It comes around every year, announced by the crashing onto the doormat in the hallway, abound (well it would be) invitation to the Mid Devon BDSM Dinner and dance.

I only too well remember last year’s meal… I was sat at a table facing the door. The man from the table next to me was on the floor in the foetal position. He was already at his dessert; I made a mental note not to order anything with crushed nuts.

A couple entered and were being shown to their table when I heard a resounding thud and splat. The sort of noise only heavy-duty surgical rubber makes when over lubed. Sure enough, the sub of the couple had lost his butt plug. Forced out by the 30-second long rasping fart that followed, accompanied by musical lows and highs. I could only imagine the look of embarrassment and relief on his face, as his full cover gimp mask rendered him quite expressionless.

My date for this event was Clive. A massive 22 stone of a man clad from head to foot in Biker’s leather, boots, gloves with studs and a helmet with a skeleton in relief on the back. Rather like a secret Santa event, the seating was chosen at random. I inquired of Clive as to where he had parked his bike? In the most effete of voices and with a Birmingham accent he replied, “Oh no bab, I haven’t got a bike. I came on the bus!” (pronounced buzz by Brummies). At this juncture, he extended a hand, as limp as a left out lettuce and requiring a bone in the wrist to prevent it from dangling perpendicular to the forearm. I returned the greeting taking and shaking just his index and middle finger.

Clive had long dishevelled hair, a matching beard and wore corrective glasses that almost worked. His head was facing me, one eye looking at me, the other looking for me. Our drinks arrived. I took my pint of real ale with my cuffed hands and Clive his Babycham. There we sat making small talk, a pseudo biker and me in my PVC maids outfit, crotchless panties, thigh length rubber waders and cast iron ankle shackles. I glanced around the dining room and given the assembled company I felt we blended in and were perhaps even a little conservative in our garb.

Our order for dinner was taken by an orange-hued spray tanned muscle Mary, shrink-wrapped into the tightest of trunks. I would have aged him to be in his 40s. The badge announcing that his name was Doris was worn through his pierced right nipple. From the way he twitched when it jiggled I think the piercing was new for the event. He seemed to be enjoying the pain. Though he was less than steady on his 6-inch heels, part of the reason we had steered clear of the soup.

Neither Clive nor I had any food or gunge fetishes and we wanted to eat and not wear our food. Though the same could not be said for all the diners, one of whom was having his rectally inserted, the decision having been made by his master. I think they were vegetarians and the choice of the Raw root platter must have been a veritable delight, given the moans of pleasure coming from the recipient who was bent over the table.

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But I have reminisced too long. Time to look in the wardrobe, I want to stand out this year and was thinking of wearing something a little risque. I do hope they have “pigs in slings” on the menu again. I avoided them last year, being as they were, past their best by date. I will, of course, report back

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