Wall Flowered He didn’t play at the play parties. Not that he’d ever considered

Wall Flowered He didn’t play at the play parties. Not that he’d ever considered himself much of a voyeur, but each time he went to someone’s expansive house in the suburbs of London he found himself becoming an ornament, flitting from conversation to conversation, until the conversation bled into a scene, at which point he’d melt away against the wall. It was disassociation, he supposed. An absence of self.  No, not quite. An absence of presence. He was merely vacant, checking out and leaving a tip on the pillow, while things progressed around him. He was aware, but only in the most rudimentary sense. There was a couple that weren’t quite fucking to his left, but they were circling around it like water going down a drain, that copulation an inevitable result of all the tongues and hands that they were employing.  To his left a man was tied to the wall, naked, wearing only a blindfold. He was a friend, in fact, although without his eyes he was rendered weirdly anonymous, just a proud erection to be tortured by his girlfriend, and enjoyed, in the brief moments when her delicious cruelty abated and she decided to indulge him.  It wasn’t his first time at a party like this, and he was pretty sure it wouldn’t be his last. But something about his presence always gave him this slight feeling of alienation, and he knew it was self imposed. He was a mascot, not a player, not here, not like this. Everything he’d done up to this point was in private, where he could control every aspect. Here it was chaos, and he wasn’t the kind to wield that, to roll with the punches when your space suddenly got to half the size because someone else started using the horse, or wanted to use the rack after you.  “You should probably get out of your head one of these nights, and actually enjoy yourself."  She’d somehow sidled up to him without him noticing. She was already naked, and had that slightly smeared look that told him she’d been indulging herself plenty so far that evening. There was a flash of.. jealousy, maybe, possessiveness? He wasn’t sure.  "Not sure I’d enjoy it.” Was his reply. “Who gives a fuck. It’s not like you’ve tried it. And it’s not like there could be some disaster here. If you start doing something monumentally stupid, someone will step in and save you from your mistake.” She spoke with a languid, relaxed tone, as if this was just another break between getting fucked, or being tied up. This was downtime, backstage, the break room.  “It’s not really how I do things. I like to plan.” At this point even he knew he was making excuses, and the fact that she didn’t bother replying to him let him know she knew, too.  “Ok, fuck it. Been tied up tonight yet?” She turned to look at him, but she didn’t answer his question with anything but an expectant look, and a slight smile. He rolled his eyes, matched her smile with one of his own, and pushed away from the wall where he’d been leaning. She did the same.  “Hemp or jute?” He asked, knowing they had an expansive selection in one of the boxes that littered the west wall. She shrugged, and he reached over, taking her arm and sliding it up against her back. The tension made her wince, but she was still smiling. “Dealer’s choice.” She grimaced out, and he brought himself up behind her, pulling her nude body up against him.  “Well then. Let’s see if I can avoid any embarrassing mistakes.” He drawled out, and grazed his lips against the inside curve of her neck.  -- source link

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