She also took the full brunt of the lawsuits initiated by distraught parents)</em>, Brandon had not forgiven himself. What if he had used 4 strands of rope instead of 3? Would she be still alive now instead of resting in intensive care at the nearby general hospital? No matter how many times Sheryl had addressed the situation and told him it was all her fault, the skilled Rigger had entered into a deep state of depression, withdrawing from the BDSM scene until he had found salvation from God.<br><br>What started out as a confession became an epiphany when Brandon had rediscovered his faith. Having discarded his belief when he was in his teens, Brandon started attending Mass every Sunday, praying before going to sleep and waking up as well as having completed his Confirmation rite in Church. Yet despite this, the sorrow of that incident with Rebecca had not left him, praying everyday for her recovery, no matter how impossible or how stark the odds may be. With his newfound determination he had managed to return to his studies regarding World Politics in Brandfordt University, even though his heart lay elsewhere. <br><br>Answering a call from an estranged friend named Sherly, the incident had not phased her one bit and had organized another BDSM club, called Heaven and Hell. Though still unable to forgive himself for a situation he believed he had caused, it took more than 28 calls to convince her long time partner and friend to attend for just one Open Invitation Night. Making sure each fiber was strong and his equipment well polished, he had set forth past the Red Light district into Wellesley Street, to the converted warehouse without a name. Originally used as a storage facility for Farm equipment awaiting export, the company that held it had to liquidate its assets to cope with the devastation of the recent Recession. Of course, Sheryl with her seemingly inexhaustible flow of funds from her rich background <em>(Her Father holds almost 39% of all the Assets to the Bayer Company as well as the ownership of Roxasdale medical, famed for their innovation regarding stem cell research)</em> took this opportunity to seize the property and to rekindle her taste for Bondage, though it led Brandon to believe the money would have served for the better if she had spent it on charity or finding the cure for Cancer. But what was he to say?<br><br>Going through the 'staff' entrance with the flash of his invitation to the burly guards, he walked right in, heading quietly down to the 'Hell' Section where his display was to take place. In his little spot, he found an ample supply of rope, gags and bamboo pieces of varying size. It was surprising that Sheryl herself was not there to be seen, thankfully. Though most of the exhibitions were still preparing, many designated submissives were already prancing about in full pony girl attire, some wearing black leather and horns to reside in the underground portion of 'Hell' , others more ornate with wings and plastic halos to wander about in full display at 'Heaven' in the ground floor. Once his entire ensemble was complete, he wandered upstairs, hoping to encounter by accident the eccentric Millionaire Sheryl before he had bumped into, unwittingly, a guest.<br><br><strong>"Ahh..My appologies, Madam."</strong> he said, curtly bowing in a gentle manlike gesture.<strong> "If I may not be the nosy one to ask, but...are you lost?" </strong>He resolved to help people wherever he can. With a few people at the moment, atleast he had time to get personal and acquainted with someone who would become a part of his audience. Great to get up and close with friendly people, experienced and otherwise, willing to see more to Kink that the bad reputation it gets from the media. </span><br>
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				Title: <strong>Re: Didn't I Meet You In Heaven? (Pointless Digression &amp; The New World Fool)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Pointless Digression</strong> on <strong>04-05-2011, 16:28:12</strong>
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				Like so many transformative moments that set the course of a person's life, Samantha's entrance into the club passed in the blink of an eye, and all the anxiety and emphasis she had placed on her decision to enter the club was resolved in a heartbeat. <br><br>Two questions. "First time?" the doorman had asked, to which she had answered in the affirmative. "Nervous?" he asked, with the deadpan air of someone asking a variation of a question he'd put to others hundreds of times. <br><br>It had caught Samantha off guard. "What? Oh...umm..no, not really," she said. She felt her fair cheeks coloring, and cursed her fair complexion for betraying the lie. The doorman had smiled at her, but in kindness, not patronization. He took her cover fee and given her a white plastic bracelet (http://www.24hourbracelets.com/images/bracelets-popular-color/single-color-wristbands/white-wristband.png). At first, Samantha had thought it was for the bartender to know that she had been carded, and was of age to purchase alcohol. When she had gone in, and the heavy door closed behind her, she realized that the doorman hadn't carded her at all. She didn't know whether or not to take it as a compliment or not. <br><br>No, the bracelet was not to signify her age. As Samantha stood in the entrance to the club, with the bi-level split from whence she could go either up, to the rafters and loft, into Heaven, or down the concrete stairs into the bowels of Hell, she saw a number of other young women and men around her with a similar accessory around their wrist. <em>White for virgins? White for newbies? White for fresh meat?