Home > Tied with Me (With Me in Seattle #6)

Tied with Me (With Me in Seattle #6)
Author: Kristen Proby


“Why are we here?” I ask Bailey for the fortieth time since we arrived at the Seattle Arts Center.

“Because you need some excitement in your life,” she informs me with a sly grin. “And I didn’t have anyone else to come with me.”

“This is the kind of excitement you think I need?” I ask incredulously and take in the scene before me.

Bailey, my best friend, talked me into attending the Seattle spring erotic festival. How she managed, I have no idea. I’m the least-kinky person on the planet.

I’m so vanilla, I smell of it.

Or maybe that’s just because I bake with it all day.

“Don’t be such a prude,” she admonishes me with an eye roll. “It’s fun.”

“It’s not my thing,” I reply and step aside as a man wearing nothing but leather and chains brushes against me.

The main room has been transformed into a large dance club. There is a DJ on stage, loud music pumping out of the speakers, and lights flash as bodies move and grind on the dance floor.

There are many different levels of dress. And undress. Nudity isn’t allowed, but many have pushed the boundaries, covering only the most necessary parts of their bodies. In a smaller room off to the right is a smaller dance floor with softer music and a stage, where a burlesque group is about to perform. There is also a fully stocked bar in that room.

To the left of the main dance area is another large room that is broken into segments, where different kinks are demonstrated for the crowd.

“We’ll go in there later, after we get some drinks into you,” Bailey informs me and pulls me in the direction of the bar and burlesque show.

Bailey has dark blond hair that falls to her ass, stick straight. The highlights are natural, damn her. Her eyes are wide and deep brown, and when she smiles she has dimples that have long labeled her as cute, which she hates with a passion.

When we approach the bar, we both order 7&7s from a bartender dressed in booty shorts and orange suspenders then find a seat near the stage.

“What do you think so far?” Bailey asks with a grin and takes a sip of her drink.

“There are way more people than I expected.” And they’re of all ages and sizes, different sexual orientations. What surprises me the most is how open and comfortable everyone seems, smiling, happy to be nearly naked and unapologetically exploring their kinkier sexual side.

“This community is larger than you’d think,” she agrees and lets her eyes wander over the room. “You look great, by the way. It’s a nice change to see you out of that white jacket and hat that always hide your body.”

“It’s called my work uniform,” I reply drily.

“That’s just it. You’re always at work, friend. You’re either in that hideous, body-hiding outfit or in pajamas.”

I shrug and look away. There’s nothing to say. She’s right. I glance down at the short denim miniskirt and thigh-high stockings, heels and red strapless top that Bailey insisted I wear. I can’t help but admit that it feels good to dress up a bit.

Reminds me that I’m a woman with needs that go beyond a hot kitchen and chocolate frosting.

Bailey helped me apply my makeup of dark liner, fake eyelashes and bright lipstick, and teased my long dark hair into ringlets that fall down my back and over my breasts, which have also been teased to be high and pushed together, showing off what little cleavage I have.

God bless, Bailey and her girlie secrets.

“You have a kickin’ body, Nic. You should show it off more.”

“To who?” I ask with a laugh. “My clients want cupcakes, not my boobs in their face.”

“Depends on the client,” she replies with a laugh just as the lights fall and loud, thirties swing music erupts into a seductive pounding rhythm and a young blond woman saunters out onto the stage in a sailor’s uniform, dancing about vigorously.

Within thirty seconds, she’s left wearing pasties and a G-string.

I’m not even sure what happened to her clothes, they came off so quickly.

I tilt my head and watch her move effortlessly across the stage, smiling, biting her lip, flirting with the guys—and girls—in the audience.

Four more girls perform, much to the crowd’s delight, before they take a break, rearranging props and giving the crowd a chance to refresh their drinks or go explore other parts of the event.

“Okay, let’s grab another drink and go check out the exhibits.” Bailey claps her hands and pulls me to my feet.

“Do we have to?”

“Yes!” She rolls her eyes again and drags me behind her. “You don’t have to participate. Just watch. It’s fun, Nic.”

“If you say so,” I murmur and greedily sip my fresh drink as we walk through the dance room to the fetish exhibits, where the music is gone and instead there is laughter and moans of pleasure.

“You didn’t say that people participate.” My voice is three octaves higher than normal, and I don’t care.

“Of course they participate. But you don’t have to.”

The first demonstration we come across has me sucking down my drink in one long sip of the straw and pulling Bailey’s drink out of her hand to suck hers down, too.

A woman is lying on a massage table, face up, with a blue satin sash over her naked breasts and pelvis. A large, shirtless, gorgeous man is standing over her with a metal wand in his hand. It’s attached to a machine, and when he touches her skin, it shocks her.

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