6th Game - "Violet Hothouse"

The workshop lights fade, and new fixtures glow neon-violet on tripod stands, tinting the cement walls with an orchid haze. Eight bamboo poles, two metres tall, line the centre like rows in a greenhouse. Conductive hemp rope coils at each base, the ends dipping into stainless bowls of aloe-saline so they stay moist.

On a trestle rests the violet-wand kit: a red Bakelite handle, a mushroom electrode, a comb electrode, and the show-piece “floral-burst” bulb—a glass tulip filled with noble gas that flickers petals of plasma.

The subs arrive barefoot in thin cotton chemises; the fabric transmits spark-tease without causing burns. Their wrists and ankles are bare, their hair braided for rope friendliness.

Zoe and I don black sports bras, high-waist shorts, and nitrile gloves—electric gardeners.

“Colour?”

Eva and Noor, eyes lit by the purple glow, answer, “Green, Mistress.”

We guide Eva to the first bamboo pole. Rope encircles her torso, crossing between her breasts and knotting above her navel. Another coil loops her waist and the bamboo, securing her belly to the pole yet leaving her hips free to sway. Rope leads down her inner thighs; we tie her ankles shoulder-width, heels kissing cane. Small conductive tails dangle against her skin.

The saline-soaked rope cools flesh; an aloe scent drifts like rainforest mist. Noor is rigged opposite—mirror symmetry. Both subs wear copper ground cuffs on the left wrist: safety first.

Neon drops to sixty percent; the air hushes. A faint ion-ozone tang tickles nostrils.

I slot the mushroom electrode; the wand’s hum blooms—like a wasp trapped in glass. I test-fire two centimetres from Eva’s thigh. Snap—a pink spark kisses skin; she gasps, rope shivers. Conductive hemp carries the tingle up her flank; goose-flesh erupts beneath the cotton.

Zoe wields the comb electrode on Noor, drawing violet tongues that dance from hairline to thigh. Noor arches, her breath condensing violet arcs.

Rule: the subs must hold still for the first three passes; any flinch earns an extra spark across the buttocks. Eva twitches at the second trace along her lower ribs—zap, buttock correction, an instant yelp suppressed to a giggle.

Electrodes alternate: the comb strokes Eva’s nipples through cotton while the mushroom writes cursive along the rope lattice. Charge travels the damp fibres, diffusing as a warm prickle around her breasts. She moans low, the ground strap buzzing faintly.

Zoe trails the tulip bulb down Noor’s spine; plasma petals bloom, painting moving orchids. Noor’s eyes flutter, hips testing rope boundaries. Each pulse draws slick, the chemise clinging wet to her mound.

We synchronise—three-second spark on the left, two-second spark on the right—poly-rhythm making an audience of two gasp in alternating chorus.

Electric fire primes skin; now, the contrast. I fetch a stainless ice wand from our earlier breath-ballet bath and press its chilled tip to Eva’s spark-warmed nipple. She squeals through clenched teeth; cold vaults her moan higher. Static hair rises; ozone and minty aloe blend.

Zoe sweeps a warm sable brush over the chilled track—softness after the jolt; Noor whimpers, a tear catching the neon.

Sub rule: after each contrast they must say a plant name—proof of breath control.
Eva pants, whispers, “Night-blooming jasmine.”
Noor gasps, “Desert rose.”
Failure will bring the cane later.

Thin hemp cord winds around each clit hood, soaked in saline. A free end clips to the harness—enough conduction to amuse, not harm. The mushroom electrode hovers near pelvic rope; low voltage arcs along fibres. Sparks flicker at their sex; both girls spasm, pulling against the poles.

“Stay rooted,” I warn. Eva clenches her thighs; sparks lick her bud. Noor flushes raspberry down her sternum.

Drips of arousal darken the cotton; the scent melds with ozone—thunderstorm inside an orchid house.

The wands are turned off. Gloved fingers slide under chemises—finding soaked silk. Zoe toggles the teal bullet at Noor’s entrance; I seat the purple bullet in Eva, set to forty-percent continuous.

Edges build; ropes creak, hips grind against poles. “Orgasm forbidden,” we remind—only naming flowers earns breath. Electro returns: the comb arcs across their shoulders while bullets buzz. Eva’s toes curl; Noor searches for plant vocabulary.

“Name another flower,” I whisper.
Eva moans, “Oleander.” The poisonous hint pleases me.

We hand each sub the tulip bulb. They must hold the glass stem between their teeth; plasma ignites when the wand nears, giving each a violet halo. The bulb muffles pleas; their breathing is shallow.

Bullets jump to seventy percent. Their knees shake; violet light paints their cheeks. “Come for us, garden of vice,” Zoe commands.

