As is my custom, when Jenby emailed to let me know she had a new pitch for a guest blog, I immediately squealed with delight. If you’re new here, you should know that Jenby (aka @JenetalTorture on Twitter) is the most prolific guest blogger on this site, and she’s also recorded some of her outrageously hot adventures as audio porn. I am always grateful to her for introducing me to cool new kinks – bimbofication, surveillance, twinning, lactation and lots more. Today she is here to share a kickass, horny and playful story about going to a high protocol kink event. What exactly does ‘high protocol’ involve? Will it be seriousness all the way down? Over to her…
The following piece contains needle play, BDSM, whipping/flogging, the use of ‘slave’ in a kink context, piss, trampling and electroplay.
High protocol – know your plays
This morning I awoke stiff, achy, and covered in bruises and obscenities, which could only mean one thing. Well, two things. The aches and stiffness I put down to my being 33, the other stuff is because at the weekend I attended my first high protocol event.
High protocol has always filled me with no small amount of trepidation. Most of my D/s dynamics have been light on formality, and the events I’ve classically attended have had a pretty relaxed vibe, whether people were just sitting and chatting or being hogtied with wire laced through rings stapled to their hands, feet and scalp while needles were driven through their toes, as happened at the shindig I was at the previous week. Even as the blood pooled, the laughter and jokes continued, with onlookers casually drifting in and out, and some (yours truly) making out with a hot latex-clad femme amid the punished grunts and groans of our friend.
So it’s fair to say I had no idea what to expect from my first high protocol, besides the reams of rules that all attendees – subs especially – were to familiarise themselves with before arrival. I knew I wasn’t allowed on the furniture, or to address a Dominant without first gaining permission to speak, and I knew when I heard the clarion call ‘Dee as yer telt!’ I was to drop to the floor and await further instructions.
While ostensibly a femdom affair, this was a more inclusive event than some, and non-binary Mxtresses and subs of all genders were encouraged to attend. One could either come collared and leashed by one’s owner or don a red wristband at the door designating you as unattached and free for any Domme to approach. I went as a leashed slave to my Goddess, who as this was only our second time playing had invited me to get a wristband too so I could serve her as and when required but be free to be used by others as they saw fit. Essentially I’d be playing both sides, if only as a sub. Switching was strictly forbidden and would be dealt with swiftly, and severely.
I don’t think after twenty guest blogs it really bears reiterating but switching was not something this subby bitch was likely to get up to.
I arrived at the club with my friend Motti (of head staples/needled toes fame) to be greeted by the event organiser, Mistress Müller, decked out head to toe in black and red latex, and gay panic promptly ensued. I collected my wristband with a squeaky ‘thank you’ and scurried to the locker room to change. At Goddess’ request I was wearing latex opera gloves with which to caress her divine form, and ballet boots, which I quickly regretted bringing as I bounded along in Goddess’ tow, her gently tugging on my leash while my knees picked up a pretty filigree of bruises from the cold floor.
In the mercifully warmer but less mercifully carpet burn-inducing social area, we watched the various House Dommes introduce themselves, and Goddess settled herself into a chair while I and her other sub for the afternoon kneeled before her, providing foot rubs and toe suckings, and taking grateful sips of her piss from a recently filled cup. As we watched flogging, whipping and scratching demos, I busied myself painting Goddess’ nails, not wanting to let my eyes linger too long on anyone else. This was no mean feat given the proliferation of gorgeous dommy femmes, but something told me I ought probably to keep my gaze downcast or face punishment.
Eventually Goddess ordered me to sit up so she could adorn me with some choice phrases with Motti’s pink lipstick. ‘Pig’ went on my right shoulder, ‘slut’ on my left, ‘use’ and ‘me’ on my tits and ‘toy’ nestled cutely beneath my decolletage. All of them applied firmly enough that they’re still clearly visible five days later. Motti already had her own pretty labels but currently didn’t seem to be doing much so I cheekily allowed myself the briefest of switchy moments and told her to retie the laces on one of my ballet boots, stretching out my leg seductively.
I heard a Domme’s voice behind me and my heart leapt into my throat as I feared the worst, but she instead effusively complimented me on my footwear, and asked if I could walk in them.
I obligingly took a few tremulous steps then collapsed like a baby deer, which seemed to amuse her greatly, and I felt the ice begin to crack, and a sense of relaxation creeping in…
Then at that moment I heard the scream of ‘DEE AS YER TELT’ rend the air, and shaken from my reverie I instinctively hit the deck. Literally, since I was already on the floor, I dropped till my nose was a centimetre from carpet and Goddess’ other sub smilingly informed me I didn’t need to get quite that low.
The Mistress who’d called for our attention announced that any unattached subs who fancied it were now to come up to the performance area for a trampling demo, and with Goddess’ permission I galloped over on my hands and knees and prostrated myself for the assembled stompy Dommes.
Soon a carpet of doormats had amassed and since I was at the end Mistress Müller busied herself batting me with her crop and offering a few teasing words about the delightful jiggliness of my butt, before climbing aboard and crushing my shoulders and buttocks beneath her boots.
I melted instantly, and to stymie my orgasmic moans another Domme by the name of Vampress Velvet thrust her boots into my face, and ordered me to lick.
After the fun and frolics of trampling, we all limped upstairs, and I let Goddess get on with the business of punishing her other slave’s balls while Motti and I indulged in some electroplay with the marvellously sadistic Mistress JJ, before the four of us collapsed in a cuddle puddle and I humped Goddess’ leg like a puppy while sucking on her glorious breasts, and Motti toyed with my recently zapped and still scorchingly tender left nipple, eliciting pathetic, mewling squeals from my lips until I exploded (with permission) and everyone licked the come from my glistening latex fingers.
It was around about this point I realised I’d made the same mistake going into high protocol as so many vanillas do when they try kink for the first time, that of expecting it to be all scowls and seriousness. From the incredibly tongue-in-cheek ‘judiciary trial of a filthy switch’ by the ‘Switch Finder General’ that closed out the afternoon’s performances to the day’s many giggles and hijinks, I realised that a high protocol event was much like any other kinky occurrence: jokes all the way down. The extra layer of rules to be adhered to were essentially games to heighten the fun everyone was clearly there to have. And at the end of the day we are, all of us, merely players.
Except of course that I am actually pathetic and inferior and only there to be used.
But don’t tell my therapist that.