There was one other story in the News of the World’s magazine about strip clubs in Toronto including an S&M one where a girl hanging from the ceiling by her ankles over the crowd has a fully mechanised grinder on a rail crash into her chastity belt showering sparks over the crowd.  It sounded incredibly dangerous and yet at the same time highly erotic, and I spent wonderful evenings pondering about what that  must have felt like to the girl, how the vibrations would have either fed or counter-acted the fear of something going wrong, whether the sparks would have felt hot on her otherwise-naked body. 

At about the same time I’d seen on holiday in Majorca a sort of Wild West show where a guy dressed as a cowboy and two female assistants in hotpants and tied shirts did lasso demonstrations, line dancing and, the best part, a knife-throwing act where one of said assistants slowly leaned herself backwards while the knives traced the arching curve of her body.  The stripclub in my fantasies where Natasha, Melissa and Tanya worked had suddenly acquired two new stage shows. 

A TV series about a masked magician where The X Files’ Mitch Pileggi spouted how tricks were done added another dangerous and exciting stage act, for the masked magician too had a bevy of half-dressed hotties and most of his tricks seemed to be based around one of them being tied to something.  Obviously a male magician was never going to cut it, so he was replaced by a dominative female magician who seemingly had the power of hypnosis over her own glamorous assistant who became the victim in all of her illusions.  Somewhere I read a tale about a stripper who’d spent over two hours dancing for some celebrity who kept paying her to keep performing every time she’d thought she was done, which inspired a fantasy in which gothic Tanya was forced to dance for hours for a guy (yep, me) with a fetish for keeping her thong filled with icecubes, champagne pouring over her breasts and her shaking her ass while she was handcuffed to the stripper pole.

At some point shortly after, in my mind I branched out from the strip club into my own imaginary porn channel, the imaginatively titled STV. From there my obsession with BDSM really started taking hold.  Former fantasies became either productions or documentaries and a slew of new fictional were lusted into being, in my head at least.  Natasha got her own news-style show in which she was sent out to report on all kinds of kinky places and activities while still not having been able to obtain any clothes.  It would be years before I’d watch any TV porn, or any porn at all, although the Adult Channel adverts in the Sky TV guide provided further fuel.  They had a show called Night Calls or something in which pre-recorded fantasies would be played out as live phonecalls to the two female hosts while they touched, undressed and, well, touched each other even more.  For one week they had a guest star who was apparently quite a famous porn star, well I loved the idea of that and that as well as on the Station, this porn star interrupted the two girls’ home lesbian relationship too by siding with the more dominant one and influencing her to be unusually cruel on the shyer, sexier one, tricking her into getting out of their car and stripping to her thong outside a bar on the way home, riding alongside her down the street that they convinced her to streak down and then insisting she remove her thong before they would let her back in.  Once she passed it to them, they drove away laughing, forcing her to walk home naked… can you spot a theme here?

On arriving home, her girlfriend and the pornstar had obviously been thoroughly enjoying each other’s company but the two of them, led and influenced by the pornstar, inflicted further humiliations and torments on her, making her wait on them and do all the erotic things I used to fantasise about women doing, whether they were things that properly turn people on now, or still the sort of things that only get a pubescent boy hot, like pressing her pussy against the garden gate, or shutting the patio door on her tit.

At around this time I started wanting to taste the experience myself a little.  I had a wicker chair in my bedroom which was perfect for tying my cock to with a shoelace, while fantasising about being made to do it by a woman who’d just discovered her own boyfriend was cheating on her and she had a whip/pair of scissors/tray of icecubes/can of Deep Heat.

Tying up my cock was an incredibly erotic experience, but being an early teenage boy with parents and siblings in the same house, also a shade too risky.  Somehow I shortly discovered a game afterwards where I put my flaccid cock into the metal ring of a keychain.  The instant erection would bring instant discomfort and the second time I used a bigger ring to strike a better balance between pleasure and pain.  Then looking at the images in magazines that turned me on (starting with computer games mags, although Amiga Format had some pretty hot adverts for disks filled with “adult” images with names like “Adult Sensation 3” or the Supermodel Kelly mousemat free with every order before I got into scifi, then car mags and finally your FHMs, Loadeds and Maxims).  So, looking at the images, a scoring system was worked out.

Sexy = 200

Swimwear = 400

Lingerie = 600

Topless = 800 (whether tits were visible or not)

Naked = 1000

Then I would throb my cock the corresponding number of times for each image.  Yes, it was weird.  But the discomfort, the fear of being caught and the simple arousal of the beautiful woman in the images I was lusting over created an incredibly arousing warm up before going to bed and masturbating, which was starting to cause me something of an issue now I had to have tissues on hand to later dispose of.