One sign of a good drop party: there is at least one last minute step-up to the rail. At The Empress? There's usually several.
A stately, art deco highrise with high windows and cascading roof line. A legendary roof top bar. U shaped, dark mahogany, a few hard points. A dancefloor, a bandstand, a grand piano. Lots of cozy booths, a separée for playing more intently. The bartenders wear a gold trimmed white waistcoat, no shirt. Black slacks or skirts by choice. For special occasions the bar stocks a few high end snuff slaves.
The party starts at six. And I do mean starts at. There is always a crowd in the lobby, cueing up behind the velvet rope waiting to be let in to the express elevator. By the time midnight rolls around folks have been celebrating, drinking, teasing, and all our fucking each other for hours.
The five old fashioned, counterweighted drop chairs always fill up quick, once the party fully moves outside. Put your chosen dance partner at the rail, wrists on the shackles, rotate the seat around and over top on them, and let them lie down. Hands immobilized. Spring loaded. Legs in the stir-ups, or not. You fuck. You gasp. You time it right. And on the button, you let them fly. A good drop only feels high and sky, as the saying goes.
The chairs fill up quick. But there is more rail to do it the old old fashioned way. Standing up. Ass against the rail, or on it. Hands on the neck. A kiss. A push.
"Ten minutes." It's gonna be a good year. All chairs are full, a few more couples at the rail. Still, more space to fill.
"Seven."
I drop my champagne flute and grab your arm. Pull you forward. A wild glitter in my eye. "Come on!"
I pull my little black dress up. Over my head. And drop it over the rail. Cheers. Turn around and press my ass against the cold steel. Naked. Save for the heels and the marks this night left on me. I grip the handrail with both hands. Lock eyes with you. Close.
"Let's fucking do this."
...
New Year's. People drop slaves. After fucking their lights out. As the rockets fly. It's a beloved tradition. Encouraged and enforced by capitalism.
We have celebrated. Danced. Drunk. Played. Maybe we have toyed with the idea. Maybe a couple of times. Maybe I was hesitant. Maybe you were. Either way, it's happening. And it's happening NOW. Who are we? Lovers? Spouses? Owner and slave? Friends? A date on short notice? Maybe even a chance encounter? We can play that out in flashbacks. Or not. Just one more dance.
Kinks: rough, desperate, animalistic sex with asphyxiation and snuff on a climax, followed by a drop from a high place. That's the deal. Take it or leave it. Also good dialogue, slavery, Dom/sub, unabashed queerness in the face of a more callous, heavy sexual use in all holes, misogynist world, heavy sexual use in all holes, light and heavy pain, corporal punishment, hands, switches, paddles, whips, restraints intricate and improvised, irons, rope, leather, silks, toys, outfit control, tease and denial, groups, good drink and food.
Maybes: body mods, watersports, humiliation, name calling, character development in flashbacks, gender fuckery.
Limits: blood, poop, gore, knives, needles, underage, incest, trying to negotiate other snuff methods.