My boyfriend T and I had an open relationship when it came to having other sexual partners – especially women, of which we were both fond. While he usually had a steady, ongoing GF on the side, who were generally aware – and, most importantly, usually accepting – of my place in his life, I happily embraced being a slut and simply finding and fucking random women on the fly, picking up whatever was still available and seeking at the bar at closing time.

I was not looking for a relationship at this stage of my life, and my desire to explore my bisexually with T and other kinks made me feel too chaotic inside when it came to commitment. I knew sometime I would settle down into monogamy, with a woman most likely, but just not at this time.

And, while there was no rule between T and myself about sleeping with other men, my sexual desires for man-love at the time was sufficiently filled by him. Sure I may have flirted and brushed up against people at the clubs, but I made sure they did not progress any further than playful innocence. With hindsight, I am pretty sure that, when I was not around, he did occasionally have one-off encounters with other boys but these were never obvious to me, and besides we never talked about anything sexual beyond the confines of our shared bed. 

When it came to his women and his relationships with them, I did as much as possible to stay out of their way and in the shadows out of politeness. So long as I got to spend some alone time with him every few weeks, I was content with my status. One of his on-and-off women, a short, busty, bubbly black-haired beauty named D, however, did exhibit more than just a casual attraction to me – enough that a couple times they enticed me into ménage à trois with them. I don’t know whose idea it was and never asked, I just happily jumped at the chance to bed two beautiful souls.

* * * * * * *

One weekend when I was in town visiting him, the three of us went out dancing at one of their favourite haunts. The club consisted of two floors in a refurbished downtown warehouse, the main floor area open to the public and then a private invite-only level located on the second floor. Entering the club, I was initially unaware there was a private section even though I had been here before a few times. For the first couple of hours, I spent most of my time either dancing with him, or with her, the three of us together – or blissfully on my own, me the pretty boy wearing a short, pleated schoolgirl-style kilt skirt, fishnets, 12 hole doc martens, and latex tank with a fishnet top over, finished off with a black leather dog collar – taking in the energy of the music and the night as I let the alcohol take hold and control me.

At some point, D made her way through the dense, pulsating crowd on the dancefloor and came up to me. While I was thinking she was there to dance, she leaned up to my ear and over the blaring music, ‘there is someone we want you to meet’. She took my hand and then led me to the back of the building, where the main bar and seating area was located, stopping in front of a single door tucked away, around in a hidden corner marked in faded lettering ‘private’.

In case I had not heard her out on the dance floor, D repeated to me ‘there is someone we want you to meet’ – then adding ‘you and her may have a lot in common’ as she tugged twice on my dog collar, as if to make a point. ‘Does T know about her?’ I asked, and D replied ‘Oh of course he does! After all it was his idea to introduce both of you’. She winked and flashed a smile at me as she then knocked on the door. A pair of eyes appeared in the speakeasy slit that abruptly opened up, glaring at us as D then stated ‘R has requested us’.

The slit closed and the door unlocked and opened up. D grabbed my hand firmly as we entered through it. We stopped in front of a massive, muscular black bouncer, blocking our way forward. Ignoring D, he quickly frisked me over. ‘Okay, you can go’ he barked at us, and D tugged my hand once again as we climbed up two flights of stairs. We stopped at the top of the stairs, as D turned around to take a look at me, smiling again. ‘I’m glad you wore your pleated skirt tonight – and she’ll be glad you wore it too”.  

The loud bass from the dancefloor below had now become muffled down to a dull thud on reaching the second floor, replaced by the subdued background chatter of people talking. We entered into a private bar area filled with all manner of style and sensuality. This was a world I had not known, until now, existed. Men in black suits and ties, women in black cocktail dresses, men in leather bondage garb, and women in tight, shiny PVC dresses. Feeling a little unrefined and perhaps uncertain of my own usual punkish androgynous look, I glanced into a wall mirror to take stock of my own appearance, quickly brushing my black bowl-cropped hair over to one side with my fingers and straightening my bookish glasses. After my momentary delay, I then caught back up with D as she introduced me to one of group of four women sitting in a corner booth.

‘This is Mistress R’, not needing to specifically point out the striking bleach-yellow blond woman sitting among the other three unnamed in her entourage. She wore a 1930s style lace dress that bared her shoulders and clung close to her lean frame, and she sported short spiky hair combed and slicked back in a boyish manner, almost in a similar manner to mine.

She gave a single, dismissive waving motion with her hand, and her three associates silently got up at once and left us, making way for me ushered to sit down next to her. I smiled shyly as I gave her my name and shook her hand, now noticing that D had disappeared from my side, re-joining my boyfriend standing across the opposite bar, both with martinis in hand. R gave a cough, to win back my attention, before speaking.

‘So T tells me that…’ as she described his and mine relationship and our open nature. I confirmed for her pretty much all she knew was true. It was clear he had talked in some length about us to her.

Some drinks were brought to us by one of the silent women who had been sitting with her earlier. She used this sudden interruption to change directions in our somewhat one-sided conversation.

‘T also tells me that you have a perverted streak’. ‘How so?’ I asked innocently, not expecting her to then query me for the next couple of hours, incessantly bombarding me with question after question – only stopping whenever we needed to order another round of drinks.

In a manner that soon struck me as being obviously deliberate, but for what reason I could not tell, she would shift back and forth effortlessly, yet catching me off-guard, with the focus of her questions – going from the bland mundane (‘do you drive, what kind of car do you have? do you speak any foreign languages?’) to the explicit (‘have you ever been fisted?’ or ‘how old were you when you first masturbated?’ or ‘how many people have you had sex with at one time?’) to the downright uncomfortable (‘have you ever been raped against your will?’ – to which I responded, taken back, ‘is there really any other kind of being raped? And, no I haven’t, just for the record.’)

It felt like she was probing me; a collision of interrogation session, job interview, and thirty-questions. To what end I could not tell at the time, but I found it both mentally unsettling, putting me on a defensive edge, yet also strangely arousing and erotic at the same time.

When she felt it was time to end our encounter, she looked over to where T and D were standing at the bar, caught their eye and nodded at them, as they immediately walked back over to collect me.

‘Good night, until we meet again, perhaps’ she sent me off, not sure if she was ending on a statement of fact or a question. She offered her hand towards me, palm down, which I randomly guessed was a signal or invitation to perhaps kiss it, which I cautiously did. She did not withdraw it or recoil, so I assumed I had guessed her intent correctly. Or was she still testing me, like her questioning, seeing what I would do?

Later that evening, or rather, now the early hours of the next morning, as we were taking a taxi back to T’s apartment, D sitting with me in the back seat put her arm around my shoulders, almost protectively, and asked ‘so, what did you think of her?’ while T, sitting in the front seat, looked back at me for my response. ‘I honestly don’t know what that was all about or what to think, that was the strangest introduction I have ever had. It was less social and more formal, businesslike, like she was assessing me or sizing me up as if she were going to make an offer or something.’

D replied, cryptically, ‘well you may not be far off, actually, depending on what she thought of you tonight’.