</em> There was among those wearing the bracelets a common feature that Samantha thought she could detect. She saw it more obviously in some than in others, but it was there, like the same brush applied to every painted face and behind every mask. A certain deer-in-the-headlights look. <br><br>Did she look like that? Like a frightened rabbit, waiting for the oncoming car to run her down? The very thought of such a thing made her stomach sour, and screwed courage into her spine better than a shot of whiskey. Her feet, just a moment ago too heavy to lift from the floor where she stood, sprang into life as she bounded into the club with a confident...even arrogant grace.<br><br>She only had about twenty feet to go before reaching another decision point. Up or down? Heaven or Hell? Samantha gave it better than 50-50 odds that she would find what she was looking for...find the kind of person she was looking for...in Hell rather than Heaven. Without stopping to consider the wider implications of that, Samantha decided to not waste time further, and head downstairs immediately. <em>Strike while the iron is hot</em> she thought to herself. <br><br>But it was not to be. The downstairs section was roped off, with a small, discrete sign on the iron railing saying that Hell would open at 2300 for "Demonstrations, Intimacies, Felicitations, and the Midnight Virgrin Sacrifice." The lettering was elegant, and it made it hard for Samantha to detect the tongue-in-cheek tone of the announcement.<br><br>Defeated for the moment, Samantha turned and considered the ground floor. The inside of the club was lit by pulsating purple and red lights, and the music, while not loud, had a primal quality to it that carried the reverberations of the heavy drumbeats into her chest. She felt her heart pound in response to the savage rhythm. It was atmospheric as all hell, but it made navigating the unfamiliar space more difficult than it needed to be. She saw the bar against the far wall, a the ruddy light gathering against the mirrors and bottles as if drawn there by a magnet. She wasn't much of a drinker, but the arguments in favor of a little courage boost proved to be compelling ones. <br><br>Samantha adjusted her course, and squeezed in at the bar between a man in Victorian ruffles and domino mask, and a person of indeterminate gender in a gas mask and rubber trench coat. It said something about her composure that she did not turn to gawk at either. She raised a hand and attracted the attention of the bartender, whose eyes fell immediately on the white bracelet on her wrist. Samantha felt another flush spread across her cheeks at the attention her little token generated.<br><br>"Kamikaze, please," she shouted over the techno pulse. The bartender nodded, then said something while making a hand gesture. Samantha didn't catch the woman's words over the music, but she spoke fluent bartender-ese. She nodded, and got her drinks on the rocks instead of straight up. The vodka and triple sec was both bitter and sweet as she sipped, and the ice-cold liquid sent a pleasing chill down her throat. She let out a little sigh, and stepped away from the bar, slipping through the club. Now that she had been in for a time, her eyes had adjusted to the darkness and the strobing lights, and she let her eyes fall on those that were non-white bracelets.<br><br>She had kept her cool before, but the sight of the pony girls in full accouterments was kink at a level above where she could not gape. At least she wasn't the only one, she noticed, dimly, as she watched them prance about, rubber bits between their teeth and high, stiff collars around their throats. After the shock came an altogether different reaction. Samantha saw the young women, some even younger than herself, and her eyes drifted to the harnesses of supple leather strapped tight against their torsos. She felt herself respond on a primeval level to the restrained femininity of the girls, felt a warm tightness inside her yearn to touch the suede-fine harness, the skin beneath it...<br><br>It was a hedonistic impulse that made her sigh as easily as the drink, and Samantha signed again. Then a man jostled her from behind, and only the fact that the bartender had not given her a generous pour kept her from spilling her drink.<br><br>Samantha turned, already smiling and apologizing in the polite, over-socialized way of someone in an uncomfortable social situation. There was a young man in front of her, dressed in a polo shirt and jeans. She smiled at him, eyes drifting up, to his metallic hair, and down, to his bare wrists. <em>Not a virgin, then</em> she thought.<br><br>"Ahh...my apologies, Madam." he said, curtly bowing in a gentle manlike gesture. "If I may not be the nosy one to ask, but...are you lost?<br><br>Samantha arched a brow, fighting the urge to giggle when he bowed to her. He did so with such solemnity, and she did not detect a trace of irony in it. It would have been rude to laugh, but she was caught off guard by the gesture. "I'm not exactly a Madam," she said. And then, because she was always one to let her mouth run away with her better judgment, she continued. "I don't know if that's code for something, so I don't want to get us off on the wrong foot. Unless you're just using it as a polite form of address, in which case I am. It isn't code, is it? Sorry, I'm babbling. <br><br>"And yes, I'm lost. I was told to come here for the Tupperware meeting. Is that going to be at the butt plug collection like it was last year, or is that where the Scientologists are auditing?"
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