Orgasms explode—hips buck, plasma flares like tiny auroras. Eva’s juices drip down the pole; Noor’s cry pulses through glass.

We snatch the bulbs safely away and power them down. The subs sag; the rope catches their weight.

Knots are unpicked; aloe is stroked over mild contact marks. The violet wand is unplugged, bulbs cooled in rice. Grounding mats beneath feet ease static. Honey-yogurt smoothies replenish sugar, and cool towels calm flushed skin.

“Colour?”
Eva: “Sea-glass green.”
Noor: “Rainforest green.”

We dim the neon. The violet greenhouse fades to damp twilight, four women breathing the humid calm of spent electricity.

---o0o---

7th Game - "Naughty Carousel"

The basement’s centre now hosts a low turntable—an oak disc rimmed with brushed steel and powered by a whisper-quiet stage motor. Indigo LEDs trace the edge, ready to whirl.

At opposite points stand two waist-high pylons with harnesses:

Mine, obsidian — jet-black leather, a 20 cm shaft, slim-curved for deep angles.

Zoe’s, burgundy — wine-red patent, a 17 cm girthy G-spot slammer.

Foot stirrups bolt to the platform so a kneeling sub’s ankles buckle in securely—like a medieval fair horse, except this one turns.

Eva kneels, facing outward at twelve o’clock. A padded hip belt clicks over the latigo; her forearms are cuffed behind her back. Her ankles are strapped into stirrups, and her knees pad the spinning oak. A slick-sheened condom coats the obsidian shaft. I glide it between her cheeks, a steady slide into heat. A moan spills, swallowed fast—she knows the crowd will watch everything.

Noor mirrors her at six o’clock, riding Zoe’s burgundy cock. The hip belt is cinched, her wrists bound. Their backs nearly touch; their gazes meet the audience—no mirrors tonight, only eyes.

A small gathering—Marc, Li, and Rina. They hold champagne flutes in hushed anticipation.

Colour check: two crisp greens.

I tap the remote; the platform hums, starting a lazy carousel drift. Dommes stand off-platform, boots braced. As the subs glide by, we deliver a measured thrust—one push every half turn—so when Eva faces the crowd my cock sinks deep; when Noor passes, Zoe’s hips snap forward.

Rotation becomes a metronome: thrust… drift… thrust. Fluids string between shaft and lips, caught by indigo glow. The subs’ heads fall back, their hair flowing like carousel manes. Guests sip champagne—the scene elegant, obscene.

The speed notches higher. LEDs blur into a violet ring; strokes quicken, moans edge over the motor’s purr.

Rule: any vocal sound above a murmur triggers a speed bump to six RPM for twenty seconds.

Noor yelps—the penalty hits. The motor kicks; the platform whirls. Dommes hop onto the rim to keep pace, cocks pistoning fast. The subs squeal into their belts, bodies forced to ride physics’ rhythm.

Twenty seconds pass; speed settles at four. Noor pants an apology; Eva’s thighs tremble in sympathy.

Remote eggs—purple and teal—revive at a steady forty percent. Vibration melds with thrust, building a slick crescendo.

Mid-rotation I whisper to Eva, “Edge on eight.” We pump eight beats; she quivers near climax, but I withdraw at the crest—the belt denies chase. She groans. Zoe copies, denying Noor.

Denied faces sweep past the crowd again… and again… each lap wetter. Indigo light catches droplets flung to concrete.

We halt the platform. The belts are unclipped from pylons yet stay on their hips. Dommes step onto the dais; straps click to our harnesses, anchoring us above kneeling pets.

The motor restarts at two RPM. Eva bobs on obsidian as I rotate—a fixed pillar ridden by a submissive. Zoe’s burgundy cock receives Noor in mirror reflex. Reverse ownership: pets drive the thrust.

Joints strain from kneeling, but belts bear weight—safe.

“Mouths open, tongues out.” Each pass webs slick across tongues, leaving gloss.

Hands join across the spinning axis—an arch of control—and we signal full speed. LEDs strobe violet; eggs surge to maximum. Belts rattle. The subs cry past the volume rule—the finale overridden.

“Come when your eyes meet,” I bark. One revolution—gazes lock; orgasms detonate. Eva’s walls milk obsidian; Noor floods burgundy. Shouts echo, half-drowned by the motor.

We throttle back; motion slows to stillness. The belts are released, and subs sag into waiting arms. Crash mats cushion our knees as we lay them side by side. Water bottles, cool cloths, peppermint and chocolate appear. Their joints are checked—no strain, skin clear.

The guests applaud softly, dropping triple tips into the rope-fund jar.

Colour check: Eva, “Pale-mint green.”

Noor, “Sage green.”

Neon dims to candlelight; the carousel settles, lube and champagne scent lingering—like a country fair at midnight after the rides power down.

---o0o---