Fetish Problems #15 – Can a messy slut buck the trend?
from
Recon News
02 April 2019
Another tale of fetish misfortune from a Recon member
Amongst some of your peers you've built quite a reputation for being a bit of a messy, drunk slut. You don't believe this to be entirely inaccurate – a slut for sure - but still, you wouldn't mind proving them wrong. You're attending a four-day fetish event, and this seems to be the optimum time to do so.
You know that if you're going to get through the weekend in one piece then slow and steady is the way to go.
Thursday is the first night and you're acing it. You're geared up, polished and being sociable. You have two drinks, mingle, then head back to the hotel and bed.
Friday is a repeat performance of Thursday, except you drink a little more, and perhaps allow a kiss or two. You still feel like you're keeping on top of things and you have a growing sense of accomplishment.
You realise that maybe it's ok not to be wasted, and maybe you'll get through the whole weekend without incident.
Saturday rolls around and you allow yourself some day drinking with friends. The weather's nice, the conversation's great and you're certain you'll find some time to nap before the evening entertainments. You've still got this!
It's evening and you've not napped, but you're fine. You're in your new rubber, you're feeling merry and it's a party weekend anyway! Pfft! You're FINE!
At pre-drinks you catch up with lots of guys you know, and it would be rude not have more drinks and chats. You can feel the urges rising in you. You're getting that old grin across your face again.
You make your way to a club with some friends. There's a mild stumble over a curb, but in fairness, it came out of nowhere.
Inside the club you do some mingling and make a couple of passes through the darkroom, gin in hand. You find your friends on the dancefloor, and as luck would have it, they're stood by a guy who you've played with in the past and have always liked a lot. The two of you dance a little, kiss a while, then make your way to the darkroom. You put the things you're holding down on a ledge and unzip the ass zip of your rubber shorts.
After a lovely encounter, you get yourself together and go back to your friends who are ready to leave and move onto the next place. You're not really sure what's going on, but you're being told you're leaving, so leaving you must.
The streets are full of rubbermen and the lights are bright and warm. The two-block walk takes longer than it should.
The next club is equally full of guys you know and guys you want to have fuck you, so you're practically brimming over.
You need to text a friend to let them know your change of location. You reach into your bag for your phone. Your new phone. Your big stupid new phone. It is not there. You've left it in the darkroom.
You stumble run back to the first club. You get to the door. Go to the counter. Someone's handed it in! It's covered in lube and a weird tar-like substance that will stay on your case for days, but your faith in humanity is returned with your phone!
Back to the other club you go!
You've lost your friends now, but there's lots of guys there you know. You're doing the rounds and having great chat, and even though you can see the bemused look on most of their faces, you still fully believe yourself to be charming and hilarious.
A guy you've flirted with lots over the years, but never had chance to play with, is standing by the dancefloor. You make your way over to him, you kiss then you lead him to the darkroom and find a raised box to position yourself on in the corner.
After he's finished you remain on your box and entertain several more gentlemen.
Details are getting fairly hazy at this point, but you remember looking in a mirror, and even in the state you're in you realise that you're maybe looking past your best. You stick around anyway and talk at some people some more.
You know you left with a guy and went back to his apartment. You know after that you went back to your hotel and bumped into someone in the lift - who would later tell a colleague that you were a disgrace to your company - and you kind of know you had a couple more gentlemen callers before you vomited heavily in the bathroom and eventually passed out.
You wake the next morning and your head is pounding so hard. You don't turn on the bathroom light, as light would only hurt. You get yourself together and head down to meet your friends for coffee.
In the lift you stare into the mirror and start to notice some damage. In shorts, you can see your knees and legs are cut to ribbons (you remembered a little pain on your box, but now you realise you were kneeling on broken glass), your arms and - on inspection - your shoulders are also covered in bruises (you can't identify the specific causes of these). You sigh and prepare yourself for your friends' questions.
As you sit recounting as much as you can remember (and as much as you're willing to share), one of your friends is laughing and asks what's wrong with your head. You reach up and there's a huge scab just above your hairline. You realise it came from the dark room and your head banging against a brick wall.
You may have failed hard in your non-messy endeavour, but you can't say you didn't have a nice time. You realise that sometimes you just can't fight your better nature. Once your head has stopped hurting, you're certain you'll be able to look back on this night fondly, though you also hope that no pictures from it ever emerge.
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